“The men are playing with markers. That means theroof is the limit. One man play yellow markers—maybeone yellow marker worth one thousand dollars， maybetwo thousand dollars. One man play red markers. Maybethey are worth five hundred dollars， maybe one thousanddollars. It is a very big game. Everybody play very high，up to the roof. How do I know？ You make the dealer withblood little bit warm in face.” （I was delighted.） “Thelookout， you make him lean forward in his chair. Why helean forward？ Why his face very much quiet？ Why his eyesvery much bright？ Why dealer warm with blood a littlebit in the face？ Why all men very quiet？—the man withyellow markers？ the man with white markers？ the manwith red markers？ Why nobody talk？ Because very muchmoney. Because last turn.”
“How do you know it is the last turn？” I asked.
“The king is coppered， the seven is played open，” heanswered. “Nobody bet on other cards. Other cards allgone. Everybody one mind. Everybody play king to lose，seven to win. Maybe bank lose twenty thousand dollars，maybe bank win. Yes， that picture I understand.”
“Yet you do not know the end！” I cried triumphantly.
“It is the last turn， but the cards are not yet turned. In thepicture they will never be turned. Nobody will ever knowwho wins nor who loses.”
“And the men will sit there and never talk，” he said，wonder and awe growing in his face. “And the lookout willlean forward， and the blood will be warm in the face ofthe dealer. It is a strange thing. Always will they sit there，always； and the cards will never be turned.”
“It is a picture，” I said. “It is life. You have seen thingslike it yourself.”
He looked at me and pondered， then said， very slowly：
“No， as you say， there is no end to it. Nobody will everknow the end. Yet is it a true thing. I have seen it. It islife.”
For a long time he smoked on in silence， weighing thepictorial wisdom of the white man and verifying it bythe facts of life. He nodded his head several times， andgrunted once or twice. Then he knocked the ashes fromhis pipe， carefully refilled it， and after a thoughtful pause，lighted it again.
“Then have I， too， seen many pictures of life，” hebegan； “pictures not painted， but seen with the eyes. Ihave looked at them like through the window at the manwriting the letter. I have seen many pieces of life， withoutbeginning， without end， without understanding.”
With a sudden change of position he turned his eyes fullupon me and regarded me thoughtfully.
“Look you，” he said； “you are a painter-man. How wouldyou paint this which I saw， a picture without beginning，the ending of which I do not understand， a piece of lifewith the northern lights for a candle and Alaska for aframe.”
“It is a large canvas，” I murmured.
But he ignored me， for the picture he had in mind wasbefore his eyes and he was seeing it.
“There are many names for this picture，” he said. “Butin the picture there are many sun-dogs， and it comesinto my mind to call it ‘The Sun-Dog Trail.’ It was a longtime ago， seven years ago， the fall of ’97， when I saw thewoman first time. At Lake Linderman I had one canoe，very good Peterborough canoe. I came over Chilcoot Passwith two thousand letters for Dawson. I was letter carrier.
Everybody rush to Klondike at that time. Many peopleon trail. Many people chop down trees and make boats.
Last water， snow in the air， snow on the ground， ice on thelake， on the river ice in the eddies. Every day more snow，more ice. Maybe one day， maybe three days， maybe sixdays， any day maybe freeze-up come， then no more water，all ice， everybody walk， Dawson six hundred miles， longtime walk. Boat go very quick. Everybody want to go boat.
Everybody say， ‘Charley， two hundred dollars you take mein canoe，’ ‘Charley， three hundred dollars，’ ‘Charley， fourhundred dollars.’ I say no， all the time I say no. I am lettercarrier.
“In morning I get to Lake Linderman. I walk all nightand am much tired. I cook breakfast， I eat， then I sleepon the beach three hours. I wake up. It is ten o’clock.
Snow is falling. There is wind， much wind that blows fair.
Also， there is a woman who sits in the snow alongside.
She is white woman， she is young， very pretty， maybe sheis twenty years old， maybe twenty-five years old. She lookat me. I look at her. She is very tired. She is no dancewoman.
I see that right away. She is good woman， and sheis very tired.
“‘You are Sitka Charley，’ she says. I get up quick and rollblankets so snow does not get inside. ‘I go to Dawson，’ shesays. ‘I go in your canoe—how much？’
“I do not want anybody in my canoe. I do not like to sayno. So I say， ‘One thousand dollars.’ Just for fun I say it， sowoman cannot come with me， much better than say no.
She look at me very hard， then she says， ‘When you start？’
I say right away. Then she says all right， she will give meone thousand dollars.
“What can I say？ I do not want the woman， yet haveI given my word that for one thousand dollars she cancome. I am surprised. Maybe she make fun， too， so Isay， ‘Let me see thousand dollars.’ And that woman， thatyoung woman， all alone on the trail， there in the snow， shetake out one thousand dollars， in greenbacks， and she putthem in my hand. I look at money， I look at her. What canI say？ I say， ‘No， my canoe very small. There is no room foroutfit.’ She laugh. She says， ‘I am great traveller. This is myoutfit.’ She kick one small pack in the snow. It is two furrobes， canvas outside， some woman’s clothes inside. I pickit up. Maybe thirty-five pounds. I am surprised. She takeit away from me. She says， ‘Come， let us start.’ She carriespack into canoe. What can I say？ I put my blankets intocanoe. We start.
“And that is the way I saw the woman first time. Thewind was fair. I put up small sail. The canoe went very fast，it flew like a bird over the high waves. The woman wasmuch afraid. ‘What for you come Klondike much afraid？’