When White Fang arrived in San Francisco, he was utterly overwhelmed. Deep within his nature, he had always associated power with godhead, and never had the white men seemed more godlike than they did on these crowded pavements. The familiar log cabins of the North were replaced by towering stone structures that seemed to touch the sky. The streets were a chaotic labyrinth of perils: heavy wagons, early automobiles, and monstrous electric cars that screeched through the crowds like the predatory lynxes of the northern woods.
This was a colossal manifestation of human power. Behind the noise and movement was the hand of man, governing and controlling the world. As a cub, White Fang had felt small when he first entered the Indian village, but now, even in his full-grown pride, he felt puny. The sheer number of "gods" made him dizzy. Bewildered by the endless roar of the city, he followed Weedon Scott with desperate loyalty, terrified of losing sight of his only protector.
This nightmare vision of the city was brief. He was soon chained in a baggage car, surrounded by a mountain of trunks and valises. Though he initially felt deserted, he soon discovered his master’s canvas bags nearby and immediately stood guard over them. When the door finally opened an hour later, the nightmare city had vanished. In its place was a smiling countryside, bathed in golden sunshine and a lazy, peaceful quietude. He accepted this magical transformation without question; it was simply the way of the gods.
A carriage was waiting, and as they approached, a woman rushed forward and threw her arms around Scott’s neck. To White Fang, this was a hostile act. In an instant, he transformed into a snarling, raging demon, ready to defend his master.
"It’s all right, mother!" Scott cried, restraining the wolf-dog. "He thought you were going to hurt me. He’ll learn soon enough."
Scott’s mother was pale from the fright, but she managed to laugh. "In the meantime, I hope I may be permitted to love my son when his dog is not around."
Scott spoke softly until White Fang calmed down, then issued a firm command. "Down, sir! Down with you!" White Fang obeyed, though he lay on the ground with reluctant, watchful eyes. He watched as Scott embraced a strange man next, but since no harm came of it, he remained still. When the luggage was loaded, the carriage departed, with White Fang running vigilantly behind, guarding the horses that dragged his master across the earth.
After fifteen minutes, they passed through a stone gateway into an estate of magnificent walnut trees and broad, rolling lawns. However, White Fang had little time to admire the scenery. He was suddenly confronted by Collie, a sharp-muzzled sheepdog who was righteously indignant at his presence. White Fang prepared for a deadly rush, but he halted abruptly. The "law of the wild" held him back: she was a female, and his instinct forbade him from attacking her.
Collie, however, felt no such restraint. To her, White Fang was a wolf—the ancient enemy that had preyed upon her ancestors' flocks for centuries. She snapped at his shoulder, her teeth drawing blood, but he merely backed away, confused. He tried to circle around her to follow the carriage, but she was always there, blocking his path with gleaming teeth.
"Never mind, father," Scott laughed from the carriage. "It’s good discipline. He’ll adjust."
The situation became desperate as the carriage disappeared behind the trees. Finally, White Fang used his old fighting trick. He lunged and struck Collie squarely with his shoulder. The impact sent her rolling through the gravel, yelping with wounded pride. Having cleared his path, White Fang shot past her, gliding like a silent ghost toward the house.
As he reached the porch, a massive deerhound named Dick suddenly blindsided him. Because of his speed, White Fang was unable to turn in time; the hound struck him hard, sending him tumbling across the grass. Before he could recover and deliver a fatal counter-attack, Collie arrived like a whirlwind, striking him again and knocking him off his feet.
Scott arrived just in time to hold White Fang back while his father called off the other dogs. "That’s a warm welcome for a lone wolf from the Arctic," Scott remarked, stroking White Fang’s head to soothe him. "He’s only been knocked off his feet once in his entire life, and here it happened twice in thirty seconds."
Other members of the family emerged from the house, and White Fang watched suspiciously as more women embraced his master. He leaned against Scott’s legs, finding comfort in the reassuring pats he received. When the group turned to enter the house, Scott’s father suggested letting the dogs "fight it out" to become friends.
"If they do," Scott replied with a grin, "White Fang will be the only one at the funeral. He would kill Dick in less than two minutes."
His father looked at the wolf-dog with a new sense of respect. Scott then led White Fang inside. The wolf-dog walked stiffly, guarding against an attack from the hound on the porch while preparing for any unknown terrors lurking within the building. Finding no immediate danger, he finally lay down at his master's feet with a contented grunt, ever alert and ready to protect the man he loved in this strange, new world.