Lon McFane was a bit grumpy， what of losing histobacco pouch， or else he might have told me， before wegot to it， something about the cabin at Surprise Lake. Allday， turn and turn about， we had spelled each other atgoing to the fore and breaking trail for the dogs. It washeavy snowshoe work， and did not tend to make a manvoluble， yet Lon McFane might have found breath enoughat noon， when we stopped to boil coffee， with which totell me. But he didn’t. Surprise Lake？ it was Surprise Cabinto me. I had never heard of it before. I confess I was a bittired. I had been looking for Lon to stop and make campany time for an hour； but I had too much pride to suggestmaking camp or to ask him his intentions； and yet he wasmy man， lured at a handsome wage to mush my dogs forme and to obey my commands. I guess I was a bit grumpymyself. He said nothing， and I was resolved to ask nothing，even if we tramped on all night.
We came upon the cabin abruptly. For a week of trailwe had met no one， and， in my mind， there had been littlelikelihood of meeting any one for a week to come. And yetthere it was， right before my eyes， a cabin， with a dim lightin the window and smoke curling up from the chimney.
“Why didn’t you tell me—” I began， but was interruptedby Lon， who muttered—
“Surprise Lake—it lies up a small feeder half a mile on.It’s only a pond.”
“Yes， but the cabin—who lives in it？”
“A woman，” was the answer， and the next moment Lonhad rapped on the door， and a woman’s voice bade himenter.
“Have you seen Dave recently？” she asked.
“Nope，” Lon answered carelessly. “I’ve been in the otherdirection， down Circle City way. Dave’s up Dawson way，ain’the？”
The woman nodded， and Lon fell to unharnessing thedogs， while I unlashed the sled and carried the camp outfitinto the cabin. The cabin was a large， one-room affair， andthe woman was evidently alone in it. She pointed to thestove， where water was already boiling， and Lon set aboutthe preparation of supper， while I opened the fish-bag andfed 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， I remember you now. The last time I saw you it wason a steamboat， wasn’t it？ I remember ... ”
Her speech seemed suddenly to be frozen by thespectacle of dread which， I knew， from the tenor I sawmounting in her eyes， must be on her inner vision. To myastonishment， Lon was affected by her words and manner.
His face showed desperate， for all his voice sounded heartyand genial， as he said—
“The last time we met was at Dawson， Queen’s Jubilee，or Birthday， or something—don’t you remember？ —thecanoe races in the river， and the obstacle races down themain street？”
The terror faded out of her eyes and her whole bodyrelaxed. “Oh， yes， I do remember，” she said. “And you wonone of the canoe races.”
“How’s Dave been makin’ it lately？ Strikin’ it as rich asever， I suppose？” Lon asked， with apparent irrelevance.
She smiled and nodded， and then， noticing that I hadunlashed the bed roll， she indicated the end of the cabinwhere I might spread it. Her own bunk， I noticed， wasmade 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 withwatching Lon’s cooking operations， and listening the whileas for the sound of dogs along the trail. I lay back on theblankets and smoked and watched. Here was mystery； Icould make that much out， but no more could I make out.
Why in the deuce hadn’t Lon given me the tip before wearrived？ I looked at her face， unnoticed by her， and thelonger I looked the harder it was to take my eyes away. Itwas a wonderfully beautiful face， unearthly， I may say， witha light in it or an expression or something “that was neveron land or sea.” Fear and terror had completely vanished，and it was a placidly beautiful face—if by “placid” one cancharacterize that intangible and occult something that Icannot say was a radiance or a light any more than I cansay it was an expression.
Abruptly， as if for the first time， she became aware of mypresence.
“Have you seen Dave recently？” she asked me. It wason the tip of my tongue to say “Dave who？” when Loncoughed in the smoke that arose from the sizzling bacon.
The bacon might have caused that cough， but I took itas 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， “thatyou’ve never heard of Dave—of Big Dave Walsh？”
“You see，” I apologised， “I’m new in the country. I’ve putin most of my time in the Lower Country， down Nomeway.”
“Tell him about Dave，” she said to Lon.
Lon seemed put out， but he began in that hearty， genialmanner that I had noticed before. It seemed a shade toohearty and genial， and it irritated me.
“Oh， Dave is a fine man，” he said. “He’s a man， everyinch of him， and he stands six feet four in his socks. Hisword is as good as his bond. The man lies who ever saysDave told a lie， and that man will have to fight with me，too， as well—if there’s anything left of him when Davegets done with him. For Dave is a fighter. Oh， yes， he’sa scrapper from way back. He got a grizzly with a ’38popgun. He got clawed some， but he knew what he wasdoin’. He went into the cave on purpose to get that grizzly.
Fraid of nothing. Free an’ easy with his money， or hislast shirt an’ match when out of money. Why， he drainedSurprise Lake here in three weeks an’ took out ninetythousand， didn’t he？” She flushed and nodded her headproudly. Through his recital she had followed every wordwith keenest interest. “An’ I must say，” Lon went on， “thatI was disappointed sore on not meeting Dave here tonight.”
Lon served supper at one end of the table of whipsawedspruce， and we fell to eating. A howling of the dogstook the woman to the door. She opened it an inch andlistened.
“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 hereto-night，” I challenged.
