The cub came upon them suddenly. It was his own fault; he had grown careless. After a long night on the meat-trail, he had fallen into a deep sleep and only awakened as the sun was high. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the trail to the stream that made him lower his guard. He had traveled this path to the water many times before, and nothing had ever happened.
He trotted past a blasted pine and crossed an open clearing, heading toward the trees. Then, in a single moment, his senses were overwhelmed. Sitting silently before him were five live things, the likes of which he had never encountered. This was his first glimpse of mankind. To his surprise, the five men did not spring to their feet or snarl. They remained motionless and ominous, watching him with steady eyes.
The cub did not move either. Every instinct urged him to dash away into the undergrowth, yet a powerful, counter-instinct held him paralyzed. A great sense of awe descended upon him. He felt an overwhelming realization of his own smallness in the face of such mastery.
Though he had never seen a man, the cub possessed an ancient, inherited memory of them. Through the eyes of his ancestors—who had watched from the darkness of thickets for generations—he recognized the two-legged animal that had claimed primacy over the Wild. This heritage was too compelling for a mere cub to resist. Had he been full-grown, he might have fled; as it was, he cowered down, proffering the same submission his kind had offered since the first wolf had crept toward a human fire for warmth.
One of the Indians arose and approached him. As the man reached down, the cub’s hair bristled and his lips pulled back to reveal tiny fangs. The hand hesitated, and the man laughed. “Wabam wabisca ip pit tah!” he remarked. “Look! The white fangs!”
The other men laughed loudly, urging their companion to pick up the creature. As the hand descended, a battle of instincts raged within the cub. He felt torn between the urge to yield and the impulse to fight. Ultimately, he did both. He waited until the hand was inches away, then snapped his teeth into the man’s palm. A moment later, a heavy blow to the head knocked him over. All defiance vanished. He sat up and let out a series of sharp, pathetic cries.
The man he had bitten was angry and struck him again, causing the cub to wail even louder. However, amidst his terror, the cub heard a familiar sound. The Indians heard it too. With a final cry—one that contained more triumph than grief—the cub ceased his noise. He was waiting for his mother, the indomitable she-wolf who feared nothing.
She bounded into the clearing, her protective rage making her a terrifying sight. She stood over her cub, her face distorted by a ferocious snarl that wrinkled her nose from tip to eyes. The men hastily retreated several steps. But then, one of the men let out an exclamation of pure surprise.
“Kiche!” he called out.
The cub felt his mother wilt at the sound.
“Kiche!” the man repeated, his voice full of authority.
To the cub’s utter amazement, the fearless she-wolf began to crouch. She whimpered and wagged her tail, making signs of peace. The cub was appalled; his mother, the most powerful being he knew, was rendering submission to these man-animals.
The man, whose name was Grey Beaver, walked over and placed his hand on her head. Kiche did not snap. The other men surrounded her, touching her fur, while they spoke in excited tones.
“It is not strange,” Grey Beaver explained to the others. “Her mother was a dog, but my brother tied her in the woods during the mating season. Therefore, her father was a wolf. It has been a year since she ran away during the famine when there was no meat for the dogs.”
Grey Beaver reached out to the cub, who snarled instinctively. A quick blow to the head taught the cub a lesson in obedience. When the hand returned, the cub remained still, allowing the man to rub behind his ears.
“It is plain that his mother is Kiche, but his father was a wolf,” Grey Beaver continued. “He shall be my dog. His fangs are white, and White Fang shall be his name.”
White Fang watched as Grey Beaver fashioned a collar and a leash from strips of raw-hide. He tied Kiche to a small pine tree. When another man, Salmon Tongue, rolled White Fang onto his back to rub his stomach, the cub felt a strange, unaccountable sensation of pleasure. Despite his vulnerability, the fear began to die out of him. It was a sign of the companionship that would one day define his life.
Later that day, the rest of the tribe arrived—forty people heavily burdened with equipment, accompanied by dozens of pack-dogs. When the dogs discovered the cub, they attacked in a savage wave. White Fang fought bravely, but he was quickly overwhelmed. However, the man-animals immediately intervened, driving the dogs back with clubs and stones.
Though White Fang could not understand the concept of justice, he recognized that the men were makers of law. They did not need to bite or claw; they used "dead things" like sticks to enforce their will. To the cub, this power was godlike.
As the sun began to set, the tribe set up camp at the edge of the Mackenzie River. White Fang watched with wonder as the men transformed the landscape, erecting massive tepees made of cloth and poles. His curiosity eventually led him toward one of these structures. He cautiously nudged the canvas with his nose and found that he could move the entire Great Bulk with a simple tug.
Shortly after, he encountered a puppy named Lip-lip. While White Fang approached in a friendly spirit, Lip-lip turned out to be a bully. Being more experienced in camp life, the older puppy quickly bit White Fang and sent him running back to his mother.
But White Fang’s curiosity was restless. He soon wandered toward Grey Beaver, who was squatting on the ground. The man was busy with sticks and dry moss. Suddenly, a thin mist of smoke arose, followed by a twisting, sun-colored flame. White Fang, drawn to the light, crawled forward. He did not know what fire was. He reached out with his tongue to investigate, and in an instant, he was paralyzed by a sharp, burning pain.
As he scrambled backward, howling in agony, the entire camp erupted in uproarious laughter. Kiche raged at the end of her tether, unable to help him. White Fang felt a new emotion: shame. The laughter of the man-animals hurt him more deeply than the burn itself. He fled to his mother—the only creature who was not laughing at his misfortune.
As night fell, White Fang lay by Kiche’s side, feeling homesick for the quiet of the cave. The camp was too loud, too crowded, and full of constant movement. Yet, as he watched the fire-makers moving through the shadows, he looked upon them with a sense of religious awe. They were superior creatures, masters of the alive and the not-alive. They were the makers of fire. They were gods.