Flush of Gold

by Jack London

Lon McFane was a bit grumpy, what of losing his tobacco pouch, orelse he might have told me, before we got to it, something about thecabin at Surprise Lake. All day, turn and turn about, we had spelledeach other at going to the fore and breaking trail for the dogs. Itwas heavy snowshoe work, and did not tend to make a man voluble, yetLon McFane might have found breath enough at noon, when we stopped toboil coffee, with which to tell me. But he didn't. Surprise Lake?it was Surprise Cabin to me. I had never heard of it before. Iconfess I was a bit tired. I had been looking for Lon to stop andmake camp any time for an hour; but I had too much pride to suggestmaking camp or to ask him his intentions; and yet he was my man,lured at a handsome wage to mush my dogs for me and to obey mycommands. I guess I was a bit grumpy myself. He said nothing, and Iwas resolved to ask nothing, even if we tramped on all night.We came upon the cabin abruptly. For a week of trail we had met noone, and, in my mind, there had been little likelihood of meeting anyone for a week to come. And yet there it was, right before my eyes,a cabin, with a dim light in the window and smoke curling up from thechimney."Why didn't you tell me--" I began, but was interrupted by Lon, whomuttered--"Surprise Lake--it lies up a small feeder half a mile on. It's onlya pond.""Yes, but the cabin--who lives in it?""A woman," was the answer, and the next moment Lon had rapped on thedoor, and a woman's voice bade him enter."Have you seen Dave recently?" she asked."Nope," Lon answered carelessly. "I've been in the other direction,down Circle City way. Dave's up Dawson way, ain't he?"The woman nodded, and Lon fell to unharnessing the dogs, while Iunlashed the sled and carried the camp outfit into the cabin. Thecabin was a large, one-room affair, and the woman was evidently alonein it. She pointed to the stove, where water was already boiling,and Lon set about the preparation of supper, while I opened the fish-bag and fed the dogs. I looked for Lon to introduce us, and wasvexed that he did not, for they were evidently old friends."You are Lon McFane, aren't you?" I heard her ask him. "Why, Iremember you now. The last time I saw you it was on a steamboat,wasn't it? I remember . . . "Her speech seemed suddenly to be frozen by the spectacle of dreadwhich, I knew, from the tenor I saw mounting in her eyes, must be onher inner vision. To my astonishment, Lon was affected by her wordsand manner. His face showed desperate, for all his voice soundedhearty and genial, as he said -"The last time we met was at Dawson, Queen's Jubilee, or Birthday, orsomething--don't you remember?--the canoe races in the river, and theobstacle races down the main street?"The terror faded out of her eyes and her whole body relaxed. "Oh,yes, I do remember," she said. "And you won one of the canoe races.""How's Dave been makin' it lately? Strikin' it as rich as ever, Isuppose?" Lon asked, with apparent irrelevance.She smiled and nodded, and then, noticing that I had unlashed the bedroll, she indicated the end of the cabin where I might spread it.Her own bunk, I noticed, was made up at the opposite end."I thought it was Dave coming when I heard your dogs," she said.After that she said nothing, contenting herself with watching Lon'scooking operations, and listening the while as for the sound of dogsalong the trail. I lay back on the blankets and smoked and watched.Here was mystery; I could make that much out, but no more could Imake out. Why in the deuce hadn't Lon given me the tip before wearrived? I looked at her face, unnoticed by her, and the longer Ilooked the harder it was to take my eyes away. It was a wonderfullybeautiful face, unearthly, I may say, with a light in it or anexpression or something "that was never on land or sea." Fear andterror had completely vanished, and it was a placidly beautiful face--if by "placid" one can characterize that intangible and occultsomething that I cannot say was a radiance or a light any more than Ican say it was an expression.Abruptly, as if for the first time, she became aware of my presence."Have you seen Dave recently?" she asked me. It was on the tip of mytongue to say "Dave who?" when Lon coughed in the smoke that arosefrom the sizzling bacon. The bacon might have caused that cough, butI took it as a hint and left my question unasked. "No, I haven't," Ianswered. "I'm new in this part of the country--""But you don't mean to say," she interrupted, "that you've neverheard of Dave--of Big Dave Walsh?""You see," I apologised, "I'm new in the country. I've