As White Fang watched Weedon Scott approach, he bristled and snarled, making it clear that he would not submit to punishment. Twenty-four hours had passed since he had slashed the hand that Scott now carried in a sling. In the past, White Fang had experienced delayed beatings, and he fully expected one now. He had committed what he considered a crime: he had sunk his fangs into the flesh of a "god."
However, the god sat down several feet away. White Fang found this puzzling. Usually, when men administered punishment, they stood up. Furthermore, Scott had no club, no whip, and no firearm. Since he was unchained, White Fang realized he could easily escape into the woods if the man made a sudden move. For the moment, he decided to wait and see.
The man remained quiet. Gradually, White Fang’s snarl faded into a low growl. Then, Scott began to speak. At the first sound of his voice, White Fang’s hair rose, but the man didn't move. He talked on and on in a soft, soothing tone—a voice unlike any White Fang had ever heard. Despite his instincts, a strange sense of security began to take root in him.
After a while, Scott went into the cabin and returned with a piece of meat. He didn't hide his hand or carry a weapon. He sat in the same spot and held the meat out. White Fang was torn. His experience with humans had taught him that such gifts were often traps. He refused to take it from the man’s hand, so Scott tossed it onto the snow. White Fang sniffed it, kept his eyes on the man, and swallowed it. Nothing happened.
This ritual was repeated several times until Scott refused to toss the meat anymore. He held it firmly in his hand. Hunger eventually overcame White Fang’s caution. He approached slowly, his ears flattened and a warning growl in his throat. He snatched the meat, yet still, no punishment followed. As Scott continued to talk, White Fang felt a strange satisfaction, as if a void in his being were finally being filled.
Then came the ultimate test: Scott reached out his hand to touch White Fang’s head. White Fang was paralyzed by conflicting impulses. Every instinct told him to snap, yet the gentle voice inspired a reluctant confidence. As the hand descended, he bristled and snarled, but he did not move. When the hand finally touched him, he shrank down, shivering with tension. It was a torment to be touched, yet it was the will of this new god.
Slowly, the petting turned into a gentle rubbing of his ears. To White Fang’s surprise, the sensation was physically pleasant. He remained on guard, expecting a sudden blow, but it never came.
"Well, I’ll be amazed!" Matt shouted, stepping out of the cabin with a pan of dishwater.
White Fang instantly leaped back, snarling at the newcomer. Matt looked at his employer with disapproval, suggesting that Scott was being a fool for trusting the wolf. Scott simply smiled, stood up, and called White Fang back to him. To Matt’s astonishment, White Fang allowed Scott to resume the petting. This was the beginning of the end of White Fang’s old life—the end of the reign of hate.
Transforming White Fang required immense patience. He was no longer a flexible puppy; he had been hardened into a "Fighting Wolf," unloving and unlovable. Yet Weedon Scott’s kindness acted like a powerful force, softening his rough edges. Slowly, "like" turned into "love." White Fang stayed not because he was forced to, but because he needed this new god. He took it upon himself to guard the cabin, learning to distinguish between honest visitors and those who prowled in the shadows.
As the weeks passed, White Fang’s devotion grew. He began to wait hours on the porch just to see Scott’s face. He would even leave a warm sleeping hole in the snow just to greet his master. Though he could not bark or wag his tail like other dogs, he expressed his adoration through his steady, faithful gaze. He also established his leadership over the other sled dogs, thrashing them until they acknowledged his authority.
In the late spring, a great crisis occurred. Weedon Scott disappeared. He had packed a bag and left on a steamboat, leaving White Fang behind with Matt. White Fang, who had never been ill, became sick with grief. He stopped eating and lost his spirit, allowing even the weakest dogs in the team to bully him. Matt grew so worried that he wrote to Scott, claiming the wolf might die of a broken heart.
One night, while Matt was sitting in the cabin, White Fang suddenly stood up and whined. Moments later, the door opened, and Weedon Scott walked in. White Fang did not rush forward like a normal dog, but the light in his eyes was unmistakable.
"Holy smoke!" Matt exclaimed. "Look at him!"
Scott knelt down and petted him affectionately. Then, White Fang did something entirely new. He thrust his head forward and nudged his way between Scott’s arm and his body, snuggling close. It was an act of total surrender and trust.
With Scott’s return, White Fang’s strength rushed back. He quickly re-established his dominance over the team, fighting with a renewed joy. But the greatest proof of his loyalty came one night when a wild scream echoed outside the cabin.
Scott and Matt rushed out with a lamp to find a man lying in the snow, shielding his throat from White Fang’s teeth. Scott dragged the wolf away and realized the intruder was Beauty Smith. Nearby lay a heavy club and a steel chain; the coward had tried to steal White Fang back.
No words were needed. Matt pointed toward the trail, and Beauty Smith fled into the darkness. Scott turned back to White Fang, petting the bristling fur until the wolf’s growl turned into a quiet, contented sound. The Love-Master had won, and White Fang was finally home.