White Fang by Jack London - Part 4, Chapter 4 - The Clinging Death

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Part four, Chapter four of White Fang. This LibriVox recording
is in the public domain and is read by Mark
Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. White Fang by Jack London,
Part four, Chapter four, The Clinging Death Beauty. Smith slipped

(00:23):
the chain from his neck and stepped back. For once,
White Fang did not make an immediate attack. He stood still,
ears pricked forward, alert and curious, surveying the strange animal
that faced him. He had never seen such a dog before.
Tim Keenan shoved the bulldog ford with a muttered go
to it. The animal waddled towards the center of the circle,

(00:47):
short and squat and ungainly. He came to a stop
and blinked across at White Fang. There were cries from
the crowd of go to 'm Cherokee, sick um, Cherokee,
eat him up. But Cherokee did not seem anxious to fight.
He turned his head and blinked at the men, who
shouted at the same time, wagging his stump of a

(01:09):
tail good naturedly. He was not afraid, but merely lazy. Besides,
it did not seem to him that it was intended
he should fight with the dog he saw before him.
He was not used to fighting with that kind of dog,
and he was waiting for them to bring on the
real dog. Tim Keedon, stepped in and bent over Cherokee,

(01:29):
fondling him on both sides of the shoulders with hands
that rubbed against the grain of the hair, and that
made slight pushing forward movements. These were so many suggestions. Also,
their effect was irritating, for Cherokee began to growl very
softly deep down in his throat. There was a correspondence
and rhythm between the growls and the movements of the

(01:51):
man's hands. The growl rose in the throat with the
culmination of each forward pushing movement, and ebbed down to
start up afresh with a big beginning of the next movement.
The end of each movement was the accent of the rhythm,
the movement ending abruptly, and the growling rising with a jerk.
This was not without its effect on White Fang. The

(02:12):
hair began to rise on his neck and across the shoulders.
Tim Keening gave a final shove forward and stepped back again.
As the impetus that carried Cherokee forward died down, he
continued to go forward of his own volition in a swift,
bow legged run. Then White Fang struck. A cry of
startled admiration went up. He had covered the distance and

(02:36):
gone in more like a cat than a dog, and
with the same catlike swiftness, he had slashed with his
fangs and leaped clear. The bulldog was bleeding back of
one ear from a rip in his thick neck. He
gave no sign, did not even snarl, but he turned
and followed after White Fang. The display on both sides,

(02:56):
the quickness of the one and the steadiness of the other,
had excited the partisan spirit of the crowd, and the
men were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again
and yet again, White Fang sprang in, slashed and got
away untouched. And still his strange foe followed after him
without too great haste, not slowly, but deliberately and determinedly,

(03:21):
in a businesslike sort of way. There was purpose in
his method, something for him to do that he was
intent upon doing, and from which nothing could distract him.
His whole demeanor, every action was stamped with this purpose.
It puzzled White Fang. Never had he seen such a dog.
It had no hair protection. It was soft and bled easily.

(03:44):
There was no thick mat of fur to baffle White
Fang's teeth, as they were often baffled by dogs of
his own breed. Each time that his teeth struck, they
sank easily into the yielding flesh, while the animal did
not seem able to defend itself. Another disconcerting thing was
that it made no outcry, such as he had been
accustomed to with the other dogs he had fought. Beyond

(04:08):
a growl or a grunt, the dog took its punishment silently,
and never did it flag in its pursuit of him.
Not that Cherokee was slow. He could turn in whirls
swiftly enough, but White Fang was never there. Cherokee was
puzzled too. He had never fought before with a dog
with which he could not close. The desire to close

(04:30):
had always been mutual. But here was a dog that
kept at a distance, dancing and dodging here and there
and all about. And when it did get its teeth
into him, it did not hold on, but let go
instantly and darted away again. But White Fang could not
get at the soft underside of the throat. The bulldog

(04:50):
stood too short while its massive jaws were an added protection.
White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while Cherokee's wounds
in increased. Both sides of his neck and head were
ripped and slashed. He bled freely but showed no signs
of being disconcerted. He continued his plotting pursuit, though once

(05:12):
for the moment baffled. He came to a full stop
and blinked at the men who looked on, at the
same time, wagging his stump of a tail as an
expression of his willingness to fight. In that moment, White
Fang was in upon him and out in passing, ripping
his trimmed remnant of an ear. With a slight manifestation
of anger, Cherokee took up the pursuit again, running on

(05:35):
the inside of the circle white Fang was making and
striving to fasten his deadly grip on Whitefang's throat. The
bulldog missed by a hair's breath, and cries of praise
went up as White Fang doubled, suddenly out of danger
in the opposite direction. The time went by, White Fang
still danced on, dodging and doubling, leaping in and out

