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 against him," Scott went on.

"He'd kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damaged

suits, the authorities would take him away from me and electrocute

him."



"He's a downright murderer, I know," was the dog-musher's comment.



Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.



"It would never do," he said decisively.



"It would never do!" Matt concurred. "Why you'd have to hire a man

'specially to take care of 'm."



The other suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the

silence that followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the

door and then the long, questing sniff.



"There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you," Matt said.



The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I

know my own mind and what's best!"



"I'm agreein' with you, only . . . "



"Only what?" Scott snapped out.



"Only . . . " the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind

and betrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so

all-fired het up about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you

didn't know your own mind."



Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more

gently: "You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and

that's what's the trouble."



"Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog

along," he broke out after another pause.



"I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer

was not quite satisfied with him.



"But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're

goin' is what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently.



"It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answered, with a mournful shake of

the head.



Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw

the fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into

it. Also, there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid

atmosphere of the cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and

unrest. Here was indubitable evidence. White Fang had already

scented it. He now reasoned it. His god was preparing for another

flight. And since he had not taken him with him before, so, now,

he could look to be left behind.



That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in his

puppy days, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find

it vanished and naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey

Beaver's tepee, so now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and

told to them his woe.



Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed.



"He's gone off his food again," Matt remarked from his bunk.



There was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, and a stir of blankets.



"From the way he cut up the other time you went away, I wouldn't

wonder this time but what he died."



The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably.



"Oh, shut up!" Scott cried out through the darkness. "You nag

worse than a woman."



"I'm agreein' with you," the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scott

was not quite sure whether or not the other had snickered.



The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even more

pronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the

cabin, and haunted the front stoop when he remained inside.

Through the open door he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the

floor. The grip had been joined by two large canvas bags and a

box. Matt was rolling the master's blankets and fur robe inside a

small tarpaulin. White Fang whined as he watched the operation.



Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they

shouldered the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who

carried the bedding and the grip. But White Fang did not follow

them. The master was still in the cabin. After a time, Matt

returned. The master came to the door and called White Fang

inside.



"You poor devil," he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and

tapping his spine. "I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you

cannot follow. Now give me a growl - the last, good, good-bye

growl."



But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful,

searching look, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight

between the master's arm and body.



"There she blows!" Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the hoarse

bellowing of a river steamboat. "You've got to cut it short. Be

sure and lock the front door. I'll go out the back. Get a move

on!"



The two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited

for Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a

low whining and sobbing. Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs.



"You must take good care of him, Matt," Scott said, as they started

down the hill. "Write and let me know how he gets along."



"Sure," the dog-musher answered. "But listen to that, will you!"



Both men stopped. White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their

masters lie dead. He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting

upward in great heart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering

misery, and bursting upward again with a rush upon rush of grief.



The AURORA was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and

her decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold

seekers, all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been

originally to get to the Inside. Near the gang-plank, Scott was

shaking hands with Matt, who was preparing to go ashore. But

Matt's hand went limp in the other's grasp as his gaze shot past

and remained fixed on something behind him. Scott turned to see.

Sitting on the deck several feet away and watching wistfully was

White Fang,



The dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken accents. Scott could

only look in wonder.



"Did you lock the front door?" Matt demanded. The other nodded,

and asked, "How about the back?"



"You just bet I did," was the fervent reply.



White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he

was, making no attempt to approach.



"I'll have to take 'm ashore with me."



Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid

away from him. The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang

dodged between the legs of a group of men. Ducking, turning,

doubling, he slid about the deck, eluding the other's efforts to

capture him.



But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt

obedience.



"Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months," the dog-

musher muttered resentfully. "And you - you ain't never fed 'm

after them first days of gettin' acquainted. I'm blamed if I can

see how he works it out that you're the boss."



Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and

pointed out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the

eyes.



Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly.



"We plump forgot the window. He's all cut an' gouged underneath.

Must 'a' butted clean through it, b'gosh!"



But Weedon Scott was not listening. He was thinking rapidly. The

AURORA'S whistle hooted a final announcement of departure. Men

were scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the

bandana from his own neck and started to put it around White

Fang's. Scott grasped the dog-musher's hand.



"Good-bye, Matt, old man. About the wolf-you needn't write. You

see, I've . . . !"



"What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?"



"The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you

about him."



Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank.



"He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip

'm in warm weather!"



The gang-plank was hauled in, and the AURORA swang out from the

bank. Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye. Then he turned and bent

over White Fang, standing by his side.



"Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive

head and rubbed the flattening ears.

****

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