The months passed, and in the warm Southland, White Fang lived a life of luxury and ease. With plenty of food and no heavy work, he grew strong and prosperous. It was as if a metaphorical sun were shining upon him, allowing him to flourish like a plant in rich soil. Nevertheless, he remained different from the other dogs. Although he followed the law more punctiliously than any of them, a trace of his ancestral ferocity still lingered beneath the surface, as if the wolf within him were merely sleeping.
He never associated with other dogs. His difficult puppyhood and his days as a professional fighter had left him with a permanent aversion to his own kind. Furthermore, the Southland dogs viewed him with deep suspicion; he aroused in them an instinctive fear of the Wild. Consequently, they greeted him with constant hostility. White Fang, however, discovered that he rarely needed to use his teeth. A simple display of his naked fangs was usually efficacious enough to send any challenger retreating in terror.
The only constant trial in his life was Collie. She remained his "policeman," following him everywhere and bursting into a fury of barks if he even glanced at a chicken. She seemed to believe he was guilty of a crime before he had even committed it. White Fang’s favorite way of dealing with her was to lie down and pretend to sleep, a tactic that usually silenced her out of sheer frustration.
As time went on, White Fang achieved a sense of calmness and philosophic tolerance. Danger no longer lurked around every corner, and the terror of the unknown slowly faded. He even learned a new way to express his emotions. Previously, laughter had driven him into a rage because of Beauty Smith’s mockery. However, when the Love-master laughed at him in a good-natured, bantering way, White Fang’s anger was overcome by love. He eventually learned to "laugh" back, lifting his lips in a quizzical expression that reflected his affection.
He also learned to romp with the master. They would engage in rough games where White Fang would pretend to be a savage beast, snapping his jaws at the air and growling fiercely. Yet, no matter how fast or furious the play became, he never forgot himself. He would never accidentally hurt the god he worshipped. These liberties were reserved for Weedon Scott alone; White Fang was far too dignified to be everyone's playmate.
One of his chief duties was accompanying the master on horseback. White Fang’s tireless wolf-gait allowed him to run fifty miles and still arrive home ahead of the horse. It was during one of these rides that White Fang achieved a remarkable feat: he barked. In his entire life, he had only done this twice.
The first time was out of sheer anxiety when a horse refused to cooperate, but the second time was far more critical. During a ride through the pastures, the master’s horse stumbled over a jackrabbit and fell, breaking the master’s leg. White Fang was frantic with worry and refused to leave Scott’s side.
"Home! Go home!" the master commanded, despite the pain.
White Fang regarded him wistfully, whining softly. He listened with painful intentness as Scott spoke to him seriously. Finally, realizing it was the master’s will, he turned and trotted reluctantly toward the estate. When he arrived at the house, the family was resting on the porch. He burst among them, covered in dust and panting heavily.
The children tried to welcome him, but he avoided them, growling in his urgency to be understood. Judge Scott remained skeptical, remarking that "a wolf is a wolf" and cannot be trusted. Desperate, White Fang seized the master’s wife’s dress in his teeth, dragging her until the fabric tore. The family watched in alarm, wondering if the heat had finally driven the Arctic animal mad.
Suddenly, a great burst of barking erupted from White Fang’s throat. It was a staggering sound, full of urgency.
"Something has happened to Weedon!" his wife cried decisively.
The family immediately followed White Fang as he led them back to the injured master. After this rescue, even the most skeptical members of the household admitted that White Fang was a hero.
As his second winter in the Southland approached, White Fang made a surprising discovery. Collie’s nips were no longer sharp or angry; they had become gentle and playful. He forgot their old feud and began to respond to her games, even if he looked a bit ridiculous doing so.
One afternoon, when the master’s horse stood saddled and waiting, Collie nipped White Fang and ran toward the woods. White Fang hesitated, torn between his duty to the master and a deeper, more ancient impulse. Ultimately, the call of his own kind was too strong. That day, the master rode alone, while deep in the forest, White Fang ran side by side with Collie, just as his mother and father had once run through the silent Northland.