"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 killedthis god's dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be expectedthan some terrible punishment? But in the face of it he was indomitable.

　　He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant, his whole body waryand prepared for anything. The god had no club, so he suffered him toapproach quite near. The god's hand had come out and was descendingupon his head. White Fang shrank together and grew tense as he crouchedunder it. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew Column Wedding Dresses 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 bitethe 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 anysnap or slash. But he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of WhiteFang, who struck with the certainty and swiftness of a coiled snake.

　　Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand andholding it tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and sprang tohis side. White Fang crouched down, and backed away, bristling, showinghis fangs, his eyes malignant with menace. Now he could expect a beatingas fearful as any he had received from Beauty Smith.
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　　"Won't he run away?" his new owner asked.

　　Matt shrugged his shoulders. "Got to take a gamble. Only way to findout is to find out.""Poor devil," Scott murmured pityingly. "What he needs is some showof human kindness," he added, turning and going into the cabin.

　　He came out with a piece of meat, which he tossed to White Fang. Hesprang 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 onit, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but quickerthan he was White Fang. Major staggered to his feet, but the bloodspouting 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 Mattstooped and investigated his leg.

　　"He got me all right," he announced, pointing to the torn trousers andundercloths, 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. Butwe've come to it now. It's the only thing to do."As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver, threwopen the cylinder, and assured himself of its 2010 Wedding Dresses.

　　"Look here, Mr. Scott," Matt objected; "that dog's ben through hell.

　　You can't expect 'm to come out a white an' shinin' angel. Give 'm time.""Look at Major," the other rejoined.

　　The dog-musher surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on thesnow in the circle of his blood and was plainly in the last gasp.
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　　"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 nogettin' away from."The dog-musher paused and nodded his head confidentially atMoosehide Mountain.

　　"Well, don't be a miser with what you know," Scott said sharply, afterwaiting 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 'ready.""No!""I tell you yes, an' broke to harness. Look close there. D'ye see themmarks across the chest?""You're right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got hold of him.""And there's not much reason against his bein' a sled-dog again.""What d'ye think?" Scott queried eagerly. Then the hope died down ashe added, shaking his head, "We've had him two weeks now, and ifanything he's wilder than ever at the present moment.""Give 'm a chance," Matt counselled. "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 watchingthe whip of its trainer.

　　"See 'm keep his eye on that club," Matt said. "That's a good sign. He'sno fool. Don't dast tackle me so long as I got that club handy. He's notclean crazy, sure."As the man's hand approached his neck, White Fang bristled andsnarled and crouched down. But while he eyed the approaching hand, he atthe same time contrived to keep track of the club in the other hand,suspended threateningly above him. Matt unsnapped the chain from thecollar and stepped back.

　　White Fang could scarcely realise that he was free. Many Wedding Accessorieshadgone by since he passed into the possession of Beauty Smith, and in allthat period he had never known a moment of freedom except at the timeshe had been loosed to fight with other dogs. Immediately after such fightshe had always been imprisoned again.
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　　But that did not 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 tocheer him 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 could bedistinctly heard. Both men were on their knees, bending over the dogs.

　　Tim Keenan strode into the ring. He paused beside Scott and touched himon 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 moreominously than 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 theFlower girl dresses ," was the reply, "and don't bother me. I'mbusy."Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no furthernotice of his presence. He had managed to get the muzzle in between thejaws on one side, and was trying to get it out between the jaws on theother side. This accomplished, he pried gently and carefully, loosening thejaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time, extricated White Fang'smangled neck.
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　　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 amoustache, 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 frostyair.

　　White Fang had practically ceased struggling. Now and again heresisted spasmodically and to no purpose. He could get little air, and thatlittle grew less and less under the merciless grip that ever tightened. Inspite of his armour of fur, the great vein of his throat would have longsince been torn open, had not the first grip of the bull-dog been so lowdown as to be practically on the chest. It had taken Cherokee a long timeto shift that grip upward, and this had also tended further to clog his jawswith fur and skin-fold.

