Beauty Smith slipped the chain from his neck and stepped back.
For once White Fang did not make an immediate attack. He stood still,ears pricked forward, alert and curious, surveying the strange animal thatfaced him. He had never seen such a dog before. Tim Keenan shoved thebull-dog forward with a muttered "Go to it." The animal waddled towardthe centre of the circle, short and squat and ungainly. He came to a stopand blinked across at White Fang.
There were cries from the crowd of, "Go to him, Cherokee! Sick 'm,Cherokee! Eat 'm up!"But Cherokee did not seem anxious to fight. He turned his head andblinked at the men who shouted, at the same time wagging his stump of atail good-naturedly. He was not afraid, but merely lazy. Besides, it did notseem to him that it was intended he should fight with the dog he sawbefore him. He was not used to fighting with that kind of dog, and he waswaiting for them to bring on the real dog.
Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, fondling him on bothsides of the shoulders with hands that rubbed against the grain of the hairand that made slight, pushing-forward movements. These were so manysuggestions. Also, their effect was irritating, for Cherokee began to growl,very softly, deep down in his throat. There was a correspondence inrhythm between the growls and the movements of the man's hands. Thegrowl rose in the throat with the culmination of each forward-pushingmovement, and ebbed down to start up afresh with the beginning of thenext movement. The end of each movement was the accent of the rhythm,the movement ending abruptly and the growling rising with a jerk.
This was not without its effect on White Fang. The hair began to riseon his neck and across the shoulders. Tim Keenan gave a final shoveforward and stepped back again. As the impetus that carried Cherokeeforward died down, he continued to go forward of his own volition, in aswift, bow-legged run. Then White Fang struck. A cry of startledadmiration went up. He had covered the distance and gone in more like acat than a dog; and with the same cat-like swiftness he had slashed withhis fangs and leaped clear.
The bull-dog was bleeding back of one ear from a rip in his thick neck.
He gave no sign, did not even snarl, but turned and followed after WhiteFang. The display on both sides, the quickness of the one and thesteadiness of the other, had excited the partisan spirit of the crowd, and themen were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again, and yetagain, White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away untouched, and stillhis strange foe followed after him, without too great haste, not slowly, butdeliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sort of way. There waspurpose in his method - something for him to do that he was intent upondoing and from which nothing could distract him.
His whole demeanour, every action, was stamped with this purpose. Itpuzzled White Fang. Never had he seen such a dog. It had no hairprotection. It was soft, and bled easily. There was no thick mat of fur tobaffle White Fang's teeth as they were often baffled by dogs of his ownbreed. Each time that his teeth struck they sank easily into the yieldingflesh, while the animal did not seem able to defend itself. Anotherdisconcerting thing was that it made no outcry, such as he had beenaccustomed to with the other dogs he had fought. Beyond a growl or agrunt, the dog took its punishment silently. And never did it flag in itspursuit of him.
Not that Cherokee was slow. He could turn and whirl swiftly enough,but White Fang was never there. Cherokee was puzzled, too. He had neverfought before with a dog with which he could not close. The desire toclose had always been mutual. But here was a dog that kept at a distance,dancing and dodging here and there and all about. And when it did get itsteeth into him, it did not hold on but let go instantly and darted awayagain.
But White Fang could not get at the soft underside of the throat. Thebull-dog stood too short, while its massive jaws were an added protection.
White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while Cherokee's woundsincreased. Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and slashed. Hebled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted. He continued hisplodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled, he came to a fullstop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the same time wagging hisstump of a tail as an expression of his willingness to fight.
In that moment White Fang was in upon him and out, in passingripping his trimmed remnant of an ear. With a slight manifestation ofanger, Cherokee took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of thecircle White Fang was making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip onWhite Fang's throat. The bull-dog missed by a hair's-breadth, and cries ofpraise went up as White Fang doubled suddenly out of danger in theopposite direction.
The time went by. White Fang still danced on, dodging and doubling,leaping in and out, and ever inflicting damage. And still the bull-dog, withgrim certitude, toiled after him. Sooner or later he would accomplish hispurpose, get the grip that would win the battle. In the meantime, heaccepted all the punishment the other could deal him. His tufts of ears hadbecome tassels, his neck and shoulders were slashed in a score of places,and his very lips were cut and bleeding - all from these lightning snapsthat were beyond his foreseeing and guarding.
Time and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off hisfeet; but the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was toosquat, too close to the ground. White Fang tried the trick once too often.
