It was in the air. White Fang sensed the coming calamity, even beforethere was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in uponhim that a change was impending. He knew not how nor why, yet he got hisfeel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves. In ways subtlerthan they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog thathaunted 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, likea sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came thelong sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still insideand 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 almostpleaded, 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 awolf in California?"

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

"White man's dogs would have no show against him," Scott went on. "He'dkill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damaged suits, theauthorities 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 silencethat followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and thenthe 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 myown 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 andbetrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all-firedhet up about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't knowyour 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 thetrouble."

"Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," hebroke out after another pause.

"I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer wasnot quite satisfied with him.

"But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' iswhat gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently.

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

Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw thefatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. Also,there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of thecabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. Here wasindubitable evidence. White Fang had already scented it. He nowreasoned it. His god was preparing for another flight. And since he hadnot 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 puppydays, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find it vanishedand naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver's tepee, sonow 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 wonderthis 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 thana woman."

"I'm agreein' with you," the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scott wasnot quite sure whether or not the other had snickered.

The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even morepronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, andhaunted the front stoop when he remained inside. Through the open doorhe could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor. The grip had beenjoined by two large canvas bags and a box. Matt was rolling the master'sblankets and fur robe inside a small tarpaulin. White Fang whined as hewatched the operation.

Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they shoulderedthe luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried thebedding and the grip. But White Fang did not follow them. The masterwas still in the cabin. After a time, Matt returned. The master came tothe door and called White Fang inside.

"You poor devil," he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and tappinghis spine. "I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannotfollow. Now give me a growl--the last, good, good-bye growl."

But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful, searchinglook, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between themaster's arm and body.

"There she blows!" Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the hoarse bellowingof a river steamboat. "You've got to cut it short. Be sure and lock thefront door. I'll go out the back. Get a move on!"

The two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited forMatt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a lowwhining and sobbing. Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs.

"You must take good care of him, Matt," Scott said, as they started downthe 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 masterslie dead. He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in greatheart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering misery, and burstingupward again with a rush upon rush of grief.

The _Aurora_ was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and herdecks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold seekers,all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally toget to the Inside. Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands withMatt, who was preparing to go ashore. But Matt's hand went limp in theother's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on somethingbehind him. Scott turned to see. Sitting on the deck several feet awayand watching wistfully was White Fang.

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

"Did you lock the front door?" Matt demanded. The other nodded, andasked, "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 awayfrom him. The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodgedbetween the legs of a group of men. Ducking, turning, doubling, he slidabout the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him.

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

"Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months," the dog-mushermuttered resentfully. "And you--you ain't never fed 'm after them firstdays of gettin' acquainted. I'm blamed if I can see how he works it outthat you're the boss."

Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointedout 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 werescurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the bandanafrom his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's. Scottgrasped 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 abouthim."

Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank.

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

The gang-plank was hauled in, and the _Aurora_ swung out from the bank.Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye. Then he turned and bent over WhiteFang, standing by his side.

"Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive headand rubbed the flattening ears.