put in mostof my time in the Lower Country, down Nome way.""Tell him about Dave," she said to Lon.Lon seemed put out, but he began in that hearty, genial manner that Ihad noticed before. It seemed a shade too hearty and genial, and itirritated me."Oh, Dave is a fine man," he said. "He's a man, every inch of him,and he stands six feet four in his socks. His word is as good as hisbond. The man lies who ever says Dave told a lie, and that man willhave to fight with me, too, as well--if there's anything left of himwhen Dave gets done with him. For Dave is a fighter. Oh, yes, he'sa scrapper from way back. He got a grizzly with a '38 popgun. Hegot clawed some, but he knew what he was doin'. He went into thecave on purpose to get that grizzly. 'Fraid of nothing. Free an'easy with his money, or his last shirt an' match when out of money.Why, he drained Surprise Lake here in three weeks an' took out ninetythousand, didn't he?" She flushed and nodded her head proudly.Through his recital she had followed every word with keenestinterest. "An' I must say," Lon went on, "that I was disappointedsore on not meeting Dave here to-night."Lon served supper at one end of the table of whip-sawed spruce, andwe fell to eating. A howling of the dogs took the woman to the door.She opened it an inch and listened."Where is Dave Walsh?" I asked, in an undertone."Dead," Lon answered. "In hell, maybe. I don't know. Shut up.""But you just said that you expected to meet him here to-night," Ichallenged."Oh, shut up, can't you," was Lon's reply, in the same cautiousundertone.The woman had closed the door and was returning, and I sat andmeditated upon the fact that this man who told me to shut up receivedfrom me a salary of two hundred and fifty dollars a month and hisboard.Lon washed the dishes, while I smoked and watched the woman. Sheseemed more beautiful than ever--strangely and weirdly beautiful, itis true. After looking at her steadfastly for five minutes, I wascompelled to come back to the real world and to glance at Lon McFane.This enabled me to know, without discussion, that the woman, too, wasreal. At first I had taken her for the wife of Dave Walsh; but ifDave Walsh were dead, as Lon had said, then she could be only hiswidow.It was early to bed, for we faced a long day on the morrow; and asLon crawled in beside me under the blankets, I ventured a question."That woman's crazy, isn't she?""Crazy as a loon," he answered.And before I could formulate my next question, Lon McFane, I swear,was off to sleep. He always went to sleep that way--just crawledinto the blankets, closed his eyes, and was off, a demure littleheavy breathing rising on the air. Lon never snored.And in the morning it was quick breakfast, feed the dogs, load thesled, and hit the trail. We said good-bye as we pulled out, and thewoman stood in the doorway and watched us off. I carried the visionof her unearthly beauty away with me, just under my eyelids, and allI had to do, any time, was to close them and see her again. The waywas unbroken, Surprise Lake being far off the travelled trails, andLon and I took turn about at beating down the feathery snow with ourbig, webbed shoes so that the dogs could travel. "But you said youexpected to meet Dave Walsh at the cabin," trembled on the tip of mytongue a score of times. I did not utter it. I could wait until weknocked off in the middle of the day. And when the middle of the daycame, we went right on, for, as Lon explained, there was a camp ofmoose hunters at the forks of the Teelee, and we could make there bydark. But we didn't make there by dark, for Bright, the lead-dog,broke his shoulder-blade, and we lost an hour over him before we shothim. Then, crossing a timber jam on the frozen bed of the Teelee,the sled suffered a wrenching capsize, and it was a case of make campand repair the runner. I cooked supper and fed the dogs while Lonmade the repairs, and together we got in the night's supply of iceand firewood. Then we sat on our blankets, our moccasins steaming onupended sticks before the fire, and had our evening smoke."You didn't know her?" Lon queried suddenly. I shook my head."You noticed the colour of her hair and eyes and her complexion,well, that's where she got her name--she was like the first warm glowof a golden sunrise. She was called Flush of Gold. Ever heard ofher?"Somewhere I had a confused and misty remembrance of having heard thename, yet it meant nothing to me. "Flush of Gold," I repeated;"sounds like the name of a dance-house girl." Lon shook his head."No, she was a good woman, at least in that sense, though she sinnedgreatly