It had taken Cherokee a long
time to shift that grip upward, and this had also tended further to clog
his jaws with fur and skin-fold.
In the meantime, the abysmal brute in Beauty Smith had been rising into
his brain and mastering the small bit of sanity that he possessed at
best. When he saw White Fang's eyes beginning to glaze, he knew beyond
doubt that the fight was lost. Then he broke loose. He sprang upon
White Fang and began savagely to kick him. There were hisses from the
crowd and cries of protest, but that was all. While this went on, and
Beauty Smith continued to kick White Fang, there was a commotion in the
crowd. The tall young newcomer was forcing his way through, shouldering
men right and left without ceremony or gentleness. When he broke through
into the ring, Beauty Smith was just in the act of delivering another
kick. All his weight was on one foot, and he was in a state of unstable
equilibrium. At that moment the newcomer's fist landed a smashing blow
full in his face. Beauty Smith's remaining leg left the ground, and his
whole body seemed to lift into the air as he turned over backward and
struck the snow. The newcomer turned upon the crowd.
"You cowards!" he cried. "You beasts!"
He was in a rage himself--a sane rage. His grey eyes seemed metallic and
steel-like as they flashed upon the crowd.
Pages:
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223