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Michael, a prisoner in the bush, hanging head-downward in the manzanita from his loins squeezed in the fork, and struggling vainly, could not come to his defence. The man's first kick, aimed at Harley's face, he blocked with his forearm; and, before the man could make a second kick, Jerry erupted on the scene. Nor did he need encouragement or direction from his love-master.
But he did not have it in him to be angry with the love-master, and when that god elected to laugh at him in a good-natured, bantering way, he was nonplussed. He could feel the pricking and stinging of the old anger as it strove to rise up in him, but it strove against love. He could not be angry; yet he had to do something. At first he was dignified, and the master laughed the harder.
Ducking, turning, doubling, he slid about the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him. But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt obedience. "Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months," the dog-musher muttered resentfully. "And you you ain't never fed 'm after them first days of gettin' acquainted.
The dog-musher laid his hand on Beauty Smith's shoulder and faced him to the right about. No word needed to be spoken. Beauty Smith started. In the meantime the love-master was patting White Fang and talking to him. "Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn't have it! Well, well, he made a mistake, didn't he?" "Must 'a' thought he had hold of seventeen devils," the dog-musher sniggered.
In the Wild he had hunted live meat that was infinitely timid, and he knew the advantage of surprise. The strange god paused at the foot of the great staircase and listened, and White Fang was as dead, so without movement was he as he watched and waited. Up that staircase the way led to the love-master and to the love- master's dearest possessions. White Fang bristled, but waited.
He was bewildered by the tremendous and endless rush and movement of things. As never before, he felt his dependence on the love-master, close at whose heels he followed, no matter what happened never losing sight of him.
"It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answered, with a mournful shake of the head. Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. Also, there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. Here was indubitable evidence.
Then the clothes-bags were taken into the carriage, the strange gods and the love-master followed, and White Fang pursued, now running vigilantly behind, now bristling up to the running horses and warning them that he was there to see that no harm befell the god they dragged so swiftly across the earth.
It was the mandate of his instinct that that head must be free. And now, with the love-master, his snuggling was the deliberate act of putting himself into a position of hopeless helplessness. It was an expression of perfect confidence, of absolute self-surrender, as though he said: "I put myself into thy hands. Work thou thy will with me."
You clean swindled Beauty Smith on top of pushin' his face in with your fist." A recrudescence of anger glinted in Weedon Scott's grey eyes, and he muttered savagely, "The beast!" In the late spring a great trouble came to White Fang. Without warning, the love-master disappeared. There had been warning, but White Fang was unversed in such things and did not understand the packing of a grip.
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