just the same.""But why do you speak always of her in the past tense, as though shewere dead?""Because of the darkness on her soul that is the same as the darknessof death. The Flush of Gold that I knew, that Dawson knew, and thatForty Mile knew before that, is dead. That dumb, lunatic creature wesaw last night was not Flush of Gold.""And Dave?" I queried."He built that cabin," Lon answered, "He built it for her . . . andfor himself. He is dead. She is waiting for him there. She halfbelieves he is not dead. But who can know the whim of a crazed mind?Maybe she wholly believes he is not dead. At any rate, she waits forhim there in the cabin he built. Who would rouse the dead? Then whowould rouse the living that are dead? Not I, and that is why I leton to expect to meet Dave Walsh there last night. I'll bet a stackthat I'd a been more surprised than she if I HAD met him there lastnight.""I do not understand," I said. "Begin at the beginning, as a whiteman should, and tell me the whole tale."And Lon began. "Victor Chauvet was an old Frenchman--born in thesouth of France. He came to California in the days of gold. He wasa pioneer. He found no gold, but, instead, became a maker of bottledsunshine--in short, a grape-grower and wine-maker. Also, he followedgold excitements. That is what brought him to Alaska in the earlydays, and over the Chilcoot and down the Yukon long before theCarmack strike. The old town site of Ten Mile was Chauvet's. Hecarried the first mail into Arctic City. He staked those coal-mineson the Porcupine a dozen years ago. He grubstaked Loftus into theNippennuck Country. Now it happened that Victor Chauvet was a goodCatholic, loving two things in this world, wine and woman. Wine ofall kinds he loved, but of woman, only one, and she was the mother ofMarie Chauvet."Here I groaned aloud, having meditated beyond self-control over thefact that I paid this man two hundred and fifty dollars a month."What's the matter now?" he demanded."Matter?" I complained. "I thought you were telling the story ofFlush of Gold. I don't want a biography of your old French wine-bibber."Lon calmly lighted his pipe, took one good puff, then put the pipeaside. "And you asked me to begin at the beginning," he said."Yes," said I; "the beginning.""And the beginning of Flush of Gold is the old French wine-bibber,for he was the father of Marie Chauvet, and Marie Chauvet was theFlush of Gold. What more do you want? Victor Chauvet never had muchluck to speak of. He managed to live, and to get along, and to takegood care of Marie, who resembled the one woman he had loved. Hetook very good care of her. Flush of Gold was the pet name he gaveher. Flush of Gold Creek was named after her--Flush of Gold townsite, too. The old man was great on town sites, only he never landedthem."Now, honestly," Lon said, with one of his lightning changes, "you'veseen her, what do you think of her--of her looks, I mean? How doesshe strike your beauty sense?""She is remarkably beautiful," I said. "I never saw anything likeher in my life. In spite of the fact, last night, that I guessed shewas mad, I could not keep my eyes off of her. It wasn't curiosity.It was wonder, sheer wonder, she was so strangely beautiful.""She was more strangely beautiful before the darkness fell upon her,"Lon said softly. "She was truly the Flush of Cold. She turned allmen's hearts . . . and heads. She recalls, with an effort, that Ionce won a canoe race at Dawson--I, who once loved her, and was toldby her of her love for me. It was her beauty that made all men loveher. She'd 'a' got the apple from Paris, on application, and therewouldn't have been any Trojan War, and to top it off she'd havethrown Paris down. And now she lives in darkness, and she who wasalways fickle, for the first time is constant--and constant to ashade, to a dead man she does not realize is dead."And this is the way it was. You remember what I said last night ofDave Walsh--Big Dave Walsh? He was all that I said, and more, manytimes more. He came into this country in the late eighties--that's apioneer for you. He was twenty years old then. He was a young bull.When he was twenty-five he could lift clear of the ground thirteenfifty-pound sacks of flour. At first, each fall of the year, faminedrove him out. It was a lone land in those days. No riversteamboats, no grub, nothing but salmon bellies and rabbit tracks.But after famine chased him out three years, he said he'd had enoughof being chased; and the next year he stayed. He lived on straightmeat when he was lucky enough to get it; he ate eleven dogs thatwinter; but he stayed. And the next winter he stayed, and the next.He never did leave the country again. He was a bull, a great bull.He could kill the strongest man in the country with hard work. Hecould outpack a Chilcat Indian, he could outpaddle a Stick, and hecould travel all day with wet feet when the thermometer registeredfifty below zero, and that's going some, I tell you, for vitality.You'd freeze your feet at twenty-five below if you wet them and triedto keep on."Dave Walsh was a bull for strength. And yet he was soft and easy-natured. Anybody could do him, the latest short-horn in camp couldlie his last dollar out of him. 