4. CHAPTER IV - THE CLINGING DEATH
"Correct," Scott answered, passing the money over to him. "A man's
got his rights. But you're not a man. You're a beast."
"Wait till 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.
"Understand?" the other thundered with abrupt fierceness.
"Yes," Beauty Smith grunted, shrinking away.
"Yes, sir," Beauty Smith snarled.
"Look out! He'll bite!" some one shouted, and a guffaw of laughter
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.
"Weedon Scott," some one answered.
"And who in hell is Weedon Scott?" the faro-dealer demanded.
"Oh, one of them crackerjack minin' experts. He's in with all 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 be somebody," was the faro-dealer's comment.
"That's why I kept my hands offen him at the start."