White Fang, Jack London [classic romance novels .txt] 📗

a professional fighting animal.  At irregular intervals, whenever a fight could be arranged, he was taken out of his cage and led off into the woods a few miles from town.  Usually this occurred at night, so as to avoid interference from the mounted police of the Territory.  After a few hours of waiting, when daylight had come, the audience and the dog with which he was to fight arrived.  In this manner it came about that he fought all sizes and breeds of dogs.  It was a savage land, 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 other dogs that died.  He never knew defeat.  His early training, when he fought with Lip-lip and the whole puppy-pack, stood him in good stead.  There was the tenacity with which he clung to the earth.  No dog could make him lose his footing.  This was the favourite trick of the wolf breeds—to rush in upon him, either directly or with an unexpected swerve, in the hope of striking his shoulder and overthrowing him.  Mackenzie hounds, Eskimo and Labrador dogs, huskies and Malemutes—all tried it on him, and all failed.  He was never known to lose his footing.  Men told this to one another, and looked each time to see it happen; but White Fang always disappointed them.

Then there was his lightning quickness.  It gave him a tremendous advantage over his antagonists.  No matter what their fighting experience, they had never encountered a dog that moved so swiftly as he.  Also to be reckoned with, was the immediateness of his attack.  The average dog was accustomed to the preliminaries of snarling and bristling and growling, and the average dog was knocked off his feet and finished before he had begun 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 went through its preliminaries, was good and ready, and even made the first attack.

But greatest of all the advantages in White Fang’s favour, was his experience.  He knew more about fighting than did any of the dogs that faced him.  He had fought more fights, knew how to meet more tricks and methods, and had more tricks himself, while his own method was scarcely to be improved upon.

As the time went by, he had fewer and fewer fights.  Men despaired of matching him with an equal, and Beauty Smith was compelled to pit wolves 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 a crowd.  Once, a full-grown female lynx was secured, and this time White Fang fought for his life.  Her quickness matched his; her ferocity equalled his; while he fought with his fangs alone, and she fought with her sharp-clawed feet as well.

But after the lynx, all fighting ceased for White Fang.  There were no more animals with which to fight—at least, there was none considered worthy of fighting with him.  So he remained on exhibition until spring, when one Tim Keenan, a faro-dealer, arrived in the land.  With him came the first bull-dog that had ever entered the Klondike.  That this dog and White Fang should come together was inevitable, and for a week the anticipated fight was the mainspring of conversation in certain quarters of the town.

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 animal that faced him.  He had never seen such a dog before.  Tim Keenan shoved the bull-dog forward with a muttered “Go to it.”  The animal waddled toward the centre of the circle, short and squat and ungainly.  He came to 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 and blinked at the men who shouted, at the same time wagging his stump of a tail good-naturedly.  He was not afraid, but merely lazy.  Besides, it did not seem to him that it was intended he should fight with the dog he saw before him.  He was not used to fighting with that kind of dog, and he was waiting for them to bring on the real dog.

Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, fondling him on both sides of the shoulders with hands that rubbed against the grain of the hair and that made slight, pushing-forward movements.  These were so many suggestions.  Also, their effect was irritating, for Cherokee began to growl, very softly, deep down in his throat.  There was a correspondence in rhythm between the growls and the movements of the man’s hands.  The growl rose in the throat with the culmination of each forward-pushing movement, and ebbed down to start up afresh with the beginning of the next 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 on his neck and across the shoulders.  Tim Keenan gave a final shove forward and stepped back again.  As the impetus that carried Cherokee forward died down, he continued to go forward of his own volition, in a swift, bow-legged run.  Then White Fang struck.  A cry of startled admiration went up.  He had covered the distance and gone in more like a cat than a dog; and with the same cat-like swiftness he had slashed with his 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 White Fang.  The display on both sides, the quickness of the one and the steadiness 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, and still his strange foe followed after him, without too great haste, not slowly, but deliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sort of way.  There was purpose in his method—something for him to do that he was intent upon doing and from which nothing could distract him.

His whole demeanour, every action, was stamped with this purpose.  It puzzled White Fang.  Never had he seen such a dog.  It had no hair protection.  It was soft, and bled easily.  There was no thick mat of fur to baffle White Fang’s teeth as they were often baffled by dogs of his own breed.  Each time that his teeth struck they sank easily into the yielding flesh, while the animal did not seem able to defend itself.  Another disconcerting thing was that it made no outcry, such as he had been accustomed to with the other dogs he had fought.  Beyond a growl or a grunt, the dog took its punishment silently.  And never did it flag in its pursuit of him.

Not that Cherokee was slow.  He could turn and whirl swiftly enough, but White Fang was never there.  Cherokee was puzzled, too.  He had never fought before with a dog with which he could not close.  The desire to close had always been mutual.  But here was a dog that kept at a distance, dancing and dodging here and there and all about.  And when it did get its teeth into him, it did not hold on but let go instantly and darted away again.

But White Fang could not get at the soft underside of the throat.  The bull-dog stood too short, while its massive jaws were an added protection.  White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while Cherokee’s wounds increased.  Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and slashed.  He bled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted.  He continued his plodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled, he came to a full stop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the same time wagging his stump of a tail as an expression of his willingness to fight.

In that moment White Fang was in upon him and out, in passing ripping his trimmed remnant of an ear.  With a slight manifestation of anger, Cherokee took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of the circle White Fang was making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip on White Fang’s throat.  The bull-dog missed by a hair’s-breadth, and cries of praise went up as White Fang doubled suddenly out of danger in the opposite 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 would accomplish his purpose, get the grip that would win the battle.  In the meantime, he accepted all the punishment the other could deal him.  His tufts of ears had become tassels, his neck and shoulders were slashed in a score of places, and his very lips were cut and bleeding—all from these 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 too squat, 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.  He caught Cherokee with head turned away as he whirled more slowly.  His shoulder was exposed.  White Fang drove in upon it: but his own shoulder was high above, while he struck with such force that his momentum carried him on across over the other’s body.  For the first 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 on his back had he not twisted, catlike, still in the air, in the effort to bring 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 teeth closed on his throat.

It was not a good grip, being too low down toward the chest; but Cherokee held on.  White Fang sprang to his feet and tore wildly around, trying to shake off the bull-dog’s body.  It made him frantic, this clinging, dragging weight.  It bound his movements, restricted his freedom.  It was like 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 of his body surged over him.  He was dominated by this mere flesh-love of life.  All intelligence was gone.  It was as though he had no brain.  His reason 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 the expression of its existence.

Round and round he went, whirling and turning and reversing, trying to shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat.  The bull-dog did little but keep his grip.  Sometimes, and rarely, he managed to get his feet 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 dragging around in the whirl of one of White Fang’s mad gyrations.  Cherokee identified himself with his instinct.  He knew that he was doing the right thing by holding on, and there came to him certain blissful thrills of satisfaction.  At such