White Fang by Jack London (read the beginning after the end novel txt) 📕

moments he even closed his eyes and allowed his body to be hurled hither and thither, willy-nilly, careless of any hurt that might thereby come to it.  That did not count.  The grip was the thing, and the grip he kept.

White Fang ceased only when he had tired himself out.  He could do nothing, and he could not understand.  Never, in all his fighting, had this 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 get away.  He lay 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 Fang resisted, and he could feel the jaws shifting their grip, slightly relaxing and coming together again in a chewing movement.  Each shift brought the grip closer to his throat.  The bull-dog’s method was to hold what he had, and when opportunity favoured to work in for more.  Opportunity favoured when White Fang remained quiet.  When White Fang struggled, Cherokee was content merely to hold on.

The bulging back of Cherokee’s neck was the only portion of his body that White Fang’s teeth could reach.  He got hold toward the base where the neck comes out from the shoulders; but he did not know the chewing method of fighting, nor were his jaws adapted to it.  He spasmodically ripped and tore with his fangs for a space.  Then a change in their position diverted him.  The bull-dog had managed to roll him over on his back, and still hanging on to his throat, was on top of him.  Like a cat, White Fang bowed his hind-quarters in, and, with the feet digging into his enemy’s abdomen above him, he began to claw with long tearing-strokes.  Cherokee might well have been disembowelled had he not quickly pivoted on his 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 as 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 hind-legs 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 bull-dog 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 clamour 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 sled 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 moustache, 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 armour of fur, the great vein of his throat would have long since been torn open, had not the first grip of the bull-dog 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.

In the meantime, the abysmal brute in Beauty Smith had been rising 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 grey 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 new-comer 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 the dog-musher, 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 endeavoured 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 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 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 jaws.  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 counselled.

The other reached into the holster at his hip, drew his revolver, and tried to thrust its muzzle between the bull-dog’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 from 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 telling you that’s something I ain’t worked out for myself.  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 bull-dog struggling vigorously.

“Take him away,” Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan dragged Cherokee back 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 pocket-book 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