The other reached into the holster at his hip, drew his revolver, and tried to thrust its muzzle between the bulldog's jaws.He shoved, and shoved hard, till the grating of the steel against the locked teeth could be distinctly heard.Both men were on their knees, bending over the dogs.Tim Keenan strode into the ring.He paused beside Scott and touched him on the shoulder, saying ominously:
"Don't break them teeth, stranger."
"Then I'll break his neck," Scott retorted, continuing his shoving and wedging with the revolver muzzle.
"I said don't break them teeth," the faro-dealer repeated more ominously than before.
But if it was a bluff he intended, it did not work.Scott never desisted from his efforts, though he looked up coolly and asked:
"Your dog?"
The faro-dealer grunted.
"Then get in here and break this grip."
"Well, stranger," the other drawled irritatingly, "I don't mind telling you that's something I ain't worked out for myself.I don't know how to turn the trick.""Then get out of the way," was the reply, "and don't bother me.I'm busy."Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no further notice of his presence.He had managed to get the muzzle in between the jaws on one side, and was trying to get it out between the jaws on the other side.
This accomplished, he pried gently and carefully, loosening the jaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time, extricated White Fang's mangled neck.
"Stand by to receive your dog," was Scott's peremptory order to Cherokee's owner.
The faro-dealer stooped down obediently and got a firm hold on Cherokee.
"Now!" Scott warned, giving the final pry.