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"Then get in here and break this grip."
"Well, stranger," the other drawled irritatingly, "I don't mind telling you that's something I ain't worked out for myself. I don't know how to turn the trick."
"Then get out of the way," was the reply, "and don't bother me. I'm busy."
Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no further notice of his presence. He had managed to get the muzzle in between the jaws on one side, and was trying to get it out between the jaws on the other side. This accomplished, he pried gently and carefully, loosening the jaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time, extricated White Fang's mangled neck.
"Stand by to receive your dog," was Scott's peremptory order to Cherokee's owner.
The faro–dealer stooped down obediently and got a firm hold on Cherokee.
"Now!" Scott warned, giving the final pry.
The dogs were drawn apart, the bull–dog struggling vigorously.
"Take him away," Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan dragged Cherokee back into the crowd.
White Fang made several ineffectual efforts to get up. Once he gained his feet, but his legs were too weak to sustain him, and he slowly wilted and sank back into the snow. His eyes were half closed, and the surface of them was glassy. His jaws were apart, and through them the tongue protruded, draggled and limp. To all appearances he looked like a dog that had been strangled to death. Matt examined him.
"Just about all in," he announced; "but he's breathin' all right."
Beauty Smith had regained his feet and come over to look at White Fang.
"Matt, how much is a good sled–dog worth?" Scott asked.
The dog–musher, still on his knees and stooped over White Fang, calculated for a moment.
"Three hundred dollars," he answered.