by Jack London
CHAPTER IV--THE CLINGING DEATH
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 animalthat faced him. He had never seen such a dog before. Tim Keenan shovedthe bull-dog forward with a muttered "Go to it." The animal waddledtoward the centre of the circle, short and squat and ungainly. He cameto a stop and 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, itdid not seem to him that it was intended he should fight with the dog hesaw before him. He was not used to fighting with that kind of dog, andhe was waiting for them to bring on the real dog.
Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, fondling him on both sidesof the shoulders with hands that rubbed against the grain of the hair andthat made slight, pushing-forward movements. These were so manysuggestions. Also, their effect was irritating, for Cherokee began togrowl, very softly, deep down in his throat. There was a correspondencein rhythm 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 rise onhis neck and across the shoulders. Tim Keenan gave a final shove forwardand stepped back again. As the impetus that carried Cherokee forwarddied down, he continued to go forward of his own volition, in a swift,bow-legged run. Then White Fang struck. A cry of startled admirationwent up. He had covered the distance and gone in more like a cat than adog; and with the same cat-like swiftness he had slashed with his fangsand 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 the men were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again,and yet again, White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away untouched, andstill his strange foe followed after him, without too great haste, notslowly, but deliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sort of way.There was purpose in his method--something for him to do that he wasintent upon doing 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 furto baffle White Fang's teeth as they were often baffled by dogs of hisown breed. Each time that his teeth struck they sank easily into theyielding flesh, while the animal did not seem able to defend itself.Another disconcerting thing was that it made no outcry, such as he hadbeen accustomed to with the other dogs he had fought. Beyond a growl ora grunt, the dog took its punishment silently. And never did it flag inits pursuit of him.
Not that Cherokee was slow. He could turn and whirl swiftly enough, butWhite 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 adistance, dancing and dodging here and there and all about. And when itdid get its teeth into him, it did not hold on but let go instantly anddarted away again.
But White Fang could not get at the soft underside of the throat. Thebull-dog stood too short, while its massive jaws were an addedprotection. White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while Cherokee'swounds increased. Both sides of his neck and head were ripped andslashed. He bled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted. Hecontinued his plodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled, hecame to a full stop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the sametime wagging his stump of a tail as an expression of his willingness tofight.
In that moment White Fang was in upon him and out, in passing ripping histrimmed remnant of an ear. With a slight manifestation of anger,Cherokee took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of the circleWhite Fang was making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip on WhiteFang'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,with grim certitude, toiled after him. Sooner or later he wouldaccomplish his purpose, get the grip that would win the battle. In themeantime, he accepted all the punishment the other could deal him. Histufts of ears had become tassels, his neck and shoulders were slashed ina score of places, and his very lips were cut and bleeding--all fromthese lightning snaps that were beyond his foreseeing and guarding.
Time and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off his feet;but the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was toosquat, too close to the ground. White Fang tried the trick once toooften. The chance came in one of his quick doublings andcounter-circlings. He caught Cherokee with head turned away as hewhirled more slowly. His shoulder was exposed. White Fang drove in uponit: but his own shoulder was high above, while he struck with such forcethat his momentum carried him on across over the other's body. For thefirst time in his fighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing.His body turned a half-somersault in the air, and he would have landed onhis back had he not twisted, catlike, still in the air, in the effort tobring 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 teethclosed on his throat.
It was not a good grip, being too low down toward the chest; but Cherokeeheld on. White Fang sprang to his feet and tore wildly around, trying toshake 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 a mad revolt. For several minutes he was to all intents insane.The basic life that was in him took charge of him. The will to exist ofhis body surged over him. He was dominated by this mere flesh-love oflife. All intelligence was gone. It was as though he had no brain. Hisreason was unseated by the blind yearning of the flesh to exist and move,at all hazards to move, to continue to move, for movement was theexpression of its existence.
Round and round he went, whirling and turning and reversing, trying toshake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull-dog did little but keep his grip. Sometimes, and rarely, he managed toget his feet to the earth and for a moment to brace himself against WhiteFang. But the next moment his footing would be lost and he would bedragging around in the whirl of one of White Fang's mad gyrations.Cherokee identified himself with his instinct. He knew that he was doingthe right thing by holding on, and there came to him certain blissfulthrills of satisfaction. At such moments he even closed his eyes andallowed his body to be hurled hither and thither, willy-nilly, carelessof any hurt that might thereby come to it. That did not count. The gripwas the thing, and the 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, hadthis thing happened. The dogs he had fought with did not fight that way.With them it was snap and slash and get away, snap and slash and getaway. He lay partly on his side, panting for breath. Cherokee stillholding his grip, urged against him, trying to get him over entirely onhis side. White Fang resisted, and he could feel the jaws shifting theirgrip, slightly relaxing and coming together again in a chewing movement.Each shift brought the grip closer to his throat
. The bull-dog's methodwas to hold what he had, and when opportunity favoured to work in formore. Opportunity favoured when White Fang remained quiet. When WhiteFang struggled, Cherokee was content merely to hold on.
