hand when Grey Beaver finished his long
journey. It was April, and White Fang was a year old when he pulled into
the home villages and was loosed from the harness by Mit-sah. Though a
long way from his full growth, White Fang, next to Lip-lip, was the
largest yearling in the village. Both from his father, the wolf, and
from Kiche, he had inherited stature and strength, and already he was
measuring up alongside the full-grown dogs. But he had not yet grown
compact. His body was slender and rangy, and his strength more stringy
than massive, His coat was the true wolf-grey, and to all appearances he
was true wolf himself. The quarter-strain of dog he had inherited from
Kiche had left no mark on him physically, though it had played its part
in his mental make-up.

He wandered through the village, recognising with staid satisfaction the
various gods he had known before the long journey. Then there were the
dogs, puppies growing up like himself, and grown dogs that did not look
so large and formidable as the memory pictures he retained of them. Also,
he stood less in fear of them than formerly, stalking among them with a
certain careless ease that was as new to him as it was enjoyable.

There was Baseek, a grizzled old fellow that in his younger days had but
to uncover his fangs to send White Fang cringing and crouching to the
right about. From him White Fang had learned much of his own
insignificance; and from him he was now to learn much of the change and
development that had taken place in himself. While Baseek had been
growing weaker with age, White Fang had been growing stronger with youth.

It was at the cutting-up of a moose, fresh-killed, that White Fang
learned of the changed relations in which he stood to the dog-world. He
had got for himself a hoof and part of the shin-bone, to which quite a
bit of meat was attached. Withdrawn from the immediate scramble of the
other dogs--in fact out of sight behind a thicket--he was devouring his
prize, when Baseek rushed in upon him. Before he knew what he was doing,
he had slashed the intruder twice and sprung clear. Baseek was surprised
by the other's temerity and swiftness of attack. He stood, gazing
stupidly across at White Fang, the raw, red shin-bone between them.

Baseek was old, and already he had come to know the increasing valour of
the dogs it had been his wont to bully. Bitter experiences these, which,
perforce, he swallowed, calling upon all his w