　　In the meantime, the abysmal brute in Beauty Smith had been risinginto his 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 upon WhiteFang and began savagely to kick him. There were hisses from the crowdand cries of protest, but that was all. While this went on, and Beauty Smithcontinued to kick White Fang, there was a commotion in the crowd. Thetall young newcomer was forcing his way through, shouldering men rightand left without ceremony or gentleness. When he broke through into thering, Beauty Smith was just in the act of delivering another kick. All hisweight was on one loot, and he was in a state of unstable equilibrium. Atthat 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 seemedto lift into the air as he turned over backward and struck the snow. Thenewcomer turned upon the crowd."You cowards!" he cried. "You beasts!"He was in a rage himself - a sane rage. His grey eyes seemed metallicand steel-like as they flashed upon the crowd. Beauty Smith regained his Cocktail dressesand 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!" hesmashed 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 had followed him into the ring.

　　Both men bent over the dogs. Matt took hold of White Fang, ready topull when 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, Bridesmaid dresse"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.

　　Round and round he went, whirling and turning and reversing, tryingto shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull-dogdid little but keep his grip. Sometimes, and rarely, he managed to get hisfeet to the earth and for a moment to brace himself against White Fang.

　　But the next moment his footing would be lost and he would be draggingaround in the whirl of one of White Fang's mad gyrations. Cherokeeidentified himself with his instinct. He knew that he was doing the rightthing by holding on, and there came to him certain blissful thrills ofsatisfaction. At such moments he even closed his eyes and allowed hisbody to be hurled hither and thither, willy-nilly, careless of any hurt thatmight thereby come to it. That did not count. The grip was the thing, andthe 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, had thisthing happened. The dogs he had fought with did not fight that way. Withthem it was snap and slash and get away, snap and slash and get away. Helay partly on his side, panting for breath. Cherokee still holding his grip,urged against him, trying to get him over entirely on his side. White Fangresisted, and he could feel the jaws shifting their grip, slightly Tea-length wedding dresses andcoming together again in a chewing movement. Each shift brought the gripcloser to his throat. The bull-dog's method was to hold what he had, andwhen opportunity favoured to work in for more. Opportunity favouredwhen White Fang remained quiet. When White Fang struggled, Cherokeewas content merely to hold on.
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　　There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself, and asinexorable. Slowly it shifted up along the jugular. All that saved WhiteFang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur thatcovered it. This served to form a large roll in Cherokee's mouth, the fur ofwhich well-nigh defied his teeth. But bit by bit, whenever the chanceoffered, he was getting more of the loose skin and fur in his mouth. Theresult was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. The latter's breathwas drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the moments went by.

　　It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers ofCherokee waxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds. White Fang'sbackers were correspondingly depressed, and refused bets of ten to oneand twenty to one, though one man was rash enough to close a wager offifty to one. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring andpointed his finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively andscornfully. This produced the desired effect. White Fang went wild withrage. He called up his reserves of strength, and gained his feet. As hestruggled around the ring, the fifty pounds of his foe ever dragging on histhroat, 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. Roundand round and back again, stumbling and falling and rising, evenuprearing at times on his hind-legs and lifting his foe clear of the earth, hestruggled vainly to shake off the clinging death.

　　At last he fell, toppling backward, exhausted; and the bull-dogpromptly shifted his grip, getting in closer, mangling more and more of thefur-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 thestump of his tail. But the clamour of Plus size wedding dresses 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.

　　But White Fang could not get at the soft underside of the throat. Thebull-dog stood too short, while its massive jaws were an added protection.

　　White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while Cherokee's woundsincreased. Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and slashed. Hebled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted. He continued hisplodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled, he came to a fullstop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the same time wagging hisstump of a tail as an expression of his willingness to fight.

　　In that moment White Fang was in upon him and out, in passingripping his trimmed remnant of an ear. With a slight manifestation ofanger, Cherokee took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of thecircle White Fang was making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip onWhite Fang'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, withgrim certitude, toiled after him. Sooner or later he would accomplish hispurpose, get the grip that would win the battle. In the meantime, heaccepted all the punishment the other could deal him. His tufts of ears hadbecome tassels, his Mermaid wedding dressesand shoulders were slashed in a score of places,and his very lips were cut and bleeding - all from these lightning snapsthat were beyond his foreseeing and guarding.

　　Time and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off hisfeet; but the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was toosquat, too close to the ground. White Fang tried the trick once too often.

