On one such night, while all the house slept,White Fang awoke and lay very quietly.And very quietly he smelled the air and read the message it bore of a strange god’s presence. And to his ears came sounds of the strange god’s movements. White Fang burst into no furious outcry. It was not his way. The strange god walked softly, but more softly walked White Fang, for he had no clothes to rub against the flesh of his body. He followed silently. In the Wild he had hunted live meat that was infinitely timid, and he knew the advantage of surprise.
The strange god paused at the foot of the great staircase and listened,and White Fang was as dead,so without movement was he as he watched and waited.Up that staircase the way led to the love-master and to the love-master’s dearest possessions. White Fang bristled, but waited. The strange god’s foot lifted. He was beginning the ascent.
Then it was that White Fang struck. He gave no warning,with no snarl anticipated his own action.Into the air he lifted his body in the spring that landed him on the strange god’s back. White Fang clung with his fore-paws to the man’s shoulders, at the same time burying his fangs into the back of the man’s neck. He clung on for a moment, long enough to drag the god over backward. Together they crashed to the floor. White Fang leaped clear, and, as the man struggled to rise, was in again with the slashing fangs.
Sierra Vista awoke in alarm.The noise from downstairs was as that of a score of battling fiends.There were revolver shots.A man’s voice screamed once in horror and anguish.There was a great snarling and growling,and over all arose a smashing and crashing of furniture and glass.
But almost as quickly as it had arisen,the commotion died away.The struggle had not lasted more than three minutes.The frightened household clustered at the top of the stairway.From below, as from out an abyss of blackness,came up a gurgling sound,as of air bubbling through water.Sometimes this gurgle became sibilant,almost a whistle. But this, too,quickly died down and ceased.Then naught came up out of the blackness save a heavy panting of some creature struggling sorely for air.
Weedon Scott pressed a button,and the staircase and downstairs hall were flooded with light.Then he and Judge Scott, revolvers in hand,cautiously descended.There was no need for this caution.White Fang had done his work.In the midst of the wreckage of overthrown and smashed furniture,partly on his side, his face hidden by an arm,lay a man. Weedon Scott bent over,removed the arm and turned the man’s face upward.A gaping throat explained the manner of his death.
“Jim Hall,” said Judge Scott,and father and son looked significantly at each other.
Then they turned to White Fang. He, too,was lying on his side. His eyes were closed,but the lids slightly lifted in an effort to look at them as they bent over him, and the tail was perceptibly agitated in a vain effort to wag. Weedon Scott patted him, and his throat rumbled an acknowledging growl. But it was a weak growl at best, and it quickly ceased. His eyelids drooped and went shut, and his whole body seemed to relax and flatten out upon the floor.
“He’s all in, poor devil,” muttered the master.
“We’ll see about that,” asserted the Judge,as he started for the telephone.
“Frankly, he has one chance in a thousand,” announced the surgeon,after he had worked an hour and a half on White Fang.
Dawn was breaking through the windows and dimming the electric lights.With the exception of the children,the whole family was gathered about the surgeon to hear his verdict.
“One broken hind-leg,” he went on. “Three broken ribs,one at least of which has pierced the lungs.He has lost nearly all the blood in his body.There is a large likelihood of internal injuries.He must have been jumped upon.To say nothing of three bullet holes clear through him.One chance in a thousand is really optimistic.He hasn’t a chance in ten thousand.”
“But he mustn’t lose any chance that might be of help to him,” Judge Scott exclaimed. “Never mind expense.Put him under the X-ray—anything. Weedon,telegraph at once to San Francisco for Doctor Nichols.No reflection on you, doctor, you understand;but he must have the advantage of every chance.”
The surgeon smiled indulgently. “Of course I understand.He deserves all that can be done for him.He must be nursed as you would nurse a human being,a sick child. And don’t forget what I told you about temperature.I’ll be back at ten o’clock again.”
White Fang received the nursing.Judge Scott’s suggestion of a trained nurse was indignantly clamoured down by the girls, who themselves undertook the task. And White Fang won out on the one chance in ten thousand denied him by the surgeon.
The latter was not to be censured for his misjudgment.All his life he had tended and operated on the soft humans of civilisation,who lived sheltered lives and had descended out of many sheltered generations.Compared with White Fang, they were frail and flabby,and clutched life without any strength in their grip.White Fang had come straight from the Wild,where the weak perish early and shelter is vouchsafed to none.In neither his father nor his mother was there any weakness,nor in the generations before them.A constitution of iron and the vitality of the Wild were White Fang’s inheritance, and he clung to life, the whole of him and every part of him, in spirit and in flesh, with the tenacity that of old belonged to all creatures.
Bound down a prisoner,denied even movement by the plaster casts and bandages,White Fang lingered out the weeks.He slept long hours and dreamed much,and through his mind passed an unending pageant of Northland visions.All the ghosts of the past arose and were with him.Once again he lived in the lair with Kiche,crept trembling to the knees of Grey Beaver to tender his allegiance,ran for his life before Lip-lip and all the howling bedlam of the puppy-pack.
He ran again through the silence,hunting his living food through the months of famine;and again he ran at the head of the team,the gut-whips of Mit-sah and Grey Beaver snapping behind,their voices crying “Ra!Raa!” when they came to a narrow passage and the team closed together like a fan to go through. He lived again all his days with Beauty Smith and the fights he had fought. At such times he whimpered and snarled in his sleep, and they that looked on said that his dreams were bad.
But there was one particular nightmare from which he suffered—the clanking,clanging monsters of electric cars that were to him colossal screaming lynxes.He would lie in a screen of bushes,watching for a squirrel to venture far enough out on the ground from its tree-refuge. Then, when he sprang out upon it, it would transform itself into an electric car, menacing and terrible, towering over him like a mountain, screaming and clanging and spitting fire at him. It was the same when he challenged the hawk down out of the sky. Down out of the blue it would rush, as it dropped upon him changing itself into the ubiquitous electric car. Or again, he would be in the pen of Beauty Smith. Outside the pen, men would be gathering, and he knew that a fight was on. He watched the door for his antagonist to enter. The door would open, and thrust in upon him would come the awful electric car. A thousand times this occurred, and each time the terror it inspired was as vivid and great as ever.
Then came the day when the last bandage and the last plaster cast were taken off. It was a gala day. All Sierra Vista was gathered around. The master rubbed his ears, and he crooned his love-growl. The master’s wife called him the “Blessed Wolf,” which name was taken up with acclaim and all the women called him the Blessed Wolf.