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'Then I'll break his neck,' Scott retorted, continuing his shoving
and wedging with the revolver muzzle.
'I said don't break them teeth,' the faro-dealer repeated more
ominously than before.
But if it was a bluff he intended, it did not work. Scott never
desisted in 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
telling you that's something I ain't worked out for myself. I don't
know how to turn the trick.'
'Then get out of the way,' was the reply, 'and don't bother me.
I'm busy.'
Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no further
notice of his presence. He had managed to get the muzzle in between
the jaws on one side and was trying to get it out between the jaws
on the other side. This accomplished, he pried gently and carefully,
loosening the jaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time,
extricated White Fang's mangled neck.
'Stand by to receive your dog,' was Scott's peremptory order to
Cherokee's owner.
The faro-dealer stooped down obediently and got a firm hold on
Cherokee.
'Now,' Scott warned, giving the final pry.
The dogs were drawn apart, the bulldog struggling vigorously.
White Fang made several ineffectual efforts to get up. Once he
gained his feet, but his legs were too weak to sustain him, and he
slowly wilted and sank back into the snow. His eyes were half
closed, and the surface of them was glassy. His jaws were apart, and
through them the tongue protruded, draggled and limp. To all
appearances he looked like a dog that had 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 White
Fang.
'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?' Scott
asked, nudging White Fang with his foot.
'Half of that,' was the dog-musher's judgment.
Scott turned from 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 pocketbook and counted out the bills.
Beauty Smith put his hands behind his back, refusing to touch the
proffered money.
'I ain't a-sellin',' he said.
'Oh, yes you are,' the other assured him. '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, drawing his fist back to strike. Beauty
Smith cowered 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.
'Are you 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
take the money under protest,' he added. 'The dog's a mint. I ain't
a-goin' to be robbed. A man's got his rights.'
'Correct,' Scott answered, passing the money over to him. 'A man's
got his rights. But you're not a man. You're a beast.'
'Wait till I get back to Dawson,' Beauty Smith threatened. '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?'
Beauty Smith replied with a grunt.
'Understand?' the other man thundered with abrupt fierceness.
'Yes,' Beauty Smith grunted, shrinking away.
'Yes, what?'
'Yes, sir.' Beauty Smith snarled.
'Look out! He'll bite!' someone shouted, and a guffaw of laughter
went up.
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,' someone answered.
'And who in hell is Weedon Scott?' the faro-dealer demanded.
'Oh, one of them crack-a-jack mining experts. He's in with all the
big bugs. If you want to keep out of trouble, you'll steer clear of
him, that's my talk. He's all hunky with the officials. The Gold
Commissioner's a special pal 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.'
CHAPTER FIVE.
The Indomitable.
'IT'S HOPELESS,' WEEDON Scott confessed.
He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at the dog-musher, who
responded with a shrug that was equally hopeless.
Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his stretched
chain, bristling, snarling, ferocious, straining to get at the
sled-dogs. Having received sundry lessons from Matt, said lessons
being imparted by means of a club, the sled-dogs had learned to
leave White Fang alone, and even when they were lying down at a
distance, apparently oblivious of his existence.
'It's a wolf and there's no taming it,' Weedon Scott announced.
'Oh, I don't know about that,' Matt objected. 'Might be a lot of dog
in 'm for all you can tell. But there's one thing I know sure, an'
that there's no gettin' away from.'
The dog-musher paused and nodded his head confidently at Moosehide
Mountain.
'Well, don't be a miser with what you know,' Scott said sharply,
after waiting a suitable length of time. 'Spit it out. What is it?'
The dog-musher indicated White Fang with a backward thrust of his
thumb.
'Wolf or dog, it's all the same- he's been tamed a'ready.'
'No!'
'I tell you yes, an' broke to harness. Look close there. D'ye see
them marks across the chest?'
'You're right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got
hold of him.'
'An' there's not much reason against his bein' a sled-dog again.'
'What d'ye think?' Scott queried eagerly. Then the hope died down as
he added, shaking his head, 'We've had him two weeks now, and if
anything, he's wilder than ever at the present moment.'
'Give 'm a chance,' Matt counseled. 'Turn 'm loose for a spell.'
The other looked at him incredulously.
'Yes,' Matt went on, 'I know you've tried to, but you didn't take
a club.'
'You try it then.'
The dog-musher secured a club and went over to the chained animal.
White Fang watched the club after the manner of a caged lion
watching the whip of its trainer.