The chance came in one of his quick doublings and counter-circlings. Hecaught Cherokee with head turned away as he whirled more slowly. Hisshoulder was exposed. White Fang drove in upon it: but his own shoulderwas high above, while he struck with such force that his momentumcarried him on across over the other's body. For the first time in hisfighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing. His body turned ahalf-somersault in the air, and he would have landed on his back had henot twisted, catlike, still in the air, in the effort to bring his feet to the earth.
As it was, he struck heavily on his side. The next instant he was on his feet,but in that instant Cherokee's teeth closed on his throat.
It was not a good grip, being too low down toward the chest; butCherokee held on. White Fang sprang to his feet and tore wildly around,trying to shake off the bull-dog's body. It made him frantic, this clinging,dragging weight. It bound his movements, restricted his freedom. It waslike the trap, and all his instinct resented it and revolted against it. It was amad revolt. For several minutes he was to all intents insane. The basic lifethat was in him took charge of him. The will to exist of his body surgedover him. He was dominated by this mere flesh-love of life. Allintelligence was gone. It was as though he had no brain. His reason wasunseated by the blind yearning of the flesh to exist and move, at allhazards to move, to continue to move, for movement was the expressionof its existence.
Round and round he went, whirling and turning and reversing, tryingto shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull-dogdid little but keep his grip. Sometimes, and rarely, he managed to get hisfeet to the earth and for a moment to brace himself against White Fang.
But the next moment his footing would be lost and he would be draggingaround in the whirl of one of White Fang's mad gyrations. Cherokeeidentified himself with his instinct. He knew that he was doing the rightthing by holding on, and there came to him certain blissful thrills ofsatisfaction. At such moments he even closed his eyes and allowed hisbody to be hurled hither and thither, willy-nilly, careless of any hurt thatmight thereby come to it. That did not count. The grip was the thing, andthe grip he kept.
White Fang ceased only when he had tired himself out. He could donothing, and he could not understand. Never, in all his fighting, had thisthing happened. The dogs he had fought with did not fight that way. Withthem it was snap and slash and get away, snap and slash and get away. Helay partly on his side, panting for breath. Cherokee still holding his grip,urged against him, trying to get him over entirely on his side. White Fangresisted, and he could feel the jaws shifting their grip, slightly relaxing andcoming together again in a chewing movement. Each shift brought the gripcloser to his throat. The bull-dog's method was to hold what he had, andwhen opportunity favoured to work in for more. Opportunity favouredwhen White Fang remained quiet. When White Fang struggled, Cherokeewas content merely to hold on.
The bulging back of Cherokee's neck was the only portion of his bodythat White Fang's teeth could reach. He got hold toward the base where theneck comes out from the shoulders; but he did not know the chewingmethod of fighting, nor were his jaws adapted to it. He spasmodicallyripped and tore with his fangs for a space. Then a change in their positiondiverted him. The bull-dog had managed to roll him over on his back, andstill hanging on to his throat, was on top of him. Like a cat, White Fangbowed his hind- quarters in, and, with the feet digging into his enemy'sabdomen above him, he began to claw with long tearing-strokes. Cherokeemight well have been disembowelled had he not quickly pivoted on hisgrip and got his body off of White Fang's and at right angles to it.
There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself, and asinexorable. Slowly it shifted up along the jugular. All that saved WhiteFang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur thatcovered it. This served to form a large roll in Cherokee's mouth, the fur ofwhich well-nigh defied his teeth. But bit by bit, whenever the chanceoffered, he was getting more of the loose skin and fur in his mouth. Theresult was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. The latter's breathwas drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the moments went by.
It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers ofCherokee waxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds. White Fang'sbackers were correspondingly depressed, and refused bets of ten to oneand twenty to one, though one man was rash enough to close a wager offifty to one. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring andpointed his finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively andscornfully. This produced the desired effect. White Fang went wild withrage. He called up his reserves of strength, and gained his feet. As hestruggled around the ring, the fifty pounds of his foe ever dragging on histhroat, his anger passed on into panic. The basic life of him dominated himagain, and his intelligence fled before the will of his flesh to live. Roundand round and back again, stumbling and falling and rising, evenuprearing at times on his hind-legs and lifting his foe clear of the earth, hestruggled vainly to shake off the clinging death.
