“Oh， shut up， can’t you，” was Lon’s reply， in the samecautious undertone.
The woman had closed the door and was returning， andI sat and meditated upon the fact that this man who toldme to shut up received from me a salary of two hundredand fifty dollars a month and his board.
Lon washed the dishes， while I smoked and watched thewoman. She seemed more beautiful than ever—strangelyand weirdly beautiful， it is true. After looking at hersteadfastly for five minutes， I was compelled to comeback to the real world and to glance at Lon McFane. Thisenabled me to know， without discussion， that the woman，too， was real. At first I had taken her for the wife of DaveWalsh； but if Dave Walsh were dead， as Lon had said， thenshe could be only his widow.
It was early to bed， for we faced a long day on themorrow； and as Lon crawled in beside me under theblankets， 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， LonMcFane， I swear， was off to sleep. He always went to sleepthat way—just crawled into the blankets， closed his eyes，and was off， a demure little heavy breathing rising on theair. Lon never snored.
And in the morning it was quick breakfast， feed thedogs， load the sled， and hit the trail. We said good-byeas we pulled out， and the woman stood in the doorwayand watched us off. I carried the vision of her unearthlybeauty away with me， just under my eyelids， and all Ihad to do， any time， was to close them and see her again.
The way was unbroken， Surprise Lake being far off thetravelled trails， and Lon and I took turn about at beatingdown the feathery snow with our big， webbed shoes sothat the dogs could travel. “But you said you expected tomeet Dave Walsh at the cabin，” trembled on the tip ofmy tongue a score of times. I did not utter it. I could waituntil we knocked off in the middle of the day. And whenthe middle of the day came， we went right on， for， as Lonexplained， there was a camp of moose hunters at the forksof the Teelee， and we could make there by dark. But wedidn’t make there by dark， for Bright， the lead-dog， brokehis shoulder-blade， and we lost an hour over him beforewe shot him. Then， crossing a timber jam on the frozenbed of the Teelee， the sled suffered a wrenching capsize，and it was a case of make camp and repair the runner.
I cooked supper and fed the dogs while Lon made therepairs， and together we got in the night’s supply of iceand firewood. Then we sat on our blankets， our moccasinssteaming on upended sticks before the fire， and had ourevening smoke.
“You didn’t know her？” Lon queried suddenly. I shookmy head.
“You noticed the colour of her hair and eyes and hercomplexion， well， that’s where she got her name—she waslike the first warm glow of a golden sunrise. She was calledFlush of Gold. Ever heard of her？”
Somewhere I had a confused and misty remembrance ofhaving heard the name， yet it meant nothing to me. “Flushof Gold，” I repeated； “sounds like the name of a dancehousegirl.” Lon shook his head. “No， she was a goodwoman， at least in that sense， though she sinned greatlyjust the same.”
“But why do you speak always of her in the past tense， asthough she were dead？”
“Because of the darkness on her soul that is the sameas the darkness of death. The Flush of Gold that I knew，that Dawson knew， and that Forty Mile knew before that，is dead. That dumb， lunatic creature we saw last night wasnot Flush of Gold.”
“And Dave？” I queried.
“He built that cabin，” Lon answered， “He built it forher . . . and for himself. He is dead. She is waiting for himthere. She half believes he is not dead. But who can knowthe whim of a crazed mind？ Maybe she wholly believeshe is not dead. At any rate， she waits for him there in thecabin he built. Who would rouse the dead？ Then whowould rouse the living that are dead？ Not I， and that iswhy I let on to expect to meet Dave Walsh there lastnight. I’ll bet a stack that I’d a been more surprised thanshe if I HAD met him there last night.”
“I do not understand，” I said. “Begin at the beginning， asa white man should， and tell me the whole tale.”
And Lon began. “Victor Chauvet was an old Frenchman—born in the south of France. He came to California in thedays of gold. He was a pioneer. He found no gold， but，instead， became a maker of bottled sunshine—in short，a grape-grower and wine-maker. Also， he followed goldexcitements. That is what brought him to Alaska in theearly days， and over the Chilcoot and down the Yukonlong before the Carmack strike. The old town site of TenMile was Chauvet’s. He carried the first mail into ArcticCity. He staked those coal-mines on the Porcupine a dozenyears ago. He grubstaked Loftus into the NippennuckCountry. Now it happened that Victor Chauvet was agood Catholic， loving two things in this world， wine andwoman. Wine of all kinds he loved， but of woman， onlyone， and she was the mother of Marie Chauvet.”
Here I groaned aloud， having meditated beyond selfcontrolover the fact that I paid this man two hundredand fifty dollars a month.
“What’s the matter now？” he demanded.
“Matter？” I complained. “I thought you were telling thestory of Flush of Gold. I don’t want a biography of yourold French wine-bibber.”
Lon calmly lighted his pipe， took one good puff， thenput the pipe aside. “And you asked me to begin at thebeginning，” he said.
“Yes，” said I； “the beginning.”
“And the beginning of Flush of Gold is the old Frenchwine-bibber， for he was the father of Marie Chauvet， andMarie Chauvet was the Flush of Gold. What more do youwant？ Victor Chauvet never had much luck to speak of. Hemanaged to live， and to get along， and to take good careof Marie， who resembled the one woman he had loved.
He took very good care of her. Flush of Gold was the petname he gave her. Flush of Gold Creek was named afterher—Flush of Gold town site， too. The old man was greaton town sites， only he never landed them.
“Now， honestly，” Lon said， with one of his lightningchanges， “you’ve seen her， what do you think of her—of herlooks， I mean？ How does she strike your beauty sense？”