Chapter IV. THE CLINGING DEATH

Beauty Smith took off the chain from his neck and stepped back.

For the first time White Fang did not make an immediate attack. Before him was s bull-dog. He had never seen such a dog before.

There were cries from the crowd of, “Go to him, Cherokee! Eat him up!”

But Cherokee did not seem willing to fight. He was not afraid, but merely lazy. Besides, it he was not used to fighting with the kind of dog like White Fang, and he was waiting for them to bring the real dog.

Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, took him on both sides of the shoulders with hands and made slight, pushing-forward movements. Their effect was irritating, so Cherokee began to growl, very softly, deep down in his throat.

This was not without its effect on White Fang. The hair began to rise on his neck and across the shoulders. Tim Keenan gave a final push forward and stepped back again. Now Cherokee continued to go forward on his own. Then White Fang struck. Very quickly he slashed with his fangs and leaped back.

The bull-dog was bleeding from a rip in his neck. He gave no sign, did not even snarl, but turned and followed after White Fang. The men were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again and again White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away untouched, and still his strange enemy followed after him, without too great haste, not slowly, but deliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sort of way. There was purpose in his method, something from which nothing could distract him.

It puzzled White Fang. Never had he seen such a dog. It had no hair protection. It was soft, and bled easily. Each time that his teeth struck they sank easily into the flesh, while the animal did not seem able to defend itself. But it did not cry. Beyond a growl or a grunt, the dog was silent.

Cherokee was puzzled, too. Here was a dog that kept at a distance, dancing here and there and all about.

But White Fang could not get at the throat. Cherokee’s wounds increased. Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and slashed. He bled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted. He continued his pursuit. Once, for a moment, he stopped and looked at the men, wagging his tail as an expression of his willingness to fight.

In that moment White Fang was in upon him. But Cherokee pursuited him again, running on the inside of the circle White Fang was making, and aiming at White Fang’s throat. The bull-dog missed by a hair’s breadth, and cries of praise went up as White Fang suddenly escaped in the opposite direction.

The time went by. White Fang still danced on, leaping in and out. And still the bull-dog went after him. Sooner or later he would get the grip that would win the battle. In the meantime, he accepted all the injuries White Fang could make on him.

Again and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off his feet; but the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was too squat, too close to the ground. He caught Cherokee with head turned away. His shoulder was exposed. White Fang struck, but his own shoulder was high above. He struck with such force that his momentum threw him across Cherokee’s body. For the first time in his fighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing. He fell 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; but Cherokee held on. White Fang sprang to his feet and tore wildly around, trying to shake off the bull-dog’s body. It was a mad revolt. For several minutes he was insane. The basic instinct that was in him took charge of him. The will to exist of his body came over him. All intelligence was gone, as though he had no brain.

Round and round he went, trying to shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull-dog did not do anything but kept his grip. Sometimes he managed to get his feet to the earth. Cherokee knew that the grip was the most important thing, nothing else mattered.

White Fang ceased only when he had tired himself out. He could do nothing, and he could not understand. Never, in all his fighting, had this thing happened. He lay partly on his side, trying to breathe. Cherokee, still holding his grip, tried to get him over entirely on his side. Each moment brought the grip closer to White Fang’s throat. The bull-dog’s method was to wait for opportunity to grip more. It was easier when White Fang remained quiet.

He managed to strike the bull-dog’s neck. Yet the bull-dog had managed to roll him over on his back, and still hanging on to his throat, was on top of him. Like a cat, White Fang bowed his hind legs, and, with his enemy’s abdomen above him, he began to claw with long tearing-strokes. But Cherokee quickly jumped on the ground and resumed his grip.

There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself. All that saved White Fang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur that covered it. But, as more and more of his skin got into the bull-dog’s mouth, he started slowly to suffocate.

It looked as though the battle were over. But there was one man who was rash enough to put fifty to one in White Fang’s favour. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring and pointed his finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh. This produced the necessary effect. White Fang went wild with rage. He got his reserves of strength, and stood up. Round and round and back again, falling and rising, he tried vainly to shake off the clinging death—the bull-dog—off his throat.

At last he fell, exhausted. The bull-dog’s grip got closer. There were shouts of applause and many cries of “Cherokee! Cherokee!”.

At this time there was a jingle of bells. The fear of the police was strong among the men. But they saw two men running with sled and dogs. At sight of the crowd they stopped their dogs and came over. One of them wore a moustache, but the other, a taller and younger man, was smooth-shaven.

