Beauty Smith slipped the chain from his neck and stepped back.

　　For once White Fang did not make an immediate attack. He stood still,ears pricked forward, alert and curious, surveying the strange animal thatfaced him. He had never seen such a dog before. Tim Keenan shoved thebull-dog forward with a muttered "Go to it." The animal waddled towardthe centre of the circle, short and squat and ungainly. He came to a stopand 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 andblinked at the men who shouted, at the same time wagging his stump of atail good-naturedly. He was not afraid, but merely lazy. Besides, it did notseem to him that it was intended he should fight with the dog he sawbefore him. He was not used to fighting with that kind of dog, and he waswaiting for them to bring on the real dog.

　　Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, fondling him on bothsides of the shoulders with hands that rubbed against the grain of the hairand that made slight, pushing-forward movements. These were so manysuggestions. Also, their effect was irritating, for Cherokee began to growl,very softly, deep down in his throat. There was a correspondence inrhythm between the growls and the movements of the man's hands. Thegrowl rose in the throat with the culmination of each forward-pushingmovement, and ebbed down to start up afresh with the beginning of thenext 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 riseon his neck and across the shoulders. Tim Keenan gave a final shoveforward and stepped back again. As the impetus that carried Cherokeeforward died down, he continued to go forward of his own volition, in aswift, bow-legged run. Then White Fang struck. A cry of startledadmiration went up. He had covered the distance and gone in more like acat than a dog; and with the same cat-like swiftness he had slashed withhis fangs and leaped clear.

　　The bull-dog 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 WhiteFang. The display on both sides, the quickness of the one and thesteadiness of the other, had excited the partisan spirit of the crowd, and themen were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again, and yetagain, White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away untouched, and stillhis strange foe followed after him, without too great haste, not slowly, butdeliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sort of way. There waspurpose in his method - something for him to do that he was intent upondoing and from which nothing could distract him.

　　His whole demeanour, every action, was stamped with this purpose. Itpuzzled White Fang. Never had he seen such a dog. It had no hairprotection. It was soft, and bled easily. There was no thick mat of fur tobaffle White Fang's teeth as they were often baffled by dogs of his ownbreed. Each time that his teeth struck they sank easily into the yieldingflesh, while the animal did not seem able to defend itself. Anotherdisconcerting thing was that it made no outcry, such as he had beenaccustomed to with the other dogs he had fought. Beyond a growl or agrunt, the dog took its punishment silently. And never did it flag in itspursuit 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 neverfought before with a dog with which he could not close. The desire toclose 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 itsteeth into him, it did not hold on but let go instantly and darted awayagain.

　　But White Fang could not get at the soft underside of the throat. Thebull-dog stood too short, while its massive jaws were an added protection.

　　White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while Cherokee's woundsincreased. Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and slashed. Hebled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted. He continued hisplodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled, he came to a fullstop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the same time wagging hisstump of a tail as an expression of his willingness to fight.

　　In that moment White Fang was in upon him and out, in passingripping his trimmed remnant of an ear. With a slight manifestation ofanger, Cherokee took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of thecircle White Fang was making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip onWhite Fang's throat. The bull-dog missed by a hair's-breadth, and cries ofpraise went up as White Fang doubled suddenly out of danger in theopposite direction.

　　The time went by. White Fang still danced on, dodging and doubling,leaping in and out, and ever inflicting damage. And still the bull-dog, withgrim certitude, toiled after him. Sooner or later he would accomplish hispurpose, get the grip that would win the battle. In the meantime, heaccepted all the punishment the other could deal him. His tufts of ears hadbecome tassels, his neck and shoulders were slashed in a score of places,and his very lips were cut and bleeding - all from these lightning snapsthat were beyond his foreseeing and guarding.

　　Time and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off hisfeet; but the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was toosquat, too close to the ground. White Fang tried the trick once too often.