'But it doesn't worry me,' he had away of laughing off his softness; 'it doesn't keep me awake nights.'Now don't get the idea that he had no backbone. You remember aboutthe bear he went after with the popgun. When it came to fightingDave was the blamedest ever. He was the limit, if by that I maydescribe his unlimitedness when he got into action, he was easy andkind with the weak, but the strong had to give trail when he went by.And he was a man that men liked, which is the finest word of all, aman's man."Dave never took part in the big stampede to Dawson when Carmack madethe Bonanza strike. You see, Dave was just then over on Mammon Creekstrikin' it himself. He discovered Mammon Creek. Cleaned eighty-four thousand up that winter, and opened up the claim so that itpromised a couple of hundred thousand for the next winter. Then,summer bein' on and the ground sloshy, he took a trip up the Yukon toDawson to see what Carmack's strike looked like. And there he sawFlush of Gold. I remember the night. I shall always remember. Itwas something sudden, and it makes one shiver to think of a strongman with all the strength withered out of him by one glance from thesoft eyes of a weak, blond, female creature like Flush of Gold. Itwas at her dad's cabin, old Victor Chauvet's. Some friend hadbrought Dave along to talk over town sites on Mammon Creek. Butlittle talking did he do, and what he did was mostly gibberish. Itell you the sight of Flush of Gold had sent Dave clean daffy. OldVictor Chauvet insisted after Dave left that he had been drunk. Andso he had. He was drunk, but Flush of Gold was the strong drink thatmade him so."That settled it, that first glimpse he caught of her. He did notstart back down the Yukon in a week, as he had intended. He lingeredon a month, two months, all summer. And we who had sufferedunderstood, and wondered what the outcome would be. Undoubtedly, inour minds, it seemed that Flush of Gold had met her master. And whynot? There was romance sprinkled all over Dave Walsh. He was aMammon King, he had made the Mammon Creek strike; he was an old sourdough, one of the oldest pioneers in the land--men turned to look athim when he went by, and said to one another in awed undertones,'There goes Dave Walsh.' And why not? He stood six feet four; hehad yellow hair himself that curled on his neck; and he was a bull--ayellow-maned bull just turned thirty-one."And Flush of Gold loved him, and, having danced him through a wholesummer's courtship, at the end their engagement was made known. Thefall of the year was at hand, Dave had to be back for the winter'swork on Mammon Creek, and Flush of Gold refused to be married rightaway. Dave put Dusky Burns in charge of the Mammon Creek claim, andhimself lingered on in Dawson. Little use. She wanted her freedom awhile longer; she must have it, and she would not marry until nextyear. And so, on the first ice, Dave Walsh went alone down the Yukonbehind his dogs, with the understanding that the marriage would takeplace when he arrived on the first steamboat of the next year.Now Dave was as true as the Pole Star, and she was as false as amagnetic needle in a cargo of loadstone. Dave was as steady andsolid as she was fickle and fly-away, and in some way Dave, who neverdoubted anybody, doubted her. It was the jealousy of his love,perhaps, and maybe it was the message ticked off from her soul tohis; but at any rate Dave was worried by fear of her inconstancy. Hewas afraid to trust her till the next year, he had so to trust her,and he was pretty well beside himself. Some of it I got from oldVictor Chauvet afterwards, and from all that I have pieced together Iconclude that there was something of a scene before Dave pulled northwith his dogs. He stood up before the old Frenchman, with Flush ofGold beside him, and announced that they were plighted to each other.He was very dramatic, with fire in his eyes, old Victor said. Hetalked something about 'until death do us part'; and old Victorespecially remembered that at