But White Fang could not get at the soft underside of the throat.The bulldog stood too short, while its massive jaws were an added protection.
White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while Cherokee's wounds increased.
Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and slashed.He bled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted.He continued his plodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled, he came to a full stop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the same time wagging his stump of a tail as an expression of his willingness to fight.
In that moment White Fang was in upon him and out, in passing ripping his trimmed remnant of an ear.With a slight manifestation of anger, Cherokee took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of the circle White Fang was making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip on White Fang's throat.
The bulldog missed by a hair's-breadth, and cries of praise went up as White Fang doubled suddenly out of danger in the opposite direction.
The time went by.White Fang still danced on, dodging and doubling, leaping in and out, and ever inflicting damage.And still the bulldog, with grim certitude, toiled after him.Sooner or later he would accomplish his purpose, get the grip that would win the battle.In the meantime he accepted all the punishment the other could deal him.His tufts of ears had become tassels, his neck and shoulders were slashed in a score of places, and his very lips were cut and bleeding -- all from those lightning snaps that were beyond his foreseeing and guarding.