CHAPTER XIII THE FAMINE White Fang turned a year old.
There was no one to wish him a happy birthday, though.
In fact, there was no one who knew such an important date had arrived.
He did not mind.
That was not the kind of thing that concerned a wolf.
His life passed just as it always had.
He kept his distance from the other dogs, except while working on the sled team.
He spent a lot of time on his own running around the camp and through the woods.
He got into more than a few fights.
He was chased from more than a few tents for stealing and he received more than a few beatings from Grey Beaver.
As time went on, his master became meaner.
Grey Beaver took advantage of the fact that people were afraid of White Fang.
People in the camp kept their distance from him.
Too many children received small bites.
Too many women were frightened by his growls.
Even Indians in other camps had heard about the wolf.
Some came to visit Grey Beaver so they could see White Fang firsthand.
Grey Beaver held court as if he were a king on a throne.
White Fang was his kingdom.
Another year passed in much the same way.
White Fang turned two, and once again no one noticed or cared.
His days were still filled with fights protecting Grey Beaver's property or fending off blows from his master.
This was White Fang's life, and he never thought it should be different.
It was not until after his third birthday that White Fang experienced true hunger again.
Another famine hit the Northland, and everyone suffered.
There were no rabbits in any of the traps, and far too fish were caught.
There was not even enough food to feed the members of the tribe.
Many of the dogs, including White Fang, left for the wild.
They stood a better chance of fending for themselves in the woods.
White Fang was better suited for this life than the others.
The young wolf knew about life in the wild.
It quickly fell back into old patterns.
He passed through familiar territory and visited old places.
He found the cave where he and his mother used to live and the stream he had fallen into.
He followed old trails and looked into nests and rabbit holes along the way, but there was little food to be found.
For weeks he survived on the occasional squirrel or small bird.
One day he found a rabbit, but that did not add up to much against a hunger several weeks old.
He could not remember the earlier famines.
When he was a puppy, his mother and father found him food.
They kept him alive when all his siblings passed away.
Now that he was on his own, White Fang was becoming more desperate.
He tried going back to the Indian camp.
He did not go in too far, though.
He lurked around the outer edge, sniffing for scraps of food.
There was very little to steal.
Most of their traps were empty.
White Fang understood that the Indians were also worried and desperate.
He knew that they had little to offer.
He looked for their rabbit snares.
When life at the camp was bountiful, he would often raid these snares, grabbing fresh rabbit meat, before one of the men found it.
There was nothing now, though.
White Fang returned to the woods, happy for whatever food he could find.
During his longest stretch of time without food, White Fang ran into Lip-Lip.
The older dog had also taken to the woods.
It was an unexpected meeting.
Walking in opposite directions along the base of a high cliff, they rounded a corner of rock and found themselves face to face.
The hair on White Fang's back rose.
He bared his teeth and snarled.
Then, before he even had a chance to think about it, White Fang jumped.
It was over quickly.
Liplip was not as skilled at life in the wild as the wolf was.
He had not been as successful in finding small bits of food, so he wasn't as strong.
White Fang won this last fight, and at long last ate a good meal.
Eventually the hunting became easier.
White Fang found more food as he made his way through the woods.
He ate his share and left the rest for others.
This was one thing he remembered from his mother's first lessons.
He must only use what he needed.
Without thinking too much about it, he started moving back toward the river.
He retraced his steps since living in the wild.
One day he found himself at the edge of the camp.
It was a much happier place, with children running and laughing and meat cooking on the fire.
This time, White Fang walked right back in.
Gray Beaver welcomed him home with a nod.
He didn't speak to the wolf or give him a fresh piece of meat.
He continued repairing his fishing nets while White Fang sat beside him.
They returned to their daily routine as though they had never been apart.