one place Dave took her by the shoulderwith his great paw and almost shook her as he said: 'Even unto deathare you mine, and I would rise from the grave to claim you.' OldVictor distinctly remembered those words 'Even unto death are youmine, and I would rise from the grave to claim you.' And he told meafterwards that Flush of Gold was pretty badly frightened, and thathe afterwards took Dave to one side privately and told him that thatwasn't the way to hold Flush of Gold--that he must humour her andgentle her if he wanted to keep her."There is no discussion in my mind but that Flush of Gold wasfrightened. She was a savage herself in her treatment of men, whilemen had always treated her as a soft and tender and too utterly-uttersomething that must not be hurt. She didn't know what harshness was. . . until Dave Walsh, standing his six feet four, a big bull,gripped her and pawed her and assured her that she was his untildeath, and then some. And besides, in Dawson, that winter, was amusic-player--one of those macaroni-eating, greasy-tenor-Eye-talian-dago propositions--and Flush of Gold lost her heart to him. Maybe itwas only fascination--I don't know. Sometimes it seems to me thatshe really did love Dave Walsh. Perhaps it was because he hadfrightened her with that even-unto-death, rise-from-the-grave stuntof his that she in the end inclined to the dago music-player. But itis all guesswork, and the facts are, sufficient. He wasn't a dago;he was a Russian count--this was straight; and he wasn't aprofessional piano-player or anything of the sort. He played theviolin and the piano, and he sang--sang well--but it was for his ownpleasure and for the pleasure of those he sang for. He had money,too--and right here let me say that Flush of Gold never cared a rapfor money. She was fickle, but she was never sordid."But to be getting along. She was plighted to Dave, and Dave wascoming up on the first steamboat to get her--that was the summer of'98, and the first steamboat was to be expected the middle of June.And Flush of Gold was afraid to throw Dave down and face himafterwards. It was all planned suddenly. The Russian music-player,the Count, was her obedient slave. She planned it, I know. Ilearned as much from old Victor afterwards. The Count took hisorders from her, and caught that first steamboat down. It was theGolden Rocket. And so did Flush of Gold catch it. And so did I. Iwas going to Circle City, and I was flabbergasted when I found Flushof Gold on board. I didn't see her name down on the passenger list.She was with the Count fellow all the time, happy and smiling, and Inoticed that the Count fellow was down on the list as having his wifealong. There it was, stateroom, number, and all. The first I knewthat he was married, only I didn't see anything of the wife . . .unless Flush of Gold was so counted. I wondered if they'd gotmarried ashore before starting. There'd been talk about them inDawson, you see, and bets had been laid that the Count fellow had cutDave out."I talked with the purser. He didn't know anything more about itthan I did; he didn't know Flush of Gold, anyway, and besides, he wasalmost rushed to death. You know what a Yukon steamboat is, but youcan't guess what the Golden Rocket was when it left Dawson that Juneof 1898. She was a hummer. Being the first steamer out, she carriedall the scurvy patients and hospital wrecks. Then she must havecarried a couple of millions of Klondike dust and nuggets, to saynothing of a packed and jammed passenger list, deck passengersgalore, and bucks and squaws and dogs without end. And she wasloaded down to the guards with freight and baggage. There was amountain of the same on the fore-lower-deck, and each little stopalong the way added to it. I saw the box come aboard at TeeleePortage, and I knew it for what it was, though I little guessed thejoker that was in it. And they piled it on top of everything else onthe fore-lower-deck, and they didn't pile it any too securely either.The mate expected to come back to it again, and then forgot about it.I thought at the time that there was something familiar about the bighusky dog that climbed over the baggage and freight and lay down nextto the box. And then we passed the Glendale, bound up for Dawson.As she saluted us, I thought of Dave on board of her and hurrying toDawson to Flush of Gold. I turned and looked at her where she stoodby the rail. Her eyes were bright, but she looked a bit frightenedby the sight of the other steamer, and she was leaning closely to theCount fellow as for protection. She needn't have leaned so safelyagainst him, and I