Stand by to receive your dog, was Scotts order to Cherokees 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 hes 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 thats all chewed up like this one?
Half of that.
Scott turned upon Beauty Smith.
Did you hear, Mr. Beast? Im going to take your dog from you, and Im going to give you a hundred and fifty for him.
He opened his pocket-book and counted out the bills.
Im not selling, Beauty Smith said, with his hands behind his back.
Oh, yes you are, because Im buying. Heres your money. The dogs mine.
Beauty Smith, his hands still behind him, began to back away. Scott sprang toward him, ready to strike.
Ive got my rights, whimpered Beauty.
You have no more rights to own that dog. Are you going to take the money? Оr do I have to hit you again?
All right, Beauty Smith said. But thats too little money. Im not going to be robbed. A mans got his rights.
Correct, Scott answered, passing the money over to him. But youre not a man. Youre a beast.
Wait till I get back to Dawson. Ill have the law on you.
If you open your mouth when you get back to Dawson, Ill 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 the 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.
Whos that man? he asked.
Weedon Scott, some one answered.
And who is Weedon Scott?
Oh, one of the best mining experts. Hes in with all the big bugs.[41] If you want to keep out of trouble, youll stand clear of him.
Chapter V. The Indomitable
Its hopeless, Weedon Scott confessed.
He sat on the step of his cabin and looked at his friend the dog-musher, who responded with a shrug that was equally hopeless.
Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his chain, bristling, snarling, ferocious, trying to get at the sled-dogs.
Its a wolf and it cant be tamed, Weedon Scott announced.
Wolf or dog, its all the same hes been tamed already.
No!
I tell you yes. Look close there. Do you see the marks across the chest?
Youre right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got him.
And theres not much reason against his being a sled-dog again.
Weve had him two weeks now, and nothing helps.
Give him a chance yes, I know youve tried to, but you didnt 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.
Give him a chance yes, I know youve tried to, but you didnt 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 how he keeps his eye on that club, Matt said. Thats a good sign. Hes no fool. Hes not clean crazy, sure.
As the mans hand approached his neck, White Fang bristled and snarled and crouched down. But in Matts other hand was a club. Matt took off the chain from the animals neck and stepped back.
White Fang could hardly realise 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 fought with other dogs.
He did not know what to think of it. Perhaps it was some new devilry of the gods. He walked slowly and cautiously to the corner of the cabin. Nothing happened. He was puzzled, and he came back again, lookind at the two men intently.
Wont he run away? his new owner asked.
Matt shrugged his shoulders. Only way to find out is to find out.
Poor devil.[42] What he needs is human kindness, Scott said, turning and going into the cabin.
He came out with a piece of meat, which he threw to White Fang. He sprang away from it, and from a distance studied it suspiciously.
Hi-yu, Major! Matt shouted, but too late.
Major, the dog, jumped for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed on it, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but White Fang was quicker. Major stood up, but the blood from his throat reddened the snow.
Its too bad, but it served him right, Scott said hastily.
But Matts 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 investigated his leg.
He got me all right, he announced, pointing to the torn trousers, and the growing stain of red.
I told you it was hopeless, Matt, Scott said in a discouraged voice. Ive thought about it, while not wanting to think of it. But its the only thing to do.
As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver.
Look here, Mr. Scott, Matt objected; that dogs been through hell. You cant expect him to come out a white and shining angel. Give him time.
Look at Major, the other said.
Major had sunk down on the snow in the circle of his blood and was obviously dying.
Served him right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take White Fangs meat, and hes dead. That was to be expected.
But look at yourself, Matt. Its all right about the dogs, but there must be a limit.
Served me right, Matt argued stubbornly. What did I want to kick him for? I had no right to kick him.
It would be a mercy to kill him. He cant be tamed.
Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a chance. He didnt have a chance yet. Hes just come through hell, and this is the first time hes been loose. Give him a fair chance, and if he dont deliver the goods, Ill kill him myself.
God knows I dont want to kill him or have him killed, Scott answered, putting away the revolver. Well let him run loose and see what kindness can do for him.
He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently.
Better have a club at hand, Matt warned.
Scott shook his head and went on.
White Fang was suspicious. He had killed this gods dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be expected than some terrible punishment? But he looked fierce. He bristled and showed his teeth. The god had no club, so he let him approach quite near. The gods hand had come out and was descending upon his head. White Fang grew tense as he crouched under it. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew the hands of the gods, their mastery, their ability to hurt. Besides, he still didnt like being touched. He did not want to bite the hand, but in the end his instinct mastered him.
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.
Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand and holding it tightly in his other hand. White Fang crouched down, and backed away, showing his fangs. Now he could expect a beating as terrible as any he had received from Beauty Smith.
Here! What are you doing? Scott cried suddenly.
Matt had dashed into the cabin and come out with a rifle.
Nothing, he said slowly, only going to keep that promise I made. Ill kill him as I said Id do.
No you dont!
Yes I do. Watch me.
It was now Weedon Scotts turn to plead.
You said to give him a chance. Well, give it to him. Weve only just started, and we cant quit at the beginning. It served me right, this time. And look at him!
White Fang was snarling, not at Scott, but at the dog-musher.
Look at the intelligence of him, Scott went on hastily. He knows the meaning of firearms. Weve got to give that intelligence a chance.
All right, Matt agreed, leaving the rifle. But will you look at that! he exclaimed the next moment.
White Fang had calmed down and stopped snarling. This is interesting. Watch.
Matt reached for the rifle, and at the same moment White Fang snarled. He stepped away from the rifle, and White Fang ceased.
Now, just for fun.
Matt took the rifle and began slowly to raise it to his shoulder. White Fangs snarled again. But the moment before the rifle came to a level on him, he leaped sidewise behind the corner of the cabin.
I agree with you, Mr. Scott, said Matt, That dogs too intelligent to kill.
Chapter VI. The Love-Master
White Fang could not believe there would be no punishment. So when he saw Weedon Scott approach he snarled and bristled.
But the god came over and sat down several feet away. White Fang could see nothing dangerous in that. Besides, he himself was free, he could escape into safety any moment. In the meantime he would wait and see.
The god remained quiet, made no movement. White Fang snarled. Then the god spoke, and at the first sound of his voice, the hair rose on White Fangs neck. But the god made no hostile movement. He talked to White Fang as White Fang had never been talked to before. He talked softly and soothingly, with a gentleness that somehow, somewhere, touched White Fang. In spite of himself and all the pricking warnings of his instinct, White Fang began to have confidence in this god.
After a long time, the god got up and went into the cabin. White Fang scanned him apprehensively when he came out. He had no weapon. He sat down as before, on the same place. He held out a small piece of meat. White Fang pricked his ears[43] and investigated it suspiciously, managing to look at the same time both at the meat and the god.
Still there was no punishment. And about the meat there seemed nothing wrong. Still White Fang suspected; and he refused to touch it. In past experience, especially with squaws, meat and punishment had often been related.