'See 'm keep his eye on that club,' Matt said. 'That's a good
sign. He's no fool. Don't dast tackle me so long as I got that club
handy. He's not clean crazy, sure.'
As the man's hand approached the neck, White Fang bristled and
snarled and crouched down. But while he eyed the approaching hand,
he at the same time contrived to keep track of the club in the other
hand, suspended threateningly above him. Matt unsnapped the chain from
the collar and stepped back.
White Fang could scarcely realize that he was free. Many months
had gone by since he passed into the possession of Beauty Smith, and
in all that period he had never known a moment of freedom except at
the times he had been loosed to fight with the other dogs. Immediately
after such fights he had been imprisoned again.
He did not know what to make of it. Perhaps some new deviltry of the
gods was about to be perpetrated on him. He walked slowly and
cautiously, prepared to be assailed at any moment. He did not know
what to do, it was all so unprecedented. He took the precaution to
sheer off from the two watching gods, and walked carefully to the
corner of the cabin. Nothing happened. He was plainly perplexed, and
he came back again, pausing a dozen feet away and regarding the two
men intently.
'Won't he run away?' his new owner asked.
Matt shrugged his shoulders. 'Got to take a gamble. Only way to find
out is find out.'
'Poor devil,' Scott murmured pityingly. 'What he needs is some
show of human kindness.' he added, turning and going into the cabin.
He came out with a piece of meat, which he tossed to White Fang.
He sprang away from it, and from a distance studied it suspiciously.
'Hi-yu, Major!' Matt shouted warningly, but too late.
Major had made a spring for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed
on it, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but
quicker than he was White Fang. Major staggered to his feet, but the
blood spouting from his throat reddened the snow in a widening path.
'It's too bad, but it served him right,' Scott said hastily.
But Matt's foot had already started on its way to kick White Fang.
There was a leap, a flash of teeth, a sharp exclamation. White Fang,
snarling fiercely, scrambled backward for several yards, while Matt
stooped and investigated his leg.
'He got me all right,' he announced, pointing to the torn trousers
and underclothes, and the growing stain of red.
'I told you it was hopeless, Matt,' Scott said in a discouraged
voice. 'I've thought about it off and on, while not wanting to think
of it. But we've come to it now. It's the only thing to do.'
As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver, threw
open the cylinder, and assured himself of its content.
'Look here, Mr. Scott,' Matt objected; 'that dog's been through
hell. You can't expect 'm to come out a white an' shining angel.
Give 'm time.'
'Look at Major,' the other rejoined.
The dog-musher surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on the
snow in the circle of his blood, and was plainly in the last gasp.
'Served 'm right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to
take White Fang's meat, an' he's dead-O. That was to be expected. I
wouldn't give two whoops in hell for a dog that wouldn't fight for his
own meat.'
'But look at yourself, Matt. It's all right about the dogs, but we
must draw the line somewhere.'
'Served me right,' Matt argued stubbornly. 'What 'd I want to kick
'm for? You said yourself he'd done right. Then I had no right to kick
'm.'
'It would be a mercy to kill him,' Scott insisted. 'He's untamable.'
'Now look here, Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a fightin' chance. He
ain't had no chance yet. He's just come through hell, an' this is
the first time he's ben loose. Give 'm a fair chance, an' if he
don't deliver the goods, I'll kill 'm myself. There!'
'God knows I don't want to kill him or have him killed,' Scott
answered, putting away the revolver. 'We'll let him run loose and
see what kindness can do for him. And here's a try at it.'
He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently and
soothingly.
'Better have a club handy,' Matt warned.
Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fang's
confidence.
White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending. He had killed
this god's dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be
expected than some terrible punishment? But in the face of it he was
indomitable. He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant,
his whole body wary and prepared for anything. The god had no club, so
he suffered him to approach quite near. The god's hand had come out
and was descending on his head. White Fang shrank together and grew
tense as he crouched under it. Here was danger, some treachery or
something. He knew the hands of the gods, their proved mastery,
their cunning to hurt. Besides, there was his old antipathy to being
touched. He snarled more menacingly, crouched still lower, and still
the hand descended. He did not want to bite the hand, and he endured
the peril of it until his instinct surged up in him, mastering him
with its insatiable yearning for life.
Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick enough to avoid any snap
or slash. But he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of White
Fang, who struck with the certainty and swiftness of a coiled snake.
Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand and
holding it tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and
sprang to his side....
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