by Jack London
There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself, and was inexorable. Slowly it shifted up along the jugular. All that saved White Fang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur that 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, whenever the chance offered, he was getting more of the loose skin and fur in his mouth. The result was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. The latter’s breath was drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the moments went by.
It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers of Cherokee waxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds. White Fang’s backers were correspondingly depressed and refused bets of ten to one and twenty to one, 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 his finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively and scornfully. This produced the desired effect. White Fang went wild with rage. He called up his reserves of strength and gained his feet. As he struggled around 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 him again, and his intelligence fled before the will of his flesh to live. Round and round and back again, stumbling and falling and rising, even uprearing at times on his hindlegs and lifting his foe clear of the earth, he struggled vainly to shake off the clinging death.
At last he fell, toppling backward, exhausted; and the bulldog promptly shifted his grip, getting in closer, mangling more and more of the fur-folded flesh, throttling White Fang more severely than ever. Shouts of applause went up for the victor, and there were many cries of “Cherokee!” “Cherokee!” To this Cherokee responded by vigorous wagging of the stump of his tail. But the clamor of approval did not distract him. There was no sympathetic relation between his tail and his massive jaws. The one might wag, but the others held their terrible grip on White Fang’s throat.
It was at this time that a diversion came to the spectators. There was a jingle of bells. Dog-mushers’ cries were heard. Everybody, save Beauty Smith, looked apprehensively, the fear of the police strong upon them. But they saw, up the trail, and not down, two men running with sleds and dogs. They were evidently coming down the creek from some prospecting trip. At sight of the crowd they stopped their dogs and came over and joined it, curious to see the cause of the excitement. The dog-musher wore a mustache, but the other, a taller and younger man, was smooth-shaven, his skin rosy from the pounding of his blood and the running in the frosty air.
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 that ever tightened. In spite of his armor of fur, the great vein of his throat would long since have been torn open, had not the first grip of the bulldog been so low down as to be practically on the chest. It had taken Cherokee a long time to shift that grip upward, and this had also tended further to clog his jaws with fur and skin-fold.1
In the meantime, the abysmal brute in Beauty Smith had been rising up into his brain and mastering the small bit of sanity that he possessed at best. When he saw White Fang’s eyes beginning to glaze, he knew beyond doubt that the fight was lost. Then he broke loose. He sprang upon White Fang and began savagely to kick him. There were hisses from the crowd and cries of protest, but that was all. While this went on, and Beauty Smith continued to kick White Fang, there was a commotion in the crowd. The tall young newcomer was forcing his way through, shouldering men right and left without ceremony or gentleness. When he broke through into the ring, Beauty Smith was just in the act of delivering another kick. All his weight was on one foot, and he was in a state of unstable equilibrium. At that moment the newcomer’s fist landed a smashing blow full in his face. Beauty Smith’s remaining leg left the ground, and his whole body seemed to lift into the air as he turned over backward and struck the snow. The newcomer turned upon the crowd.
“You cowards!” he cried. “You beasts!”
He was in a rage himself—a sane rage. His gray eyes seemed metallic and steel-like as they flashed upon the crowd. Beauty Smith regained his feet and came toward him, sniffling and cowardly. The newcomer did not understand. He did not know how abject a coward the other was, and thought 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 lay where he had fallen, making no effort to get up.
“Come on, Matt, lend a hand,” the newcomer called to the dogmusher, who had followed him into the ring.
Both men bent over the dogs. Matt took hold of White Fang, ready to pull when Cherokee’s jaws should be loosened. This the younger man endeavored to accomplish by clutching the bulldog’s jaws in his hands and trying to spread them. It was a vain undertaking. As he pulled and tugged and wrenched, he kept exclaiming with every expulsion of breath, “Beasts!”
The crowd began to grow unruly, and 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 glared at them.
“You 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 at last.
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 see that! 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 did not loosen the jaw. Cherokee wagged the stump of his tail in advertisement that he understood the meaning of the blows, but that he knew he was himself in the right and only doing his duty by keeping his grip.
“Won’t some of you help?” Scott cried desperately at the crowd.
But no help was offered. Instead, the crowd began sarcastically to cheer him on and showered him with facetious advice.
“You’ll have to get a pry,” Matt counseled.
The other reached into the holster at his hip, drew his revolver, and tried to thrust its muzzle between the bulldog’s jaws. He shoved, and shoved hard, till the grating of the steel against the locked teeth could be distinctly heard. Both men were on their knees, bending over the dogs. Tim Keenan strode into the ring. He paused beside Scott and touched him on the shoulder, saying ominously:
“Don’t break them teeth, stranger.”
“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 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 st
ruggling vigorously.
“Take him away,” Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan dragged Cherokee into the crowd.
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 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 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 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.
Scott turned his back on him, and returned to help the dogmusher, who was working over White Fang.
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 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.”
V
The Indomitable
“It’s hopeless,” Weedon Scott confessed.
He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at the dogmusher, 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 ben 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 his 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 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 to 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 contents.
“Look here, Mr. Scott,” Matt objected, “that dog’s ben 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.