A sense of change permeated the air. Even before there was any physical proof, White Fang sensed an impending calamity. In ways more subtle than the humans realized, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog who haunted the cabin porch. Although he never stepped inside, he seemed to know exactly what was happening within their minds.
"Listen to that," Matt, the dog-musher, remarked one night at supper.
Through the door came a low, anxious whine—a sound like a sob held deep in the throat. This was followed by a long, searching sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside and had not yet vanished in secret.
"I’m convinced that wolf is onto you," Matt said.
Weedon Scott looked at his companion with eyes that almost pleaded, though his words were firm. "What on earth could I do with a wolf in California? Civilized dogs would stand no chance against him; he’d kill them on sight. If I weren't bankrupted by lawsuits, the authorities would surely take him away and destroy him."
"He is a cold-blooded killer, there’s no denying that," Matt agreed.
"It would never work," Scott insisted, though he seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as Matt. "I’d have to hire someone specifically to guard him."
Despite his logical arguments, the low, heartbroken whining continued at the door. Scott’s frustration finally boiled over. "Damn it, Matt! I’ve made up my mind. I know what’s best!"
"I’m agreeing with you," Matt replied calmly, "but it’s clear he doesn’t want to be left behind."
The evidence of the departure soon became undeniable. Through the open door, White Fang watched the "Love-master" packing clothes into a leather suitcase. The once-peaceful atmosphere of the cabin was now filled with a restless energy. White Fang had scented this change before, but now he understood it: his god was preparing for another flight. That night, he lifted his muzzle to the cold stars and let out a long, mournful wolf-howl, expressing a grief that had not been heard since his puppy days in the Indian village.
The following day, White Fang’s anxiety reached a breaking point. He dogged his master’s heels every time Scott left the cabin. Inside, more luggage appeared—canvas bags and a wooden box. Matt was busy rolling blankets and furs into a bundle. Each movement was a knife to White Fang’s heart.
Finally, the moment arrived. Two Indians came to carry the luggage down to the river. Scott called White Fang into the cabin one last time.
"You poor devil," he whispered, rubbing the dog’s ears. "I’m hitting the long trail, old man, and you cannot follow. Come on—give me one last growl to say goodbye."
But White Fang refused. Instead, he simply snuggled his head between the master’s arm and body in a final, silent plea.
Suddenly, the hoarse whistle of a steamboat echoed from the Yukon River. "That’s the signal!" Matt shouted. "We have to move! Lock the front door, and I’ll head out the back."
The doors slammed simultaneously. From inside the cabin came a sound of desperate sobbing and deep, frantic sniffs. As the two men started down the hill, they heard White Fang begin to howl again—a sound of utter, heart-breaking woe, as if he were mourning the dead.
The Aurora was crowded with gold-seekers eager to return to civilization. Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with Matt when the dog-musher’s face suddenly went pale. Scott turned around and gasped in astonishment. There, sitting on the deck just a few feet away, was White Fang.
"Did you lock the front door?" Matt stammered. Scott nodded. "And the back?"
"I'm certain I did," Matt replied, his voice filled with awe.
White Fang flattened his ears, looking both guilty and hopeful. Matt tried to catch him, but the wolf-dog was too quick, dodging between the legs of the passengers with practiced grace. However, as soon as Scott called his name, White Fang approached with immediate obedience.
Scott knelt down and noticed fresh cuts on the dog’s muzzle and a deep gash between his eyes. Matt reached out and felt the animal’s belly. "We completely forgot the window," Matt realized. "He’s gouged himself all over. He must have leaped clean through the glass!"
The Aurora’s whistle hooted a final warning. Men were scurrying ashore as the gang-plank was about to be hauled in. Matt began to untie his bandana to lead White Fang away, but Scott suddenly grabbed his hand.
"Goodbye, Matt, old friend," Scott said, his voice thick with emotion. "About the wolf... you don’t need to worry. I’m taking him."
"What!" Matt shouted in surprise. "You don't mean it!"
"That’s exactly what I mean. He’s coming with me."
As the boat swung out into the river, Scott waved a final goodbye to the man on the shore. He then turned to the faithful creature at his side.
"Now growl, you rascal," he said affectionately, patting the responsive head. "Go on, growl for me."