　　The chance came in one of his quick doublings and counter-circlings. Hecaught Cherokee with head turned away as he whirled more slowly. Hisshoulder was exposed. White Fang drove in upon it: but his own shoulderwas high above, while he struck with such force that his momentumcarried him on across over the other's body. For the first time in hisfighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing. His body turned ahalf-somersault in the air, and he would have landed on his back had henot twisted, catlike, still in the air, in the effort to bring his feet to the earth.
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　　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, it did notseem to him that it was intended he should fight with the dog he sawbefore him. He was not used to fighting with that kind of dog, and he waswaiting for them to bring on the real dog.

　　Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, fondling him on bothsides of the shoulders with hands that rubbed against the grain of the hairand that made slight, pushing-forward movements. These were so manysuggestions. Also, their effect was irritating, for Cherokee began to growl,very softly, deep down in his throat. There was a correspondence inrhythm between the growls and the movements of the man's hands. Thegrowl rose in the throat with the culmination of each forward-pushingA-line wedding dresses, 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 riseon his neck and across the shoulders. Tim Keenan gave a final shoveforward and stepped back again. As the impetus that carried Cherokeeforward died down, he continued to go forward of his own volition, in aswift, bow-legged run. Then White Fang struck. A cry of startledadmiration went up. He had covered the distance and gone in more like acat than a dog; and with the same cat-like swiftness he had slashed withhis fangs and 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 themen were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again, and yetagain, White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away untouched, and stillhis strange foe followed after him, without too great haste, not slowly, butdeliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sort of way. There waspurpose in his method - something for him to do that he was intent upondoing 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 fur tobaffle White Fang's teeth as they were often baffled by dogs of his ownbreed. Each time that his teeth struck they sank easily into the yieldingflesh, while theColum wedding dresses did not seem able to defend itself. Anotherdisconcerting thing was that it made no outcry, such as he had beenaccustomed to with the other dogs he had fought. Beyond a growl or agrunt, the dog took its punishment silently. And never did it flag in itspursuit of him.

　　In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting animal.

　　At irregular intervals, whenever a fight could be arranged, he was takenout of his cage and led off into the woods a few miles from town. Usuallythis occurred at night, so as to avoid interference from the mounted policeof the Territory. After a few hours of waiting, when daylight had come, theaudience and the dog with which he was to fight arrived. In this manner itcame about that he fought all sizes and breeds of dogs. It was a savageland, the men were savage, and the fights were usually to the death.

　　Since White Fang continued to fight, it is obvious that it was the otherdogs that died. He never knew defeat. His early training, when he foughtwith Lip-lip and the whole puppy-pack, stood him in good stead. Therewas the tenacity with which he clung to the earth. No dog could make himlose his footing. This was the favourite trick of the wolf breeds - to rush inupon him, either directly or with an unexpected swerve, in the hope ofstriking his shoulder and overthrowing him. Mackenzie hounds, Eskimoand Labrador dogs, huskies and Malemutes - all tried it on him, and allfailed. He was never known to lose his footing. Men told this to oneanother, and looked each time to see it happen; but White Fang alwaysdisappointed them.

　　Then there was his lightning quickness. It gave him a tremendousadvantage over his antagonists. No matter what their fighting experience,they had never encountered a dog that moved so swiftly as he. Also to bereckoned with, was the immediateness of his attack. The average dog wasaccustomed to the preliminaries of snarling and bristling and  light blue prom dresses,and the average dog was knocked off his feet and finished before he hadbegun to fight or recovered from his surprise. So often did this happen,that it became the custom to hold White Fang until the other dog wentthrough its preliminaries, was good and ready, and even made the first attack.

　　But greatest of all the advantages in White Fang's favour, was hisexperience. He knew more about fighting than did any of the dogs thatfaced him. He had fought more fights, knew how to meet more tricks andmethods, and had more tricks himself, while his own method was scarcelyto be improved upon.

　　As the time went by, he had fewer and fewer fights. Men despaired ofmatching him with an equal, and Beauty Smith was compelled to pitwolves against him. These were trapped by the Indians for the purpose,and a fight between White Fang and a wolf was always sure to draw acrowd. Once, a full-grown female lynx was secured, and this time WhiteFang fought for his2010 wedding dresses . Her quickness matched his; her ferocity equalledhis; while he fought with his fangs alone, and she fought with her sharp-clawed feet as well.