Generation by generation, down all the generations, had this fear of the
Wild been stamped into their natures. For centuries the Wild had stood
for terror and destruction. And during all this time free licence had
been theirs, from their masters, to kill the things of the Wild. In
doing this they had protected both themselves and the gods whose
companionship they shared.
And so, fresh from the soft southern world, these dogs, trotting down the
gang-plank and out upon the Yukon shore had but to see White Fang to
experience the irresistible impulse to rush upon him and destroy him.
They might be town-reared dogs, but the instinctive fear of the Wild was
theirs just the same. Not alone with their own eyes did they see the
wolfish creature in the clear light of day, standing before them. They
saw him with the eyes of their ancestors, and by their inherited memory
they knew White Fang for the wolf, and they remembered the ancient feud.
All of which served to make White Fang's days enjoyable. If the sight of
him drove these strange dogs upon him, so much the better for him, so
much the worse for them. They looked upon him as legitimate prey, and as
legitimate prey he looked upon them.
Not for nothing had he first seen the light of day in a lonely lair and
fought his first fights with the ptarmigan, the weasel, and the lynx.
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