And woe to the dog that at such times ran
foul of him. He knew the law too well to take it out of Grey Beaver;
behind Grey Beaver were a club and godhead. But behind the dogs there
was nothing but space, and into this space they flew when White Fang came
on the scene, made mad by laughter.
In the third year of his life there came a great famine to the Mackenzie
Indians. In the summer the fish failed. In the winter the cariboo
forsook their accustomed track. Moose were scarce, the rabbits almost
disappeared, hunting and preying animals perished. Denied their usual
food-supply, weakened by hunger, they fell upon and devoured one another.
Only the strong survived. White Fang's gods were always hunting animals.
The old and the weak of them died of hunger. There was wailing in the
village, where the women and children went without in order that what
little they had might go into the bellies of the lean and hollow-eyed
hunters who trod the forest in the vain pursuit of meat.
To such extremity were the gods driven that they ate the soft-tanned
leather of their mocassins and mittens, while the dogs ate the harnesses
off their backs and the very whip-lashes. Also, the dogs ate one
another, and also the gods ate the dogs. The weakest and the more
worthless were eaten first. The dogs that still lived, looked on and
understood.
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