Beauty Smith slipped the chain from White Fang’s neck and stepped back. For once, White Fang did not launch an immediate attack. Instead, he stood perfectly still, his ears pricked forward as he surveyed the strange, squat creature facing him. He had never seen a dog like this before. Tim Keenan, the owner of the newcomer, shoved his animal forward with a muttered command. The bulldog, an ungainly, bow-legged beast named Cherokee, waddled toward the center of the ring and blinked sleepily at White Fang.
Cherokee seemed remarkably indifferent to the situation. Despite the cries from the crowd urging him to "eat 'em up," he merely wagged his stump of a tail. He wasn't afraid; he was simply waiting for a "real" dog to be brought out. However, after Tim Keenan rubbed his shoulders in a specific, irritating rhythm, the bulldog began to growl—a low, rhythmic sound that rose and fell with his master’s movements.
The hair on White Fang’s neck bristled. When Keenan gave a final shove, Cherokee began a swift, heavy run. White Fang struck instantly. With cat-like speed, he slashed at the bulldog's neck and leaped clear before the larger dog could even react.
A rip appeared behind Cherokee’s ear, but he didn't bark or snarl. He simply turned and followed White Fang with a grim, businesslike determination. This puzzled White Fang. This dog had no thick fur to protect its neck; his teeth sank easily into the yielding flesh, yet the bulldog seemed unaffected by the pain. No matter how many times White Fang lashed out, Cherokee continued his slow, relentless pursuit.
The problem was Cherokee’s height. He was so low to the ground that White Fang could not reach the soft underside of his throat. Furthermore, Cherokee refused to play the usual game of "snap and let go." He wanted to close the distance and hold on. White Fang danced and doubled back, inflicting wound after wound, but the bulldog followed with terrifying certitude.
Eventually, White Fang’s confidence led to a fatal mistake. He attempted to knock Cherokee off his feet by charging his shoulder, but he underestimated the bulldog’s low center of gravity. White Fang tripped, his momentum sent him tumbling, and before he could recover, Cherokee’s teeth clamped firmly onto his throat.
It wasn't a perfect grip, but Cherokee held on with the weight of his entire fifty-pound body. White Fang was plunged into a state of blind panic. To him, this clinging weight felt like a trap, and every wild instinct in his body revolted. He whirled in frantic circles, trying to shake the bulldog off, but Cherokee simply closed his eyes and hung on.
Exhausted and unable to breathe, White Fang eventually collapsed into the snow. Cherokee began a "chewing" movement, shifting his jaws slightly to move the grip higher toward the jugular. It was a slow, inevitable death.
Seeing his investment about to perish, the "abysmal brute" in Beauty Smith took over. In a fit of cowardly rage, he began to kick the helpless White Fang. The crowd hissed, but no one moved to stop him—until two men on a dogsled arrived.
One of them, a tall, young man with sharp gray eyes, forced his way through the crowd. Seeing Beauty Smith kick the dog again, the newcomer landed a smashing blow to the man’s face, sending him flying into the snow.
"You cowards! You beasts!" the young man shouted, his voice trembling with righteous anger.
The newcomer, Weedon Scott, ignored the grumbling crowd and knelt beside the dogs. He and his companion, Matt, tried to pry Cherokee’s jaws open by hand, but it was impossible. Even as Scott struck him, the bulldog wagged his tail, convinced he was only doing his duty. Finally, Scott had to use the muzzle of his revolver as a lever, slowly prying the iron jaws apart while Matt carefully pulled White Fang’s mangled neck free.
White Fang lay limp in the snow, his tongue protruding, looking more dead than alive. Beauty Smith, cowering and sniffing, approached to claim his property, but Scott turned on him fiercely.
"I'm taking this dog," Scott declared, counting out a hundred and fifty dollars.
"He’s not for sale!" Smith whimpered, though he backed away as Scott raised a fist.
"You've forfeited your rights," Scott snapped. "Take the money, or I’ll hit you again."
Terrified, Beauty Smith accepted the payment under protest, muttering about the law. Scott ignored him, focusing his attention on the wounded animal. As the crowd dispersed, a local gambler whispered to his companion that the newcomer was Weedon Scott, a high-ranking mining expert with powerful friends.
"I thought he was someone important," the man remarked. "That’s why I didn't interfere."
In the blood-stained snow, White Fang’s life hung in the balance, but for the first time, he was in the hands of a man who was not a "mad god."