　　The chance came in one of his quick doublings and counter-circlings. Hecaught Cherokee with head turned away as he whirled more slowly. Hisshoulder was exposed. White Fang drove in upon it: but his own shoulderwas high above, while he struck with such force that his momentumcarried him on across over the other's body. For the first time in hisfighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing. His body turned ahalf-somersault in the air, and he would have landed on his back had henot twisted, catlike, still in the air, in the effort to bring his feet to the earth.

　　As it was, he struck heavily on his side. The next instant he was on his feet,but in that instant Cherokee's teeth closed on his throat.

　　It was not a good grip, being too low down toward the chest; butCherokee held on. White Fang sprang to his feet and tore wildly around,trying to shake off the bull-dog's body. It made him frantic, this clinging,dragging weight. It bound his movements, restricted his freedom. It waslike the trap, and all his instinct resented it and revolted against it. It was amad revolt. For several minutes he was to all intents insane. The basic lifethat was in him took charge of him. The will to exist of his body surgedover him. He was dominated by this mere flesh-love of life. Allintelligence was gone. It was as though he had no brain. His reason wasunseated by the blind yearning of the flesh to exist and move, at allhazards to move, to continue to move, for movement was the expressionof its existence.

　　Round and round he went, whirling and turning and reversing, tryingto shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull-dogdid little but keep his grip. Sometimes, and rarely, he managed to get hisfeet to the earth and for a moment to brace himself against White Fang.

　　But the next moment his footing would be lost and he would be draggingaround in the whirl of one of White Fang's mad gyrations. Cherokeeidentified himself with his instinct. He knew that he was doing the rightthing by holding on, and there came to him certain blissful thrills ofsatisfaction. At such moments he even closed his eyes and allowed hisbody to be hurled hither and thither, willy-nilly, careless of any hurt thatmight thereby come to it. That did not count. The grip was the thing, andthe grip he kept.

　　White Fang ceased only when he had tired himself out. He could donothing, and he could not understand. Never, in all his fighting, had thisthing happened. The dogs he had fought with did not fight that way. Withthem it was snap and slash and get away, snap and slash and get away. Helay partly on his side, panting for breath. Cherokee still holding his grip,urged against him, trying to get him over entirely on his side. White Fangresisted, and he could feel the jaws shifting their grip, slightly relaxing andcoming together again in a chewing movement. Each shift brought the gripcloser to his throat. The bull-dog's method was to hold what he had, andwhen opportunity favoured to work in for more. Opportunity favouredwhen White Fang remained quiet. When White Fang struggled, Cherokeewas content merely to hold on.

　　The bulging back of Cherokee's neck was the only portion of his bodythat White Fang's teeth could reach. He got hold toward the base where theneck comes out from the shoulders; but he did not know the chewingmethod of fighting, nor were his jaws adapted to it. He spasmodicallyripped and tore with his fangs for a space. Then a change in their positiondiverted him. The bull-dog had managed to roll him over on his back, andstill hanging on to his throat, was on top of him. Like a cat, White Fangbowed his hind- quarters in, and, with the feet digging into his enemy'sabdomen above him, he began to claw with long tearing-strokes. Cherokeemight well have been disembowelled had he not quickly pivoted on hisgrip and got his body off of White Fang's and at right angles to it.

　　There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself, and asinexorable. Slowly it shifted up along the jugular. All that saved WhiteFang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur thatcovered it. This served to form a large roll in Cherokee's mouth, the fur ofwhich well-nigh defied his teeth. But bit by bit, whenever the chanceoffered, he was getting more of the loose skin and fur in his mouth. Theresult was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. The latter's breathwas drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the moments went by.

　　It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers ofCherokee waxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds. White Fang'sbackers were correspondingly depressed, and refused bets of ten to oneand twenty to one, though one man was rash enough to close a wager offifty to one. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring andpointed his finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively andscornfully. This produced the desired effect. White Fang went wild withrage. He called up his reserves of strength, and gained his feet. As hestrugg............