needn't have been so sure of a disappointed DaveWalsh arriving at Dawson. For Dave Walsh wasn't on the Glendale.There were a lot of things I didn't know, but was soon to know--forinstance, that the pair were not yet married. Inside half an hourpreparations for the marriage took place. What of the sick men inthe main cabin, and of the crowded condition of the Golden Rocket,the likeliest place for the ceremony was found forward, on the lowerdeck, in an open space next to the rail and gang-plank and shaded bythe mountain of freight with the big box on top and the sleeping dogbeside it. There was a missionary on board, getting off at EagleCity, which was the next step, so they had to use him quick. That'swhat they'd planned to do, get married on the boat."But I've run ahead of the facts. The reason Dave Walsh wasn't onthe Glendale was because he was on the Golden Rocket. It was thisway. After loiterin' in Dawson on account of Flush of Gold, he wentdown to Mammon Creek on the ice. And there he found Dusky Burnsdoing so well with the claim, there was no need for him to be around.So he put some grub on the sled, harnessed the dogs, took an Indianalong, and pulled out for Surprise Lake. He always had a liking forthat section. Maybe you don't know how the creek turned out to be afour-flusher; but the prospects were good at the time, and Daveproceeded to build his cabin and hers. That's the cabin we slept in.After he finished it, he went off on a moose hunt to the forks of theTeelee, takin' the Indian along."And this is what happened. Came on a cold snap. The juice wentdown forty, fifty, sixty below zero. I remember that snap--I was atForty Mile; and I remember the very day. At eleven o'clock in themorning the spirit thermometer at the N. A. T. & T. Company's storewent down to seventy-five below zero. And that morning, near theforks of the Teelee, Dave Walsh was out after moose with that blessedIndian of his. I got it all from the Indian afterwards--we made atrip over the ice together to Dyea. That morning Mr. Indian brokethrough the ice and wet himself to the waist. Of course he began tofreeze right away. The proper thing was to build a fire. But DaveWalsh was a bull. It was only half a mile to camp, where a fire wasalready burning. What was the good of building another? He threwMr. Indian over his shoulder--and ran with him--half a mile--with thethermometer at seventy-five below. You know what that means.Suicide. There's no other name for it. Why, that buck Indianweighed over two hundred himself, and Dave ran half a mile with him.Of course he froze his lungs. Must have frozen them near solid. Itwas a tomfool trick for any man to do. And anyway, after lingeringhorribly for several weeks, Dave Walsh died."The Indian didn't know what to do with the corpse. Ordinarily he'dhave buried him and let it go at that. But he knew that Dave Walshwas a big man, worth lots of money, a hi-yu skookum chief. Likewisehe'd seen the bodies of other hi-yu skookums carted around thecountry like they were worth something. So he decided to take Dave'sbody to Forty Mile, which was Dave's headquarters. You know how theice is on the grass roots in this country--well, the Indian plantedDave under a foot of soil--in short, he put Dave on ice. Dave couldhave stayed there a thousand years and still been the same old Dave.You understand--just the same as a refrigerator. Then the Indianbrings over a whipsaw from the cabin at Surprise Lake and makeslumber enough for the box. Also, waiting for the thaw, he goes outand shoots about ten thousand pounds of moose. This he keeps on ice,too. Came the thaw. The Teelee broke. He built a raft and loadedit with the meat, the big box with Dave inside, and Dave's team ofdogs, and away they went down the Teelee."The raft got caught on a timber jam and hung up two days. It wasscorching hot weather, and Mr. Indian nearly lost his moose meat. Sowhen he got to Teelee Portage he figured a steamboat would get toForty Mile quicker than his raft. He transferred his cargo, andthere you are, fore-lower deck of the Golden Rocket, Flush of Goldbeing married, and Dave Walsh in his big box casting the shade forher. And there's one thing I clean forgot. No wonder I thought thehusky dog that came aboard at Teelee Portage was familiar. It wasPee-lat, Dave Walsh's lead-dog and favourite--a terrible fighter,too. He was lying down beside the box."Flush of Gold caught sight of me, called me over, shook hands withme, and introduced me to the Count. She was beautiful. I was as madfor her then as ever. She smiled into my eyes and said I must signas one of the witnesses. And