"It’s hopeless," Weedon Scott admitted, sitting on the steps of his cabin. Beside him, Matt, the dog-musher, gave a discouraged shrug. Together, they looked at White Fang. The animal was at the end of a heavy chain, bristling and snarling at the other sled dogs with terrifying ferocity. Having been taught by Matt’s club to keep their distance, the other dogs lay far away, pretending the wolf-dog did not exist.
"He’s a wolf, and there’s no taming him," Scott remarked, shaking his head.
"I’m not so sure," Matt objected. He pointed toward White Fang’s chest. "Look at those marks. Wolf or dog, it doesn’t matter—he’s been tamed before. He was a sled dog long before Beauty Smith turned him into a fiend."
This revelation sparked a flicker of interest in Scott, though he remained skeptical. They had owned the animal for two weeks, and if anything, his hatred for humans seemed to have intensified. Matt suggested a radical idea: they should unchain him and give him a chance to run free.
Matt grabbed a heavy club for protection and approached the animal. White Fang watched the weapon with the intense focus of a caged lion watching a trainer’s whip. He was no fool; he knew that as long as the man held the club, he could not attack. As Matt unsnapped the chain, White Fang crouched low, his eyes tracking every movement.
When the chain fell away, White Fang remained still, unable to believe he was truly free. After months of imprisonment under Beauty Smith, he suspected some new, cruel trick. He walked cautiously, avoiding the two men, and paced near the corner of the cabin. He was visibly perplexed by their lack of aggression.
"Poor devil," Scott murmured. "What he needs is a little human kindness."
Scott went into the cabin and returned with a piece of meat, which he tossed to the ground. White Fang leaped back, eyeing the gift with deep suspicion. Suddenly, Major, one of the other sled dogs, lunged for the meat. In an instant, White Fang struck. He was faster than a cat; before Matt could intervene, White Fang had slashed Major’s throat. As the snow turned red, Matt instinctively tried to kick White Fang in punishment. The wolf-dog snapped at his leg, his teeth tearing through Matt’s trousers and drawing blood.
"I told you it was no use," Scott said, his voice heavy with disappointment. Reluctantly, he drew his revolver. "It would be a mercy to kill him now."
But Matt, despite his bleeding leg, stood his ground. "Give him a fighting chance, Mr. Scott. Major tried to steal his food—he only did what any dog would do. And it was my fault for trying to kick him. Don't kill him yet."
Scott sighed and put the gun away. "Alright. We’ll see what kindness can do."
He approached White Fang, speaking in a low, soothing voice. White Fang was instantly on guard. He had killed a dog and bitten a man; he expected a brutal beating, yet this "god" was approaching him without a club. As Scott’s hand descended toward his head, White Fang’s internal conflict reached a breaking point. He loathed being touched, and his survival instinct, honed by years of abuse, screamed of treachery.
Weedon Scott believed he was quick enough to pull his hand away if the dog snapped. He was wrong. With the lightning speed of a coiled snake, White Fang struck Scott’s hand and backed away, snarling.
Matt rushed into the cabin and emerged with a rifle, his face set in a grim expression. "I promised I’d kill him if he didn't behave," he said.
"No!" Scott shouted, catching his breath. "You said to give him a chance. It was my own fault—I shouldn't have reached for him so soon. Look at him, Matt. Look how intelligent he is."
White Fang was forty feet away, his eyes fixed not on Scott, but on the rifle in Matt’s hands. He seemed to understand the danger perfectly. To test this, Matt slowly raised the gun to his shoulder. Before he could even level the sights, White Fang vanished, diving behind the corner of the cabin for cover.
The two men stood in silence, staring at the empty patch of snow. The dog’s cleverness was undeniable. Matt slowly lowered the rifle and leaned it against the woodpile.
"I agree with you, Mr. Scott," the dog-musher said solemnly. "That dog is far too intelligent to kill."