1. CHAPTER I - THE LONG TRAIL
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
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
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.