(05:57):
an ever inflicting damage, and still the bulldog with grim
certitude toiled after him. Sooner or later he would accomplish
his purpose, get the grip that would win the battle.
In the meantime, he accepted all the punishment of the
other could deal him. His tufts of ears had become tassels,
his neck and shoulders were slashed in a score of places,

(06:20):
and his very lips were cut and bleeding, all from
these lightning snaps that were beyond his foreseeing and guarding.
Time and again, White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee
off his feet, but the difference in their height was
too great. Cherokee was too squat, too close to the ground.
White Fang tried the trick once too often. The chance

(06:43):
came in one of his quick doublings and counter circlings.
He caught Cherokee with head turned away. As he whirled
more slowly, his shoulder was exposed. White Fang drove in
upon it, but his own shoulder was high above while
he struck with such force that his momentum carried him
off across the other's body. For the first time in

(07:03):
his fighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing.
His body turned a half somersault in the air, and
he would have landed on his back had he not
twisted catlike still in the air in the effort to
bring his feet to the earth. As it was, he
struck heavily on his side. The next instant he was
on his feet, but in that instant, Cherokee's teeth closed

(07:26):
on his throat. It was not a good grip, being
too low down toward the chest, but Cherokee held on
white fang, sprang to his feet and tore wildly about,
trying to shake off the bulldog's body. It made him frantic,
this clinging, dragging weight. It bound his movements and restricted
his freedom. It was like the trap, and all his

(07:49):
instinct resented it and revolted against it. It was a
mad revolt. For several minutes, he was to all intents insane.
The basic life that was in him took charge of him.
The will to exist of his body surged over him.
He was dominated by this mere flesh love of life.
All intelligence was gone. It was as though he had

(08:11):
no brain. His reason was unseated by the blind yearning
of the flesh to exist and move at all hazards,
to move, to continue to move, for movement was the
expression of his existence. Round and round he went, whirling
and turning and reversing, trying to shake off the fifty
pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull dog

(08:33):
did little but keep his grip. Sometimes and rarely he
managed to get his feet to the earth and for
a moment to brace himself against White Fang, But the
next moment his footing would be lost, and he would
be dragging around in the whirl of one of Whitefang's
mad gyrations. Cherokee identified himself with this instinct. He knew

(08:53):
that he was doing the right thing by holding on,
and there came to him certain blissful thrills of satisfaction.
At such moments, he even closed his eyes and allowed
his body to be hurled hither and thither, willy nilly,
careless of any hurt that might thereby come to it.
That did not count. The grip was the thing, and

(09:14):
the grip he kept. White Fang seized only when he
had tired himself out. He could do nothing, and he
could not understand. Never, in all his fighting had this
thing happened. The dogs he had fought with did not
fight that way. With them, it was snap and slashing,
get away, snap and slashing, get away. He lay partly

(09:38):
on his side, panting for breath. Jerokee, still holding his grip,
urged against him, trying to get him over entirely on
his side. White Fang resisted, and he could feel the
jaws shifting their grip slightly, relaxing, and coming together again
in a chewing movement. Each shift brought the grip closer

(09:58):
to his throat. The bullet Dog's method was to hold
what he had, and when opportunity favored, to work in
for more. Opportunity favored When White Fang remained quiet. When
White Fang struggled, Cherokee was content merely to hold on.
The bulging back of Cherokee's neck was the only portion
of his body that Whitefang's teeth could reach. He got

(10:21):
hold toward the base where the neck comes out from
the shoulders, but did not know the chewing method of fighting,
nor were his jaws adapted to it. He spasmodically ripped
and tore with his fangs for a space, then a
change in their position diverted him. The bulldog had managed
to roll him over on his back and still hanging

(10:41):
on to his throat, was on top of him like
a cat. Whitefang bowed his hind quarters in, and with
the feet digging into his enemy's abdomen above him, he
began to claw with long, tearing strokes. Cherokee might well
have been disemboweled had he not quickly pivoted on his
grip and got his body off of White Fang's and

(11:02):
at right angles to it. There was no escaping that grip.
It was like fate itself, and as inexorable. Slowly it
shifted up along the jugular. All that saved White Fang
from death was the loose skin of his neck and
the thick fur that covered it. This served to form
a large roll in Cherokee's mouth, the fur of which

(11:24):
well nigh defied his teeth. But bit by bit, whenever
the chance offered, he was getting more of the loose
skin and fur in his mouth. The result was that
he was slowly throttling White Fang. The latter's breath was
drawn with greater and greater difficulty. As the moments went by,
it began to look as though the battle were over.