The bulging back of Cherokee's neck was the only portion of his body thatWhite Fang's teeth could reach. He got hold toward the base where theneck comes out from the shoulders; but he did not know the chewing methodof fighting, nor were his jaws adapted to it. He spasmodically rippedand 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, WhiteFang bowed his hind-quarters in, and, with the feet digging into hisenemy's abdomen above him, he began to claw with long tearing-strokes.Cherokee might well have been disembowelled had he not quickly pivoted onhis grip 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 savedWhite Fang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick furthat covered it. This served to form a large roll in Cherokee's mouth,the fur of which well-nigh defied his teeth. But bit by bit, wheneverthe chance offered, he was getting more of the loose skin and fur in hismouth. The result was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. Thelatter's breath was drawn with greater and greater difficulty as themoments went by.
It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers of Cherokeewaxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds. White Fang's backers werecorrespondingly depressed, and refused bets of ten to one and twenty toone, though one man was rash enough to close a wager of fifty to one.This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring and pointed hisfinger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively and scornfully.This produced the desired effect. White Fang went wild with rage. Hecalled up his reserves of strength, and gained his feet. As he struggledaround the ring, the fifty pounds of his foe ever dragging on his throat,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.Round and round and back again, stumbling and falling and rising, evenuprearing at times on his hind-legs and lifting his foe clear of theearth, he struggled vainly to shake off the clinging death.
At last he fell, toppling backward, exhausted; and the bull-dog promptlyshifted his grip, getting in closer, mangling more and more of the fur-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 the stumpof 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.But they saw, up the trail, and not down, two men running with sled anddogs. They were evidently coming down the creek from some prospectingtrip. At sight of the crowd they stopped their dogs and came over andjoined it, curious to see the cause of the excitement. The dog-musherwore a moustache, but the other, a taller and younger man, was smooth-shaven, his skin rosy from the pounding of his blood and the running inthe frosty air.
White Fang had practically ceased struggling. Now and again he resistedspasmodically and to no purpose. He could get little air, and thatlittle grew less and less under the merciless grip that ever tightened.In spite of his armour of fur, the great vein of his throat would havelong since been torn open, had not the first grip of the bull-dog been solow down as to be practically on the chest. It had taken Cherokee a longtime to shift that grip upward, and this had also tended further to cloghis jaws with fur and skin-fold.
In the meantime, the abysmal brute in Beauty Smith had been rising intohis 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 uponWhite Fang and began savagely to kick him. There were hisses from thecrowd and cries of protest, but that was all. While this went on, andBeauty Smith continued to kick White Fang, there was a commotion in thecrowd. The tall young newcomer was forcing his way through, shoulderingmen right and left without ceremony or gentleness. When he broke throughinto the ring, Beauty Smith was just in the act of delivering anotherkick. All his weight was on one foot, and he was in a state of unstableequilibrium. At that moment the newcomer's fist landed a smashing blowfull in his face. Beauty Smith's remaining leg left the ground, and hiswhole body seemed to lift into the air as he turned over backward andstruck the snow. The newcomer turned upon the crowd.
"You cowards!" he cried. "You beasts!"
He was in a rage himself--a sane rage. His grey eyes seemed metallic andsteel-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!"he smashed 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 hadfollowed him into the ring.
Both men bent over the dogs. Matt took hold of White Fang, ready to pullwhen 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 was growing.He struck Cherokee about the head savagely again and again. But that didnot 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 to cheerhim 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 couldbe distinctly heard. Both men were on their knees, bending over thedogs. Tim Keenan strode into the ring. He paused beside Scott andtouched him on 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 more ominouslythan 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 further noticeof his presence. He had managed to get the muzzle in between the jaws onone side, and was trying to get it out between the jaws on the otherside. This accomplished, he pried gently and carefully, loosening thejaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time, extricated WhiteFang's mangled 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 on Cherokee.
"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 dragged Cherokee backinto 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 surfaceof them was glassy. His jaws were apart, and through them the tongueprotruded, draggled and limp. To all appearances he looked like a dogthat 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 upon BeautySmith.
"Did you hear, Mr. Beast? I'm going to take your dog from you, and I'mgoing 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 Itake 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 gothis 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 you runout 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 laughter wentup.
Scott turned his back on him, and returned to help the dog-musher, whowas working over White Fang.
Some of the men were already departing; others stood in groups, lookingon 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 my talk. He's all hunky with the officials. The GoldCommissioner's a special pal of his."
"I thought he must be somebody," was the faro-dealer's comment. "That'swhy I kept my hands offen him at the start."