Under the cruel guidance of his new master, whom he viewed as a mad god, White Fang transformed into a creature of pure malice. He was kept chained in a small pen behind the fort, where Beauty Smith constantly teased and irritated him. The man soon discovered White Fang’s greatest weakness: his sensitivity to being laughed at. After tricking or hurting him, Smith would roar with scornful laughter, pointing a mocking finger at the animal. In those moments, White Fang would lose all reason, his rage matching the madness of his captor.
Previously, White Fang had been a fierce enemy of his own kind; now, he became an enemy to the entire world. He was tormented so relentlessly that his hatred became a blind, consuming passion. He hated the heavy chain that bound him, the men who peered through the bars, and the dogs that snarled at his helplessness. Most of all, he loathed Beauty Smith.
Beauty Smith had a dark purpose for this cruelty. One day, a crowd gathered around the pen, and Smith entered with a club to remove White Fang’s chain. Once the man had safely retreated, White Fang paced the enclosure with terrifying grace. He was a magnificent sight—over ninety pounds of bone and muscle, without a single ounce of superfluous fat. From his mother, he had inherited a dog’s heavier proportions, but his spirit remained entirely wild. He was a formidable weapon of sinew and bone.
Suddenly, the door of the pen swung open and a massive mastiff was thrust inside. White Fang did not hesitate. He saw a target for his bottled-up rage. With a flash of fangs, he ripped into the intruder’s neck. While the mastiff was ponderous and slow, White Fang was everywhere at once, slashing and retreating before the larger dog could strike back. The men outside cheered as Beauty Smith gloated over the carnage. There was no hope for the mastiff; eventually, its owner had to drag the bleeding animal away. As money clinked in Beauty Smith’s hand, the business of the "Fighting Wolf" truly began.
White Fang began to look forward to these gatherings. They offered the only way to express the life force within him. Since he was kept a prisoner, there was no way of satisfying his hate except when his master set another dog against him. Beauty Smith had estimated his powers well, for White Fang was invariably the victor. Whether he faced three dogs in succession, a full-grown wild wolf, or even two opponents at once, his ferocity ensured his survival.
By autumn, when the first snows began to fall, Beauty Smith took White Fang aboard a steamboat bound for Dawson. His reputation had spread across the Yukon, and his cage on the deck was constantly surrounded by curious travelers. They poked sticks through the bars to provoke him, laughing when he snarled. Although many animals would have had their spirits broken by such confinement, White Fang’s nature was remarkably plastic. Instead of dying, he adapted, his soul hardening into something even more dangerous.
In Dawson, the exhibition continued. Men paid in gold dust to see the legendary beast, and White Fang was never granted a moment’s peace. If he tried to sleep, he was prodded awake to ensure the audience got their money’s worth. This environment acted as fuel to the fire of his fierceness. He became exactly what the men believed him to be: a terrifying professional killer.
His success in the ring was due to three main factors. First, his incredible tenacity; no dog could knock him off his feet, a trick many wolf-breeds tried and failed to master. Second, his lightning speed gave him a massive advantage over his slower antagonists. Finally, there was his lack of hesitation. While other dogs wasted time snarling and bristling, White Fang attacked immediately, often finishing a fight before his opponent had even realized it had begun.
Eventually, it became difficult to find dogs willing to face him. Beauty Smith began to pit him against wild wolves and even a female lynx, a fight that nearly cost White Fang his life. After the lynx, the matches ceased for a time—until the arrival of a man named Tim Keenan. He brought with him the first bulldog ever seen in the Klondike. It was inevitable that the two would meet, and for a week, the anticipated fight was the only topic of conversation in the town.