The rope tightened and slacked in the struggle, and, had it been of
ordinary texture, it would never have stood the strain.
Ted had ridden up to the plunging beast, and began to belabor it with
his quirt, to take the spirit out of it. The wolf had never felt the
sting of a whip before. It was such a new experience to it that it
stopped bucking in sheer amazement. But Ted did not discontinue, and the
wolf slunk upon the ground, its wild nature thoroughly tamed for the
time.
"Stop!" cried Stella. "Let us see what he will do now."
Ted rode away, and the wolf sat up on its haunches, and, lifting its
head toward the mountains, gave a long, wailing, dismal howl.
"He knows he's done for," said Ted. "That's his death song."
"Let him do what he will," cried Stella.
Presently White Fang rose, tried to shake the rope from his neck, and
when he found that he could not do so, got up and started on a trot
toward the mountains.
"Follow him," cried Ted. "He's leading us home. Who can say what we will
find there?"
They followed the wolf through coulees and over rocky ridges in the
foothills, and through a canon at the base of Sombrero Peak.
They climbed rocky paths, higher and higher up the side of the peak.
White Fang's captors followed him silently. No more did he try to escape
from the rope.
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