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But the moment before the rifle came to a level on him, he leaped sidewise behind the corner of the cabin. Matt stood staring along the sights at the empty space of snow which had been occupied by White Fang. The dog-musher put the rifle down solemnly, then turned and looked at his employer. "I agree with you, Mr. Scott. That dog's too intelligent to kill."
You can't expect 'm to come out a white an' shinin' angel. Give 'm time." "Look at Major," the other rejoined. The dog-musher surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on the snow in the circle of his blood and was plainly in the last gasp. "Served 'm right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take White Fang's meat, an' he's dead-O. That was to be expected.
Through the door came a low, anxious whine, like a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came the long sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside and had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight. "I do believe that wolf's on to you," the dog-musher said.
The dog-musher secured a club and went over to the chained animal. White Fang watched the club after the manner of a caged lion watching the whip of its trainer. "See 'm keep his eye on that club," Matt said. "That's a good sign. He's no fool. Don't dast tackle me so long as I got that club handy. He's not clean crazy, sure."
He represented most of a northlander's ideals and dreams of what a sled-dog should be, plus certain other qualities that came to him from his breeding, and that no dog-musher would have even hoped for in a sled-dog: his immense size, for example, and his wonderful dignity and grace of form and action.
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.
"What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?" "The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about him." Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank. "He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip 'm in warm weather!" The gang-plank was hauled in, and the Aurora swung out from the bank. Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye.
"But tha's not moose-meat mushed them dogs on so fast an' trim to-day. No, sir. Tha's Jan bes' dog-musher in 'Merica to-day, now I'm tellin' you. He don' got Beel to upset things to-day, and, by gar! you see how he make them other dogs mush. You don't need no wheep, don't need no musher, so's you got Jan a-leadin', now I'm tellin' you."
I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the trouble." "Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," he broke out after another pause. "I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer was not quite satisfied with him. "But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' is what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently.
But Matt's hand went limp in the other's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on something behind him. Scott turned to see. Sitting on the deck several feet away and watching wistfully was White Fang. The dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken accents. Scott could only look in wonder. "Did you lock the front door?" Matt demanded. The other nodded, and asked, "How about the back?"
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