Around this time, the newspapers were dominated by the daring escape of a convict from San Quentin prison. Jim Hall was a man of terrifying ferocity. He had not been born into a kind world, and society had done nothing to soften his edges; instead, its harsh treatment had shaped him into a human beast. He was so dangerous and predatory that he could only be described as a carnivore.
In prison, Hall had proved incorrigible. No amount of punishment could break his spirit. He had been handled with violence since he was a young boy in the San Francisco slums—soft clay that society had moulded into a monster. During his third prison term, he encountered a guard who was just as cruel as he was. This man persecuted Hall until, one day, the prisoner snapped. Using his teeth like a wild animal, Hall attacked the guard's throat.
As a result, Hall was thrown into the "incorrigible cell," an iron tomb where he remained for three years. He never saw the sky or felt the sun. Day was a grey twilight and night was a black silence. He saw no human faces and spoke to no one. When food was pushed into his cell, he growled like a beast. He spent his months in silence, his heart filled with a hatred for all living things.
Then, one night, the impossible happened: he escaped. He left behind three dead guards, killed with his bare hands to ensure silence. Now armed, he fled through the hills, pursued by the full force of the law. A massive reward was offered for his capture. Farmers hunted him with shotguns, hoping the blood-money would pay their mortgages, while a pack of bloodhounds followed his trail.
Occasionally, Hall was spotted, and violent encounters followed. Nevertheless, the convict always managed to vanish again. While the public followed the hunt with excitement, the residents of Sierra Vista read the news with growing anxiety. Judge Scott, however, tried to dismiss their fears with a laugh. He did not tell them that Jim Hall had stood before him years ago and received a fifty-year sentence. On that day, Hall had stood in the courtroom and vowed to wreak vengeance on the man who had sentenced him.
In truth, Hall was innocent of that final crime. He had been "railroaded"—framed by the police—and Judge Scott had unknowingly been part of the conspiracy. Hall, believing the Judge was intentionally corrupt, viewed him as the very heart of the injustice he had suffered. To Jim Hall, the Judge was the one man who deserved to die.
White Fang knew nothing of this. However, a secret bond had formed between him and Alice, the master’s wife. Each night, after the house grew still, she would secretly let White Fang inside to sleep in the great hall. Since he was not permitted to sleep indoors, she would always let him out early the next morning before the family woke up.
On one such night, while the household slept, White Fang suddenly became alert. He lay perfectly still, sniffing the air. A strange scent reached him—the presence of an intruder. Unlike a common dog, White Fang did not bark. He began to stalk the stranger silently. Having hunted in the Wild, he understood the tactical advantage of surprise.
The intruder paused at the foot of the great staircase, listening. Beyond those stairs lay the "love-master" and his family. White Fang’s hair bristled, but he waited. As the man’s foot touched the first step, White Fang struck. Without a single snarl of warning, he leaped through the air, landing squarely on the man’s back. He buried his fangs into the intruder's neck and dragged him backward to the floor. As the man struggled to rise, White Fang attacked again with lethal precision.
Suddenly, Sierra Vista erupted into chaos. The noise from downstairs sounded like a battle between demons. Revolver shots rang out, followed by a scream of pure anguish and the crashing of furniture. Almost as quickly as it had begun, the commotion died away.
The terrified family gathered at the top of the stairs. From the darkness below came a horrifying gurgling sound, followed by heavy, desperate panting. Weedon Scott switched on the lights, and he and the Judge descended the stairs with revolvers drawn. Their caution was unnecessary; White Fang had finished the job. Amidst the wreckage of the hall lay Jim Hall, his throat torn open.
“Jim Hall,” the Judge whispered, exchanging a significant look with his son.
They turned their attention to White Fang. He was lying on his side, his eyes nearly closed. He tried to wag his tail to greet his master, but he was too weak. His body relaxed, and he grew still on the floor.
“He’s done for, poor devil,” Weedon muttered.
“We’ll see about that,” the Judge replied firmly, reaching for the telephone.
After working for nearly two hours, the surgeon was grim. “He has a broken leg and three broken ribs, one of which has pierced his lungs. He has lost a massive amount of blood and has three bullet wounds. To be honest, he hasn’t a chance in ten thousand.”
“He must have every chance possible,” the Judge insisted. “Spare no expense.”
White Fang’s recovery was a miracle. The surgeon was accustomed to the "soft" humans of civilization, who lacked the will to survive. But White Fang possessed a constitution of iron—an inheritance from the Wild where only the strong survive. For weeks, he remained a prisoner of his bandages and plaster casts. He spent his days in a fever dream, reliving his past: the cave with his mother, the cruelty of Beauty Smith, and the grey silence of the North.
He also suffered from a new nightmare. In his mind, the loud, clanging electric cars of the city became giant, fire-spitting lynxes that hunted him in his sleep. He would wake up snarling, much to the concern of the family.
Finally, the day arrived when the bandages were removed. It was a day of celebration at Sierra Vista. White Fang tried to stand, but his muscles were weak from disuse. After several attempts, he managed to stay upright, tottering on his feet.
“The Blessed Wolf!” the women cried out in joy.
Judge Scott looked at them triumphantly. “I told you. No mere dog could have survived that. He is a wolf.”
“A Blessed Wolf,” his wife corrected gently.
They led him outside like a king. He walked slowly, resting frequently on the lawn. As he moved, his strength began to return, and the blood surged through his veins once more. When they reached the stables, they found Collie lying in the sun with six pudgy puppies playing around her.
White Fang watched them with curiosity. One puppy crawled toward him, and White Fang bristled instinctively. However, his master’s voice reassured him. The puppy reached out and licked White Fang’s face. To the surprise and delight of the family, White Fang’s own tongue went out, and he gently licked the puppy in return.
As the family applauded, White Fang felt a brief flash of his old awkwardness. But it quickly passed. He lay down in the grass, his ears cocked, watching the puppies tumble over him. With half-shut, patient eyes, the wolf who had known only war and shadows finally drifted into a peaceful sleep in the sun.