Nevertheless, Nature had given him plasticity. Another animal would have died or had its spirit broken. White Fang survived, and even Beauty Smith had not yet broken him.
In the days before, White Fang had the wisdom not to protest; but this wisdom now left him. Now just a sight of Beauty Smith was enough for him to go mad with hatred.
When the steamboat arrived at Dawson, White Fang was exhibited as the Fighting Wolf, and men paid fifty cents in gold dust to see him. He was given no rest. To make the exhibition interesting, he was kept in a rage most of the time. Every word, every action of the men made him really feel the most dangerous beast in the world. It added fuel to the flame of his fierceness.
In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting animal. Whenever a fight could be arranged, he was led into the wood some miles from town. Usually this happened at night, to avoid interference from the police. He fought all sizes and breeds of dogs. It was a savage land, the men were savage, and the fights were usually to the death.
White Fang never knew defeat. He was quick, experienced, and, besides, no dog could overturn him on his back. Mackenzie hounds, Eskimo and Labrador dogs, huskies and Malemutes all tried, and all failed. Men told this to one another, and each time hoped to see him lose the fight; but White Fang always disappointed them.
So, as the time went by, he had fewer and fewer fights. Men despaired of matching him with an equal,[35] and Beauty Smith had to set wolves against him. Once it was a female lynx, and this time White Fang fought for his life. But after the lynx, all fighting ended for White Fang. There were no more animals which were worthy of fighting with him. So he remained on exhibition until spring, when Tim Keenan, a faro-dealer, arrived and brought the first bull-dog that had ever entered the Klondike. The town prepared for the fight.
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. Cherokees 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 Fangs throat. The bull-dog missed by a hairs-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 Cherokees 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 Cherokees 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-dogs 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.[36] 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 Fangs throat. The bull-dogs method was to wait for opportunity to grip more. It was easier when White Fang remained quiet.
He managed to strike the bull-dogs 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 enemys 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-dogs 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 Fangs 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-dogs 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 Fangs eyes beginning to glaze, he understood that the fight was lost. Then he broke loose.[37] 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,[38] shouldering men right and left without ceremony. When came into the ring, his fist stroke Beautys face. He fell, unable to keep his balance, because right at the moment one of his feet was on its way to White Fangs side. The newcomer turned upon the crowd.
You cowards! he cried. You beasts!
He was in a sane rage[39] himself. Beauty Smith got up and came toward him, cowardly. The new-comer 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,[40] 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.
Its no use, Mr. Scott, you cant break them apart that way, Matt said at last. He isnt bleeding much, isnt dying yet.
But he can any moment, Scott answered.
The younger mans 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.
Wont some of you help? Scott cried desperately at the crowd.
But no help was offered.
Youll have to get a pry, Matt said.
The other drew his revolver, and tried to put its muzzle between the bull-dogs jaws. Tim Keenan came into the ring.
Dont break his teeth, stranger.
Then Ill break his neck, Scott answered.
I said dont break his teeth, the faro-dealer repeated more menacingly.
Your dog? Then come and break this grip.
Well, stranger, thats something I cant do myself. I dont know how to do it.
Then get out of the way, and dont 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 Fangs neck free.