Beauty Smith slipped the chain from his neck and stepped back.
For once 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 bulldog 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 cat than a dog; and with the same catlike swiftness he had slashed with his fangs and leaped clear.
The bulldog 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 demeanor, 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 bulldog 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 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 bulldog 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 bulldog, 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 those lightning snaps that were beyond his foreseeing and guarding.
