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Beauty Smith put his hands behind his back, refusing to touch the proffered money. I aint a-sellin, he said. Oh, yes, you are, the other assured him. Because Im buying. Heres your money. The dogs mine. Beauty Smith, his hands still behind him, began to back away. Scott sprang toward him, drawing his fist back to strike. Beauty Smith cowered down in anticipation of the blow. Ive got my rights, he whimpered. Youve forfeited your rights to own that dog, was the rejoinder. Are you going to take the money? Or do I have to hit you again? All right, Beauty Smith spoke up with the alacrity of fear. But I take the money under protest, he added. The dogs a mint. I aint a-goin to be robbed. A mans got his rights. Correct, Scott answered, passing the money over to him. A mans got his rights. But youre not a man. Youre a beast. Wait till I get back to Dawson, Beauty Smith threatened. Ill have the law on you. If you open your mouth when you get back to Dawson, Ill have you run out of town. Understand? Beauty Smith replied with a grunt. Understand? the other thundered with abrupt fierceness. Yes, Beauty Smith grunted, shrinking away. Yes what? Yes, sir, Beauty Smith snarled. Look out! Hell bite! some one shouted, and a guffaw of laughter went up. Scott turned his back on him, and returned to help the dog-musher, who was working over White Fang. Some of the men were already departing; others stood in groups, looking on and talking. Tim Keenan joined one of the groups. Whos that mug? he asked. Weedon Scott, some one answered. And who is Weedon Scott? the faro-dealer demanded. Oh, one of them crack-a-jack mining experts. Hes in with all the big bugs. If you want to keep out of trouble, youll steer clear of him, thats my talk. Hes all hunky with the officials. The Gold Commissioners a special pal of his. I thought he must be somebody, was the faro-dealers comment. Thats why I kept my hands offen him at the start. |
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