At last he fell, toppling backward, exhausted; and the bull-dogpromptly shifted his grip, getting in closer, mangling more and more of thefur-folded flesh, throttling White Fang more severely than ever. Shouts ofapplause went up for the victor, and there were many cries of "Cherokee!""Cherokee!" To this Cherokee responded by vigorous wagging of thestump of his tail. But the clamour of approval did not distract him. Therewas no sympathetic relation between his tail and his massive jaws. Theone might wag, but the others held their terrible grip on White Fang'sthroat.
It was at this time that a diversion came to the spectators. There was ajingle of bells. Dog-mushers' cries were heard. Everybody, save BeautySmith, looked apprehensively, the fear of the police strong upon them. Butthey saw, up the trail, and not down, two men running with sled and dogs.
They were evidently coming down the creek from some prospecting trip.
At sight of the crowd they stopped their dogs and came over and joined it,curious to see the cause of the excitement. The dog-musher wore amoustache, but the other, a taller and younger man, was smooth-shaven,his skin rosy from the pounding of his blood and the running in the frostyair.
White Fang had practically ceased struggling. Now and again heresisted spasmodically and to no purpose. He could get little air, and thatlittle grew less and less under the merciless grip that ever tightened. Inspite of his armour of fur, the great vein of his throat would have longsince been torn open, had not the first grip of the bull-dog been so lowdown as to be practically on the chest. It had taken Cherokee a long timeto shift that grip upward, and this had also tended further to clog his jawswith fur and skin-fold.
In the meantime, the abysmal brute in Beauty Smith had been risinginto his brain and mastering the small bit of sanity that he possessed atbest. When he saw White Fang's eyes beginning to glaze, he knew beyonddoubt that the fight was lost. Then he broke loose. He sprang upon WhiteFang and began savagely to kick him. There were hisses from the crowdand cries of protest, but that was all. While this went on, and Beauty Smithcontinued to kick White Fang, there was a commotion in the crowd. Thetall young newcomer was forcing his way through, shouldering men rightand left without ceremony or gentleness. When he broke through into thering, Beauty Smith was just in the act of delivering another kick. All hisweight was on one loot, and he was in a state of unstable equilibrium. Atthat moment the newcomer's fist landed a smashing blow full in his face.
Beauty Smith's remaining leg left the ground, and his whole body seemedto lift into the air as he turned over backward and struck the snow. Thenewcomer turned upon the crowd.
"You cowards!" he cried. "You beasts!"He was in a rage himself - a sane rage. His grey eyes seemed metallicand steel-like as they flashed upon the crowd. Beauty Smith regained hisfeet and came toward him, sniffling and cowardly. The new-comer did notunderstand. He did not know how abject a coward the other was, andthought he was coming back intent on fighting. So, with a "You beast!" hesmashed Beauty Smith over backward with a second blow in the face.
Beauty Smith decided that the snow was the safest place for him, and laywhere he had fallen, making no effort to get up.
"Come on, Matt, lend a hand," the newcomer called the dog-musher,who had followed him into the ring.
Both men bent over the dogs. Matt took hold of White Fang, ready topull when Cherokee's jaws should be loosened. This the younger manendeavoured to accomplish by clutching the bulldog's jaws in his handsand trying to spread them. It was a vain undertaking. As he pulled andtugged and wrenched, he kept exclaiming with every expulsion of breath,"Beasts!"The crowd began to grow unruly, and some of the men were protestingagainst the spoiling of the sport; but they were silenced when thenewcomer lifted his head from his work for a moment and glared at them.
"You damn beasts!" he finally exploded, and went back to his task.
"It's no use, Mr. Scott, you can't break 'm apart that way," Matt said atlast.
The pair paused and surveyed the locked dogs.
"Ain't bleedin' much," Matt announced. "Ain't got all the way in yet.""But he's liable to any moment," Scott answered. "There, did you seethat! He shifted his grip in a bit."The younger man's excitement and apprehension for White Fang wasgrowing. He struck Cherokee about the head savagely again and again.
But that did not loosen the jaws. Cherokee wagged the stump of his tail inadvertisement that he understood the meaning of the blows, but that heknew he was himself in the right and only doing his duty by keeping hisgrip.
"Won't some of you help?" Scott cried desperately at the crowd.
But no help was offered. Instead, the crowd began sarcastically tocheer him on and showered him with facetious advice.
"You'll have to get a pry," Matt counselled.
