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.