"It's hopeless," Weedon Scott confessed.
He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at the dog-musher, who responded with a shrug
that was equally hopeless.
Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his stretched chain, bristling, snarling,
ferocious, straining to get at the sled-dogs. Having received sundry lessons from Matt,
said lessons being imparted by means of a club, the sled-dogs had learned to leave White
Fang alone; and even then they were lying down at a distance, apparently oblivious of his
existence.
"It's a wolf and there's no taming it," Weedon Scott announced.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Matt objected. "Might be a lot of dog in 'm, for all you can
tell. But there's one thing I know sure, an' that there's no gettin' away from."
The dog-musher paused and nodded his head confidentially at Moosehide Mountain.
"Well, don't be a miser with what you know," Scott said sharply, after waiting a suitable
length of time. "Spit it out. What is it?"
The dog-musher indicated White Fang with a backward thrust of his thumb.
"Wolf or dog, it's all the same - he's ben tamed 'ready."
"I tell you yes, an' broke to harness. Look close there. D'ye see them marks across the
chest?"
"You're right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got hold of him."
"And there's not much reason against his bein' a sled-dog again."
"What d'ye think?" Scott queried eagerly. Then the hope died down as he added, shaking
his head, "We've had him two weeks now, and if anything he's wilder than ever at the
present moment."
"Give 'm a chance," Matt counselled. "Turn 'm loose for a spell."
The other looked at him incredulously.
"Yes," Matt went on, "I know you've tried to, but you didn't take a club."