The other reached into the holster at his hip, drew his revolver, andtried to thrust its muzzle between the bull-dog's jaws. He shoved, andshoved hard, till the grating of the steel against the locked teeth could bedistinctly heard. Both men were on their knees, bending over the dogs.
Tim Keenan strode into the ring. He paused beside Scott and touched himon the shoulder, saying ominously:
"Don't break them teeth, stranger.""Then I'll break his neck," Scott retorted, continuing his shoving andwedging with the revolver muzzle.
"I said don't break them teeth," the faro-dealer repeated moreominously than before.
But if it was a bluff he intended, it did not work. Scott never desistedfrom his efforts, though he looked up coolly and asked:
"Your dog?"The faro-dealer grunted.
"Then get in here and break this grip.""Well, stranger," the other drawled irritatingly, "I don't mind tellingyou that's something I ain't worked out for myself. I don't know how toturn the trick.""Then get out of the way," was the reply, "and don't bother me. I'mbusy."Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no furthernotice of his presence. He had managed to get the muzzle in between thejaws on one side, and was trying to get it out between the jaws on theother side. This accomplished, he pried gently and carefully, loosening thejaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time, extricated White Fang'smangled neck.
"Stand by to receive your dog," was Scott's peremptory order toCherokee's owner.
The faro-dealer stooped down obediently and got a firm hold onCherokee.
"Now!" Scott warned, giving the final pry.
The dogs were drawn apart, the bull-dog struggling vigorously.
"Take him away," Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan draggedCherokee back into the crowd.
White Fang made several ineffectual efforts to get up. Once he gainedhis feet, but his legs were too weak to sustain him, and he slowly wiltedand sank back into the snow. His eyes were half closed, and the surface ofthem was glassy. His jaws were apart, and through them the tongueprotruded, draggled and limp. To all appearances he looked like a dog thathad been strangled to death. Matt examined him.
"Just about all in," he announced; "but he's breathin' all right."Beauty Smith had regained his feet and come over to look at WhiteFang.
"Matt, how much is a good sled-dog worth?" Scott asked.
The dog-musher, still on his knees and stooped over White Fang,calculated for a moment.
"Three hundred dollars," he answered.
"And how much for one that's all chewed up like this one?" Scottasked, nudging White Fang with his foot.
"Half of that," was the dog-musher's judgment. Scott turned uponBeauty Smith.
"Did you hear, Mr. Beast? I'm going to take your dog from you, andI'm going to give you a hundred and fifty for him."He opened his pocket-book and counted out the bills.
Beauty Smith put his hands behind his back, refusing to touch theproffered money.
"I ain't a-sellin'," he said.
"Oh, yes you are," the other assured him. "Because I'm buying. Here'syour money. The dog's mine."Beauty Smith, his hands still behind him, began to back away.
Scott sprang toward him, drawing his fist back to strike. Beauty Smithcowered down in anticipation of the blow.
"I've got my rights," he whimpered.
"You've forfeited your rights to own that dog," was the rejoinder. "Areyou going to take the money? or do I have to hit you again?""All right," Beauty Smith spoke up with the alacrity of fear. "But I takethe money under protest," he added. "The dog's a mint. I ain't a-goin' to berobbed. A man's got his rights.""Correct," Scott answered, passing the money over to him. "A man'sgot his rights. But you're not a man. You're a beast.""Wait till I get back to Dawson," Beauty Smith threatened. "I'll havethe law on you.""If you open your mouth when you get back to Dawson, I'll have yourun out of town. Understand?"Beauty Smith replied with a grunt.
"Understand?" the other thundered with abrupt fierceness.
"Yes," Beauty Smith grunted, shrinking away.
"Yes what?""Yes, sir," Beauty Smith snarled.
"Look out! He'll bite!" some one shouted, and a guffaw of laughterwent up.
Scott turned his back on him, and returned to help the dog-musher,who was working over White Fang.
Some of the men were already departing; others stood in groups,looking on and talking. Tim Keenan joined one of the groups.
"Who's that mug?" he asked.
"Weedon Scott," some one answered.
"And who in hell is Weedon Scott?" the faro-dealer demanded.
"Oh, one of them crackerjack minin' experts. He's in with all the bigbugs. If you want to keep out of trouble, you'll steer clear of him, that's mytalk. He's all hunky with the officials. The Gold Commissioner's a specialpal of his.""I thought he must be somebody," was the faro-dealer's comment.
"That's why I kept my hands offen him at the start."
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