there was no refusing her. She wasever a child, cruel as children are cruel. Also, she told me she wasin possession of the only two bottles of champagne in Dawson--or thathad been in Dawson the night before; and before I knew it I wasscheduled to drink her and the Count's health. Everybody crowdedround, the captain of the steamboat, very prominent, trying to ringin on the wine, I guess. It was a funny wedding. On the upper deckthe hospital wrecks, with various feet in the grave, gathered andlooked down to see. There were Indians all jammed in the circle,too, big bucks, and their squaws and kids, to say nothing of abouttwenty-five snarling wolf-dogs. The missionary lined the two of themup and started in with the service. And just then a dog-fightstarted, high up on the pile of freight--Pee-lat lying beside the bigbox, and a white-haired brute belonging to one of the Indians. Thefight wasn't explosive at all. The brutes just snarled at each otherfrom a distance--tapping at each other long-distance, you know,saying dast and dassent, dast and dassent. The noise was ratherdisturbing, but you could hear the missionary's voice above it."There was no particularly easy way of getting at the two dogs,except from the other side of the pile. But nobody was on that side--everybody watching the ceremony, you see. Even then everythingmight have been all right if the captain hadn't thrown a club at thedogs. That was what precipitated everything. As I say, if thecaptain hadn't thrown that club, nothing might have happened."The missionary had just reached the point where he was saying 'Insickness and in health,' and 'Till death us do part.' And just thenthe captain threw the club. I saw the whole thing. It landed onPee-lat, and at that instant the white brute jumped him. The clubcaused it. Their two bodies struck the box, and it began to slide,its lower end tilting down. It was a long oblong box, and it sliddown slowly until it reached the perpendicular, when it came down onthe run. The onlookers on that side the circle had time to get outfrom under. Flush of Gold and the Count, on the opposite side of thecircle, were facing the box; the missionary had his back to it. Thebox must have fallen ten feet straight up and down, and it hit endon."Now mind you, not one of us knew that Dave Walsh was dead. Wethought he was on the Glendale, bound for Dawson. The missionary hadedged off to one side, and so Flush of Gold faced the box when itstruck. It was like in a play. It couldn't have been betterplanned. It struck on end, and on the right end; the whole front ofthe box came off; and out swept Dave Walsh on his feet, partlywrapped in a blanket, his yellow hair flying and showing bright inthe sun. Right out of the box, on his feet, he swept upon Flush ofGold. She didn't know he was dead, but it was unmistakable, afterhanging up two days on a timber jam, that he was rising all rightfrom the dead to claim her. Possibly that is what she thought. Atany rate, the sight froze her. She couldn't move. She just sort ofwilted and watched Dave Walsh coming for her! And he got her. Itlooked almost as though he threw his arms around her, but whether ornot this happened, down to the deck they went together. We had todrag Dave Walsh's body clear before we could get hold of her. Shewas in a faint, but it would have been just as well if she had nevercome out of that faint; for when she did, she fell to screaming theway insane people do. She kept it up for hours, till she wasexhausted. Oh, yes, she recovered. You saw her last night, and knowhow much recovered she is. She is not violent, it is true, but shelives in darkness. She believes that she is waiting for Dave Walsh,and so she waits in the cabin he built for her. She is no longerfickle. It is nine years now that she has been faithful to DaveWalsh, and the outlook is that she'll be faithful to him to the end."Lon McFane pulled down the top of the blankets and prepared to crawlin."We have her grub hauled to her each year," he added, "and in generalkeep an eye on her. Last night was the first time she everrecognized me, though.""Who are the we?" I asked."Oh," was the answer, "the Count and old Victor Chauvet and me. Doyou know, I think the Count is the one to be really sorry for. DaveWalsh never did know that she was false to him. And she does notsuffer. Her darkness is merciful to her."I lay silently under the blankets for the space of a minute."Is the Count still in the country?" I asked.But there was a gentle sound of heavy breathing, and I knew LonMcFane was asleep.

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