It was in the air. White Fang sensed the coming calamity, even beforethere was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in upon himthat a change was impending. He knew not how nor why, yet he got hisfeel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves. In ways subtler thanthey knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that haunted thecabin-stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin, knew whatwent on inside their brains.

　　"Listen to that, will you!" the dug-musher exclaimed at supper one night.

　　Weedon Scott listened. Through the door came a low, anxious whine,like a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came thelong sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still insideand had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight.

　　"I do believe that wolf's on to you," the dog-musher said.

　　Weedon Scott looked across at his companion with eyes that almostpleaded, though this was given the lie by his words.

　　"What the devil can I do with a wolf in California?" he demanded.

　　"That's what I say," Matt answered. "What the devil can you do with awolf in California?"But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott. The other seemed to be judginghim in a non-committal sort of way.

　　"White man's dogs would have no show against him," Scott went on.

　　"He'd kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damaged suits, theauthorities would take him away from me and electrocute him.""He's a downright murderer, I know," was the dog-musher's comment.

　　Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.

　　"It would never do," he said decisively.

　　"It would never do!" Matt concurred. "Why you'd have to hire a man'specially to take care of 'm."The other suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the silencethat followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and thenthe long, questing sniff.

　　"There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you," Matt said.

　　The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I knowmy own mind and what's best!""I'm agreein' with you, only . . . ""Only what?" Scott snapped out.

　　"Only . . . " the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind andbetrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all-fired hetup about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't know your own mind."Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said moregently: "You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and that's what'sthe trouble.""Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along,"he broke out after another pause.

　　"I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employerwas not quite satisfied with him.

　　"But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin'

　　is what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently.

　　"It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answered, with a mournful shake of the head.

　　Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fangsaw the fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it.

　　Also, there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphereof the cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. Here wasindubitable evidence. White Fang had already scented it. He now reasonedit. His god was preparing for another flight. And since he had not takenhim with him before, so, now, he could look to be left behind.

　　That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in hispuppy days, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find itvanished and naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver'stepee, so now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe.

　　Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed.

　　"He's gone off his food again," Matt remarked from his bunk.

　　There was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, and a stir of blankets.

　　"From the way he cut up the other time you went away, I wouldn'twonder this time but what he died."The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably.

　　"Oh, shut up!" Scott cried out through the darkness. "You nag worse than a woman.""I'm agreein' with you," the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scottwas not quite sure whether or not the other had snickered.

　　The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even morepronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, andhaunted the front stoo............