(11:46):
The backers of Cherokee waxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds.
White Fang's backers were correspondingly depressed and refused bets of
ten to one and twenty to one, though one man
was rash enough to close a wager of fifty to one.
This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into
the ring and pointed his finger at White Fang. Then

(12:09):
he began to laugh derisively and scornfully. This produced the
desired effect. White Fang went wild with rage. He called
up his reserves of strength and gained his feet as
he struggled around the ring, the fifty pounds of his foe,
ever dragging on his throat. His anger passed on into panic.

(12:30):
The basic life of him dominated him again, and his
intelligence fled before the will of his flesh to live,
round and round and back again. Stumbling and falling and
rising even uprearing at times on his hind legs, and
lifting his foe clear of the earth. He struggled vainly
to shake off the clinging death. At last he fell

(12:52):
toppling backward, exhausted, and the bulldog promptly shifted his grip,
getting in closer, mangling more and more of the fur
folded flesh throttling White Fang more severely than ever. Shouts
of applause went up for the victor, and there were
many cries of Cherokee, jerokee. To this. Cherokee responded by

(13:14):
vigorous wagging of the stump of his tail, but the
clamor of approval did not distract him. There was no
sympathetic relation between his tail and his massive jaws. The
one might wag, but the others held their terrible grip
on White Fang's throat. It was at this time that
a diversion came to the spectators. There was a jingle

(13:35):
of bells, dog musher's cries were heard. Everybody save Beauty Smith,
looked apprehensively, the fear of the police strong upon them.
But they saw up the trail and not down, two
men running with sled and dogs. They were evidently coming
down the creek from some prospecting trip. At sight of
the crowd, they stopped their dogs and came over and

(13:57):
joined it, curious to see the cause of the excitement.
The dog musher wore a mustache, but the other, a
taller and younger man, was smooth shaven, his skin rosy
from the pounding of his blood. And the running. In
the frosty air, White Fang had practically ceased Struggling now
and again he resisted, spasmodically, and to no purpose. He

(14:20):
could get little air, and that little grew less and
less under the merciless grip that ever tightened. In spite
of his armor of fur. The great vein of his
throat would have long since been torn open, had not
the first grip of the bulldog been so low down
as to be practically on the chest. It had taken
Cherokee a long time to shift that grip upward, and

(14:42):
this had also tended further to clog his jaws with
fur and skin fold In the meantime, the abysmal brute
and Beauty Smith had been rising into his brain and
mastering the small bit of sanity that he possessed at best.
When he saw Whitefang's eyes beginning to glaze, he knew
beyond doubt that the fight was lost. Then he broke loose.

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He sprang upon Whitefang and began savagely to kick him.
There were hisses from the crowd and cries of protest,
but that was all While this went on, and Beauty
Smith continued to kick whitefang. There was a commotion in
the crowd. The tall, young newcomer was forcing his way through,
shouldering men right and left without ceremony or gentleness. When

(15:28):
he broke through into the ring, Beauty Smith was just
in the act of delivering another kick. All his weight
was on one foot, and he was in a state
of unstable equilibrium at that moment. The newcomer's fist landed
a smashing blow full in his face. Beauty Smith's remaining
leg left the ground and his whole body seemed to

(15:49):
lift into the air as he turned over backward and
struck the snow. The newcomer turned upon the crowd. You cowards,
he cried, you beasts. He was in a rage himself,
a sane rage. His gray eyes seemed metallic and steel
like as they flashed upon the crowd. Beauty Smith regained

(16:11):
his feet and came toward him, sniffling and cowardly. The
newcomer did not understand. He did not know how abject
a coward the other was, and thought he was coming
back intent on fighting. So with a you beast, he
smashed Beauty Smith over backward with a second blow in
the face. Beauty Smith decided that the snow was the

(16:32):
safest place for him, and lay where he had fallen,
making no effort to get up. Come on, Matt lend
a hand. The newcomer called the dog musher, who had
followed him into the ring. Both men bent over the dogs.
Matt took hold of white fang, ready to pull when
Cherokee's jaws should be loosened. This, the younger man endeavored

(16:54):
to accomplish by clutching the bulldog's jaws in his hands
and trying to spread them. It was a vain undertaking.
As he pulled and tugged and wrenched, he kept exclaiming
with every expulsion of breath, beasts. The crowd began to
grow unruly, and some of the men were protesting against
the spoiling of the sport, but they were silenced when

(17:16):
the newcomer lifted his head from his work for a
moment and glared at them, you damn beasts. He finally
exploded and went back to his task. It's no use,
mister Scott. You can't break him apart that way, Matt said.
At last, the pair paused and surveyed the locked dogs.

