ms, exposing the bestial face of Beauty Smith. The dog-musher let go
of him precipitately, with action similar to that of a man who has picked
up live fire. Beauty Smith blinked in the lamplight and looked about
him. He caught sight of White Fang and terror rushed into his face.

At the same moment Matt noticed two objects lying in the snow. He held
the lamp close to them, indicating them with his toe for his employer's
benefit--a steel dog-chain and a stout club.

Weedon Scott saw and nodded. Not a word was spoken. The dog-musher laid
his hand on Beauty Smith's shoulder and faced him to the right about. No
word needed to be spoken. Beauty Smith started.

In the meantime the love-master was patting White Fang and talking to
him.

"Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn't have it! Well, well, he made
a mistake, didn't he?"

"Must 'a' thought he had hold of seventeen devils," the dog-musher
sniggered.

White Fang, still wrought up and bristling, growled and growled, the hair
slowly lying down, the crooning note remote and dim, but growing in his
throat.

PART V

CHAPTER I--THE LONG TRAIL

It was in the air. White Fang sensed the coming calamity, even before
there was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in upon
him that a change was impending. He knew not how nor why, yet he got his
feel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves. In ways subtler
than they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that
haunted the cabin-stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin,
knew what went on inside their brains.

"Listen to that, will you!" the dug-musher exclaimed at supper one night.

Weedon Scott listened. Through the door came a low, anxious whine, like
a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came the
long sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside
and had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight.

"I do believe that wolf's on to you," the dog-musher said.

Weedon Scott looked across at his companion with eyes that almost
pleaded, though this was given the lie by his words.

"What the devil can I do with a wolf in California?" he demanded.

"That's what I say," Matt answered. "What the devil can you do with a
wolf in California?"

But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott. The other seemed to be judging
him in a non-committal sort of way.

"White man's dogs would have no show ag