He
sprang away from it, and from a distance studied it suspiciously.
"Hi-yu, Major!" Matt shouted warningly, but too late.
Major had made a spring for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed on
it, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but
quicker than he was White Fang. Major staggered to his feet, but the
blood spouting from his throat reddened the snow in a widening path.
"It's too bad, but it served him right," Scott said hastily.
But Matt's foot had already started on its way to kick White Fang. There
was a leap, a flash of teeth, a sharp exclamation. White Fang, snarling
fiercely, scrambled backward for several yards, while Matt stooped and
investigated his leg.
"He got me all right," he announced, pointing to the torn trousers and
undercloths, and the growing stain of red.
"I told you it was hopeless, Matt," Scott said in a discouraged voice.
"I've thought about it off and on, while not wanting to think of it. But
we've come to it now. It's the only thing to do."
As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver, threw open
the cylinder, and assured himself of its contents.
"Look here, Mr. Scott," Matt objected; "that dog's ben through hell. You
can't expect 'm to come out a white an' shinin' angel. Give 'm time."
"Look at Major," the other rejoined.
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