Beauty Smith strode into camp and stood over White Fang. He snarled
softly up at the thing of fear, watching keenly the deportment of the
hands. One hand extended outward and began to descend upon his head. His
soft snarl grew tense and harsh. The hand continued slowly to descend,
while he crouched beneath it, eyeing it malignantly, his snarl growing
shorter and shorter as, with quickening breath, it approached its
culmination. Suddenly he snapped, striking with his fangs like a snake.
The hand was jerked back, and the teeth came together emptily with a
sharp click. Beauty Smith was frightened and angry. Grey Beaver clouted
White Fang alongside the head, so that he cowered down close to the earth
in respectful obedience.
White Fang's suspicious eyes followed every movement. He saw Beauty
Smith go away and return with a stout club. Then the end of the thong
was given over to him by Grey Beaver. Beauty Smith started to walk away.
The thong grew taut. White Fang resisted it. Grey Beaver clouted him
right and left to make him get up and follow. He obeyed, but with a
rush, hurling himself upon the stranger who was dragging him away. Beauty
Smith did not jump away. He had been waiting for this. He swung the
club smartly, stopping the rush midway and smashing White Fang down upon
the ground.
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