White Fang had practically ceased struggling. Now and again he resisted spasmodically and to no purpose. He could get little air, and that little grew less and less under the merciless grip.

When Beauty Smith saw White Fang’s eyes beginning to glaze, he understood that the fight was lost. Then he broke loose. He sprang upon White Fang and began to kick him. There were cries of protest from the crowd, but that was all. But then the tall young newcomer forced his way through, shouldering men right and left without ceremony. When he came into the ring, his fist stroke Beauty’s face. He fell, unable to keep his balance, because right at the moment one of his feet was on its way to White Fang’s side. The newcomer turned upon the crowd.

“You cowards!” he cried. “You beasts!”

He was in a sane rage himself. Beauty Smith got up and came toward him, cowardly. The newcomer thought he was coming back to fight. So, with a “You beast!” he gave him a second blow in the face. Beauty Smith decided that the snow was the safest place for him, and lay where he had fallen.

“Come on, Matt, lend a hand,” the newcomer called his friend, who had followed him into the ring.

Some of the men were protesting against the spoiling of the sport; but they were silenced when the newcomer lifted his head from his work for a moment and looked at them.

“It’s no use, Mr. Scott, you can’t break them apart that way,” Matt said at last. “He isn’t bleeding much, isn’t dying yet.”

“But he can any moment,” Scott answered. The younger man’s excitement and apprehension for White Fang was growing. He struck Cherokee about the head again and again. But that did not open the jaws. Cherokee understood the meaning of the blows, but knew he was himself in the right.

“Won’t some of you help?” Scott cried desperately at the crowd.

But no help was offered.

“You’ll have to get a pry,” Matt said.

The other drew his revolver, and tried to put its muzzle between the bull-dog’s jaws. Tim Keenan came into the ring.

“Don’t break his teeth, stranger.”

“Then I’ll break his neck,” Scott answered.

“I said don’t break his teeth,” the faro-dealer repeated more menacingly.

“Your dog? Then come and break this grip.”

“Well, stranger, that’s something I can’t do myself. I don’t know how to do it.”

“Then get out of the way, and don’t bother me.”

Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no further notice of his presence. He managed to put the muzzle between the jaws. Then he pried gently and carefully, loosening the jaws bit by bit, while Matt, bit by bit, made White Fang’s neck free.

“Stand by to receive your dog,” was Scott’s order to Cherokee’s owner.

The faro-dealer obediently got a firm hold on Cherokee.

“Now!” Scott warned, giving the final pry.

The dogs were drawn apart, the bull-dog struggling madly.

“Take him away,” Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan did so.

White Fang made several useless efforts to get up. Once he stood up, but his legs were too weak, and he slowly sank back into the snow. His eyes were half closed, and their surface was glassy. His jaws were apart, and the tongue was limp. He looked like a dog that was dying. Matt examined him.

“Awfully injured,” he announced; “but he’s breathing all right.”

Beauty Smith stood up and came over to look at White Fang.

“Matt, how much does a good sled-dog cost?” Scott asked.

“Three hundred dollars”.

“And how much for one that’s all chewed up like this one?”

“Half of that”.

Scott turned upon Beauty Smith.

“Did you hear, Mr. Beast? I’m going to take your dog from you, and I’m going to give you a hundred and fifty for him”.

He opened his pocket-book and counted out the bills.

“I’m not selling,” Beauty Smith said, with his hands behind his back.

“Oh, yes you are, because I’m buying. Here’s your money. The dog’s mine.”

Beauty Smith, his hands still behind him, began to back away. Scott sprang toward him, ready to strike.

“I’ve got my rights,” whimpered Beauty.

“You have no more rights to own that dog. Are you going to take the money? Or do I have to hit you again?”

“All right,” Beauty Smith said. “But that’s too little money. I’m not going to be robbed. A man’s got his rights.”

“Correct,” Scott answered, passing the money over to him. “But you’re not a man. You’re a beast.”

“Wait till I get back to Dawson. I’ll have the law on you.”

“If you open your mouth when you get back to Dawson, I’ll have you run out of town. Understand?”

“Yes,” Beauty Smith grunted.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir,” Beauty Smith snarled, like a dog.

“Look out! He can bite!” someone shouted, and people laughed.

Scott turned his back on him, and returned to help his friend, who was working over White Fang.

Some of the men were already departing; others stood in groups. Tim Keenan joined one of the groups.

“Who’s that man?” he asked.

“Weedon Scott,” some one answered.

“And who is Weedon Scott?”

“Oh, one of the best mining experts. He’s in with all the big bugs. If you want to keep out of trouble, you’ll stand clear of him”.