Shouts of
applause went up for the victor, and there were many cries of "Cherokee!"
"Cherokee!" To this Cherokee responded by vigorous wagging of the stump
of his tail. But the clamour of approval did not distract him. There
was no sympathetic relation between his tail and his massive jaws. The
one might wag, but the others held their terrible grip on White Fang's
throat.
It was at this time that a diversion came to the spectators. There was a
jingle of bells. Dog-mushers' cries were heard. Everybody, save Beauty
Smith, looked apprehensively, the fear of the police strong upon them.
But they saw, up the trail, and not down, two men running with sled and
dogs. They were evidently coming down the creek from some prospecting
trip. At sight of the crowd they stopped their dogs and came over and
joined it, curious to see the cause of the excitement. The dog-musher
wore a moustache, but the other, a taller and younger man, was smooth-
shaven, his skin rosy from the pounding of his blood and the running in
the frosty air.
White Fang had practically ceased struggling. Now and again he resisted
spasmodically and to no purpose. He could get little air, and that
little grew less and less under the merciless grip that ever tightened.
In spite of his armour of fur, the great vein of his throat would have
long since been torn open, had not the first grip of the bull-dog been so
low down as to be practically on the chest.
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