The dog-musher surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on the snow
in the circle of his blood and was plainly in the last gasp.
"Served 'm right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take
White Fang's meat, an' he's dead-O. That was to be expected. I wouldn't
give two whoops in hell for a dog that wouldn't fight for his own meat."
"But look at yourself, Matt. It's all right about the dogs, but we must
draw the line somewhere."
"Served me right," Matt argued stubbornly. "What'd I want to kick 'm
for? You said yourself that he'd done right. Then I had no right to
kick 'm."
"It would be a mercy to kill him," Scott insisted. "He's untamable."
"Now look here, Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a fightin' chance. He
ain't had no chance yet. He's just come through hell, an' this is the
first time he's ben loose. Give 'm a fair chance, an' if he don't
deliver the goods, I'll kill 'm myself. There!"
"God knows I don't want to kill him or have him killed," Scott answered,
putting away the revolver. "We'll let him run loose and see what
kindness can do for him. And here's a try at it."
He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently and
soothingly.
"Better have a club handy," Matt warned.
Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fang's confidence.
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