The last dog had been driven back.The hubbub died down.And White Fang licked his hurts and meditated upon this, his first taste of pack-cruelty and his introduction to the pack.He had never dreamed that his own kind consisted of more than One Eye, his mother, and himself.They had constituted a kind apart, and here, abruptly, he had discovered many more creatures apparently of his own kind.And there was a subconscious resentment that these, his kind, at first sight had pitched upon him and tried to destroy him.In the same way he resented his mother being tied with a stick, even though it was done by the superior man-animals.It savored of the trap, of bondage.Yet of the trap and of bondage he knew nothing.Freedom to roam and run and lie down at will, had been his heritage; and here it was being infringed upon.His mother's movements were restricted to the length of a stick, and by the length of that same stick was he restricted, for he had not yet got beyond the need of his mother's side.
He did not like it.Nor did he like it when the man-animals arose and went on with their march; for a tiny man-animal took the other end of the stick and led Kiche captive behind him, and behind Kiche followed White Fang, greatly perturbed and worried by this new adventure he had entered upon.
They went down the valley of the stream, far beyond White Fang's widest ranging, until they came to the end of the valley, where the stream ran into the Mackenzie River.Here, where canoes were cached on poles high in the air and where stood fish-racks for the drying of fish, camp was made; and White Fang looked on with wondering eyes.The superiority of these man-animals increased with every moment.There was their mastery over all these sharp-fanged dogs.It breathed of power.But greater than that, to the wolf-cub, was their mastery over things not alive; their capacity to communicate motion to unmoving things; their capacity to change the very face of the world.