Table of Contents
"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.
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.