Grey Beaver laughed and nodded approval. Beauty Smith
tightened the thong again, and White Fang crawled limply and dizzily to
his feet.
He did not rush a second time. One smash from the club was sufficient to
convince him that the white god knew how to handle it, and he was too
wise to fight the inevitable. So he followed morosely at Beauty Smith's
heels, his tail between his legs, yet snarling softly under his breath.
But Beauty Smith kept a wary eye on him, and the club was held always
ready to strike.
At the fort Beauty Smith left him securely tied and went in to bed. White
Fang waited an hour. Then he applied his teeth to the thong, and in the
space of ten seconds was free. He had wasted no time with his teeth.
There had been no useless gnawing. The thong was cut across, diagonally,
almost as clean as though done by a knife. White Fang looked up at the
fort, at the same time bristling and growling. Then he turned and
trotted back to Grey Beaver's camp. He owed no allegiance to this
strange and terrible god. He had given himself to Grey Beaver, and to
Grey Beaver he considered he still belonged.
But what had occurred before was repeated--with a difference. Grey
Beaver again made him fast with a thong, and in the morning turned him
over to Beauty Smith. And here was where the difference came in.
Pages:
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201