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Now look here, Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a fightin chance. He aint had no chance yet. Hes just come through hell, an this is the first time hes ben loose. Give m a fair chance, an if he dont deliver the good, Ill kill m myself. There! God knows I dont want to kill him or have him killed, Scott answered, putting away the revolver. Well let him run loose and see what kindness can do for him. And heres a try at it. He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently and soothingly. Better have a club handy, Matt warned. Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fangs confidence. White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending. He had killed this gods dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be expected than some terrible punishment? But in the face of it he was indomitable. He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant, his whole body wary and prepared for anything. The god had no club, so he suffered him to approach quite near. The gods hand had come out and was descending on his head. White Fang shrank together and grew tense as he crouched under it. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew the hands of the gods, their proved mastery, their cunning to hurt. Besides, there was his old antipathy to being touched. He snarled more menacingly, crouched still lower, and still the hand descended. He did not want to bite the hand, and he endured the peril of it until his instinct surged up in him, mastering him with its insatiable yearning for life. Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick enough to avoid any snap or slash. But he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of White Fang, who struck with the certainty and swiftness of a coiled snake. Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand and holding it tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and sprang to his side. White Fang crouched down and backed away, bristling, showing his fangs, his eyes malignant with menace. Now he could expect a beating as fearful as any he had received from Beauty Smith. Here! What are you doing? Scott cried suddenly. Matt had dashed into the cabin and come out with a rifle. Nothin, he said slowly, with a careless calmness that was assumed, only goin to keep that promise I made. I reckon its up to me to kill m as I said Id do. No you dont! Yes I do. Watch me. As Matt had pleaded for White Fang when he had been bitten, it was now Weedon Scotts turn to plead. You said to give him a chance. Well, give it to him. Weve only just started, and we cant quit at the beginning. It served me right, this time. Andlook at him! White Fang, near the corner of the cabin and forty feet away, was snarling with blood-curdling viciousness, not at Scott, but at the dog-musher. Well, Ill be everlastinly gosh-swoggled! was the dog-mushers expression of astonishment. Look at the intelligence of him, Scott went on hastily. He knows the meaning of firearms as well as you do. Hes got intelligence, and weve got to give that intelligence a chance. Put up that gun. |
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