h did not jump away. He had been waiting for this. He swung the
club smartly, stopping the rush midway and smashing White Fang down upon
the ground. Grey Beaver laughed and nodded approval. Beauty Smith
tightened the thong again, and White Fang crawled limply and dizzily to
his feet.

He did not rush a second time. One smash from the club was sufficient to
convince him that the white god knew how to handle it, and he was too
wise to fight the inevitable. So he followed morosely at Beauty Smith's
heels, his tail between his legs, yet snarling softly under his breath.
But Beauty Smith kept a wary eye on him, and the club was held always
ready to strike.

At the fort Beauty Smith left him securely tied and went in to bed. White
Fang waited an hour. Then he applied his teeth to the thong, and in the
space of ten seconds was free. He had wasted no time with his teeth.
There had been no useless gnawing. The thong was cut across, diagonally,
almost as clean as though done by a knife. White Fang looked up at the
fort, at the same time bristling and growling. Then he turned and
trotted back to Grey Beaver's camp. He owed no allegiance to this
strange and terrible god. He had given himself to Grey Beaver, and to
Grey Beaver he considered he still belonged.

But what had occurred before was repeated--with a difference. Grey
Beaver again made him fast with a thong, and in the morning turned him
over to Beauty Smith. And here was where the difference came in. Beauty
Smith gave him a beating. Tied securely, White Fang could only rage
futilely and endure the punishment. Club and whip were both used upon
him, and he experienced the worst beating he had ever received in his
life. Even the big beating given him in his puppyhood by Grey Beaver was
mild compared with this.

Beauty Smith enjoyed the task. He delighted in it. He gloated over his
victim, and his eyes flamed dully, as he swung the whip or club and
listened to White Fang's cries of pain and to his helpless bellows and
snarls. For Beauty Smith was cruel in the way that cowards are cruel.
Cringing and snivelling himself before the blows or angry speech of a
man, he revenged himself, in turn, upon creatures weaker than he. All
life likes power, and Beauty Smith was no exception. Denied the
expression of power amongst his own kind, he fell back upon the lesser
creatures and there vindicated the life that was in him. But Beauty
Smith had not created him