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Ain't bleedin much, Matt announced, ain't got all the way
in yet, but he's liable to any moment. Scott answered, there,
did you see that he shifted his grip in a bit?
The younger man's excitement and apprehension for white fang was growing.
He struck Cherokee about the head savagely, again and again,

(17:59):
but that did not loosen the jaws. Cherokee wagged the
stump of his tail in advertisement that he understood the
meaning of the blows, but that he knew he was
himself and the right, and only doing his duty by
keeping his grip. Won't some of you help? Scott cried
desperately at the crowd, but no help was offered. Instead,

(18:20):
the crowd began sarcastically to cheer him on and showered
him with facetious advice. You'll have to get a pry
Matt counseled. The other, reached into the holster at his hip,
drew his revolver, and tried to thrust its muzzle between
the bulldog's jaws. He shoved and shoved hard till the

(18:40):
grating of the steel against the locked teeth could be
distinctly heard. Both men were on their knees bending over
the dogs. Tim Keenan strode into the ring. He paused
beside Scott and touched him on the shoulder, saying ominously,
don't break them teeth, stranger, then I'll break his neck.
Scott retorted, continuing his shoving and wedging with the revolver muzzle.

(19:05):
I said don't break them teeth, the pharaoh Dealer repeated,
more ominously than before. But if it was a bluff,
he intended, it did not work. Scott never desisted from
his efforts, though, he looked up coolly and asked, your dog,
The pharaoh dealer grunted. Then get in here and break
the grip. Well, stranger, the other drawled irritatingly. I don't

(19:31):
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

(19:51):
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

(20:14):
to Cherokee's owner. The Pharaoh Dealer stooped down obediently and
got a firm hold on Cherokee. Now, Scott warned, giving
the final pry. The dogs were drawn apart. The bulldogs
struggling vigorously take him away, Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan
dragged Cherokee back into the crowd. White Fang made several

(20:38):
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

(20:59):
that had been stress angled to death. Matt examined him
just about all in, he announced, but he's breathing all right.
Beauty Smith had regained his feet and come over to
look at Whitefang. Matt how much is a good sled
dog worth? Scott asked, the dog musher, still on his

(21:20):
knees and stooped over White Fang. Calculated for a moment.
Three hundred dollars, he answered, And how much for one
that's all chewed up like this one? Scott asked, nudging
White Fang with his foot. Half of that was the
dog musher's judgment. Scott turned upon beauty Smith. Did you hear,

(21:42):
mister beast, I'm going to take your dog from you,
and I'm going to give you one hundred and fifty
for him. He opened his pocketbook and counted out the bills.
Beauty Smith put his hands behind his back, refusing to
touch the proffered money. I ain't a selling, he said, Oh,
yes you are, the other assured him, because I'm buying.

(22:05):
Here's your money. The dog's mine. Beauty Smith, his hands
still behind him, began to back away. Scott sprang toward him,
drawing his fists back to strike. Beauty Smith cowered down
in anticipation of the blow. I got my rights, he whimpered.
You forfeited your rights to own that dog, was the rejoinder.

(22:28):
Are you going to take the money or do I
have to hit you again, all right, Beauty Smith spoke
up with the alacrity of fear. But I take the
money under protest, he added. The dog's a mint. I
ain't a goin to be robbed. Man got his rights, correct,
Scott answered, passing the money over to him. A man's

(22:52):
got his rights, but you're not a man. You're a beast.
Waiill I get back to Dawson, Beauty Smith threatened, I'll
have the law on you if you open your mouth
when you get back to Dawson, I'll have you run
out of town. Understand, Beauty Smith replied with a grunt.

(23:12):
Understand The other thundered with abrupt fierceness. Yes, Beauty Smith grunted,
shrinking away. Yes what yes, sir, Beauty Smith snarled. Look out,
he'll bite Someone shouted, and a guffaw of laughter went up.

(23:33):
Scott turned his back on him and returned to help
the dog musher, who was working over White Fang. Some
of the men were already departing. Others stood in groups,
looking on and talking. Tim Keenan joined one of the groups.
Who's that mug? He asked, Weed and Scott. Someone answered,

(23:53):
and who in the hell is Weedon Scott, The pharaoh
Dealer demanded, Oh, one of them crackered jack mining experts.
He's in with the big bugs. If you want to
keep out of trouble, you'll steer clear of him. That's
my talk. He's all hunky with the officials. The gold
commissioner's a special pal of his. I thought he must

(24:14):
be somebody, was the pharaoh Dealer's comment. That's why I
kept my hands off on him. At the start end
of chapter four,