The world was filled with surprise.
The stir of the life that was in him, the play of his muscles, was an unending happiness.
To run down meat was to experience thrills and elations.
His rages and battles were pleasures.
Terror itself, and the mystery of the unknown, led to his living.
And there were easements and satisfactions.
To have a full stomach, to doze lazily in the sunshine—such things were remuneration in full for his ardours and toils, while his ardours and tolls were in themselves self-remunerative. They were expressions of life, and life is always happy when it is expressing itself.
So the cub had no quarrel with his hostile environment.
He was very much alive, very happy, and very proud of himself.
PART III
CHAPTER I—THE MAKERS OF FIRE
The cub came upon it suddenly.
It was his own fault.
He had been careless.
He had left the cave and run down to the stream to drink.
It might have been that he took no notice because he was heavy with sleep. (He had been out all night on the meat-trail, and had but just then awakened.) And his carelessness might have been due to the familiarity of the trail to the pool.
He had travelled it often, and nothing had ever happened on it.
He went down past the blasted pine, crossed the open space, and trotted in amongst the trees. Then, at the same instant, he saw and smelt.
Before him, sitting silently on their haunches, were five live things, the like of which he had never seen before.
It was his first glimpse of mankind.
But at the sight of him the five men did not spring to their feet, nor show their teeth, nor snarl.
They did not move, but sat there, silent and ominous.
Nor did the cub move.
Every instinct of his nature would have impelled him to dash wildly away, had there not suddenly and for the first time arisen in him another and counter instinct. A great awe descended upon him.
He was beaten down to movelessness by an overwhelming sense of his own weakness and littleness.
Here was mastery and power, something far and away beyond him.
The cub had never seen man, yet the instinct concerning man was his.
In dim ways he recognised in man the animal that had fought itself to primacy over the other animals of the Wild.
Not alone out of his own eyes, but out of the eyes of all his ancestors was the cub now looking upon man—out of eyes that had circled in the darkness around countless winter camp-fires, that had peered from safe distances and from the hearts of thickets at the strange, two-legged animal that was lord over living things.
The spell of the cub’s heritage was upon him, the fear and the respect born of the centuries of struggle and the accumulated experience of the generations.
The heritage was too compelling for a wolf that was only a cub.
Had he been full-grown, he would have run away.
As it was, he cowered down in a paralysis of fear, already half proffering the submission that his kind had proffered from the first time a wolf came in to sit by man’s fire and be made warm.
One of the Indians arose and walked over to him and stooped above him.
The cub cowered closer to the ground.
It was the unknown, objectified at last, in concrete flesh and blood, bending over him and reaching down to seize hold of him.
His hair bristled involuntarily; his lips writhed back and his little fangs were bared.
The hand, poised like doom above him, hesitated, and the man spoke laughing,
“Wabam wabisca ip pit tah.” (“Look!
The white fangs!”)
The other Indians laughed loudly, and urged the man on to pick up the cub.
As the hand descended closer and closer, there raged within the cub a battle of the instincts. He experienced two great impulsions—to yield and to fight.
The resulting action was a compromise.
He did both. He yielded till the hand almost touched him. Then he fought, his teeth flashing in a snap that sank them into the hand.
The next moment he received a clout alongside the head that knocked him over on his side.
Then all fight fled out of him.
His puppyhood and the instinct of submission took charge of him. He sat up on his haunches and ki-yi’d.
But the man whose hand he had bitten was angry.
The cub received a clout on the other side of his head. Whereupon he sat up and ki-yi’d louder than ever.
The four Indians laughed more loudly, while even the man who had been bitten began to laugh.