He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, and haunted the front stoop when he remained inside.Through the open door he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor.The grip had been joined by two large canvas bags and a box.Matt was rolling the master's blankets and fur robe inside a small tarpaulin.White Fang whined as he watched the operation.
Later on, two Indians arrived.He watched them closely as they shouldered the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried the bedding and the grip.But White Fang did not follow them.The master was still in the cabin.After a time, Matt returned.The master came to the door and called White Fang inside.
"You poor devil," he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and tapping his spine."I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannot follow.
Now give me a growl -- the last, good, good-by growl."But White Fang refused to growl.Instead, and after a wistful, searching look, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the master's arm and body.
"There she blows!" Matt cried.From the Yukon arose the hoarse bellowing of a river steamboat."You've got to cut it short.Be sure and lock the front door.I'll go out the back.Get a move on!"The two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited for Matt to come around to the front.From inside the door came a low whining and sobbing.Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs.
"You must take good care of him, Matt," Scott said, as they started down the hill."Write and let me know how he gets along.""Sure," the dog-musher answered."But listen to that, will you!"Both men stopped.White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters lie dead.He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in great, heart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering misery, and bursting upward again with rush upon rush of grief.
The Aurora was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and her decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold seekers, all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally to get to the Inside.Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with Matt, who was preparing to go ashore.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?""You just bet I did," was the fervent reply.
White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he was, making no attempt to approach.
"I'll have to take 'm ashore with me."
Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid away from him.The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodged between the legs of a group of men.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.I'm blamed if I can see how he works it out that you're the boss."Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes.
Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly.
"We plumb forgot the window.He's all cut an' gouged underneath.Must 'a' butted clean through it, b'gosh!"But Weedon Scott was not listening.He was thinking rapidly.The Aurora's whistle hooted a final announcement of departure.Men were scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore.Matt loosened the bandana from his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's.Scott grasped the dog-musher's hand.
"Good-by, Matt, old man.About the wolf -- you needn't write.You see, I've...!""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-by.Then he turned and bent over White Fang, standing by his side."Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive head and rubbed the flattening ears.
