The guard treated him unfairly, lied about him to the warden, lost his credits, persecuted him.
The difference between them was that the guard carried a bunch of keys and a revolver. Jim Hall had only his naked hands and his teeth.
But he sprang upon the guard one day and used his teeth on the other’s throat just like any jungle animal.
After this, Jim Hall went to live in the incorrigible cell.
He lived there three years.
The cell was of iron, the floor, the walls, the roof.
He never left this cell. He never saw the sky nor the sunshine.
Day was a twilight and night was a black silence.
He was in an iron tomb, buried alive.
He saw no human face, spoke to no human thing.
When his food was shoved in to him, he growled like a wild animal.
He hated all things.
For days and nights he bellowed his rage at the universe. For weeks and months he never made a sound, in the black silence eating his very soul. He was a man and a monstrosity, as fearful a thing of fear as ever gibbered in the visions of a maddened brain.
And then, one night, he escaped.
The warders said it was impossible, but nevertheless the cell was empty, and half in half out of it lay the body of a dead guard.
Two other dead guards marked his trail through the prison to the outer walls, and he had killed with his hands to avoid noise.
He was armed with the weapons of the slain guards—a live arsenal that fled through the hills pursued by the organised might of society.
A heavy price of gold was upon his head.
Avaricious farmers hunted him with shot-guns.
His blood might pay off a mortgage or send a son to college.
Public-spirited citizens took down their rifles and went out after him.
A pack of bloodhounds followed the way of his bleeding feet.
And the sleuth-hounds of the law, the paid fighting animals of society, with telephone, and telegraph, and special train, clung to his trail night and day.
Sometimes they came upon him, and men faced him like heroes, or stampeded through barbed-wire fences to the delight of the commonwealth reading the account at the breakfast table.
It was after such encounters that the dead and wounded were carted back to the towns, and their places filled by men eager for the man-hunt.
And then Jim Hall disappeared.
The bloodhounds vainly quested on the lost trail.
Inoffensive ranchers in remote valleys were held up by armed men and compelled to identify themselves.
While the remains of Jim Hall were discovered on a dozen mountain-sides by greedy claimants for blood-money.
In the meantime the newspapers were read at Sierra Vista, not so much with interest as with anxiety.
The women were afraid.
Judge Scott pooh-poohed and laughed, but not with reason, for it was in his last days on the bench that Jim Hall had stood before him and received sentence.
And in open court-room, before all men, Jim Hall had proclaimed that the day would come when he would wreak vengeance on the Judge that sentenced him.
For once, Jim Hall was right.
He was innocent of the crime for which he was sentenced.
It was a case, in the parlance of thieves and police, of “rail-roading.”
Jim Hall was being “rail-roaded” to prison for a crime he had not committed.
Because of the two prior convictions against him, Judge Scott imposed upon him a sentence of fifty years.
Judge Scott did not know all things, and he did not know that he was party to a police conspiracy, that the evidence was hatched and perjured, that Jim Hall was guiltless of the crime charged.
And Jim Hall, on the other hand, did not know that Judge Scott was merely ignorant.
Jim Hall believed that the judge knew all about it and was hand in glove with the police in the perpetration of the monstrous injustice.
So it was, when the doom of fifty years of living death was uttered by Judge Scott, that Jim Hall, hating all things in the society that misused him, rose up and raged in the court-room until dragged down by half a dozen of his blue-coated enemies.
To him, Judge Scott was the keystone in the arch of injustice, and upon Judge Scott he emptied the vials of his wrath and hurled the threats of his revenge yet to come.
Then Jim Hall went to his living death . . . and escaped.
Of all this White Fang knew nothing.
But between him and Alice, the master’s wife, there existed a secret.
Each night, after Sierra Vista had gone to bed, she rose and let in White Fang to sleep in the big hall.
Now White Fang was not a house-dog, nor was he permitted to sleep in the house; so each morning, early, she slipped down and let him out before the family was awake.
On one such night, while all the house slept, White Fang awoke and lay very quietly.
And very quietly he smelled the air and read the message it bore of a strange god’s presence.