When his eyes conveyed to
his brain the moving image of an action, his brain without conscious
effort, knew the space that limited that action and the time required for
its completion. Thus, he could avoid the leap of another dog, or the
drive of its fangs, and at the same moment could seize the infinitesimal
fraction of time in which to deliver his own attack. Body and brain, his
was a more perfected mechanism. Not that he was to be praised for it.
Nature had been more generous to him than to the average animal, that was
all.
It was in the summer that White Fang arrived at Fort Yukon. Grey Beaver
had crossed the great watershed between Mackenzie and the Yukon in the
late winter, and spent the spring in hunting among the western outlying
spurs of the Rockies. Then, after the break-up of the ice on the
Porcupine, he had built a canoe and paddled down that stream to where it
effected its junction with the Yukon just under the Artic circle. Here
stood the old Hudson's Bay Company fort; and here were many Indians, much
food, and unprecedented excitement. It was the summer of 1898, and
thousands of gold-hunters were going up the Yukon to Dawson and the
Klondike. Still hundreds of miles from their goal, nevertheless many of
them had been on the way for a year, and the least any of them had
travelled to get that far was five thousand miles, while some had come
from the other side of the world.
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