white fang(白牙)-第37节
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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。
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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
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White Fang
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
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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； bu
