“She is remarkably beautiful，” I said. “I never sawanything like her in my life. In spite of the fact， last night，that I guessed she was mad， I could not keep my eyes offof her. It wasn’t curiosity. It was wonder， sheer wonder， shewas so strangely beautiful.”
“She was more strangely beautiful before the darknessfell upon her，” Lon said softly. “She was truly the Flushof Cold. She turned all men’s hearts ... and heads. Sherecalls， with an effort， that I once won a canoe race atDawson—I， who once loved her， and was told by her ofher love for me. It was her beauty that made all men loveher. She’d ’a’ got the apple from Paris， on application， andthere wouldn’t have been any Trojan War， and to top itoff she’d have thrown Paris down. And now she lives indarkness， and she who was always fickle， for the first timeis constant—and constant to a shade， to a dead man shedoes not realize is dead.
“And this is the way it was. You remember what I saidlast night of Dave Walsh—Big Dave Walsh？ He was allthat I said， and more， many times more. He came into thiscountry in the late eighties—that’s a pioneer for you. Hewas twenty years old then. He was a young bull. When hewas twenty-five he could lift clear of the ground thirteenfifty-pound sacks of flour. At first， each fall of the year，famine drove him out. It was a lone land in those days. Noriver steamboats， no grub， nothing but salmon bellies andrabbit tracks. But after famine chased him out three years，he said he’d had enough of being chased； and the next yearhe stayed. He lived on straight meat when he was luckyenough to get it； he ate eleven dogs that winter； but hestayed. And the next winter he stayed， and the next. Henever did leave the country again. He was a bull， a greatbull. He could kill the strongest man in the country withhard work. He could outpack a Chilcat Indian， he couldoutpaddle a Stick， and he could travel all day with wetfeet when the thermometer registered fifty below zero，and that’s going some， I tell you， for vitality. You’d freezeyour feet at twenty-five below if you wet them and tried tokeep on.
“Dave Walsh was a bull for strength. And yet he wassoft and easy-natured. Anybody could do him， the latestshort-horn in camp could lie his last dollar out of him.
‘But it doesn’t worry me，’ he had a way of laughing off hissoftness； ‘it doesn’t keep me awake nights.’ Now don’t getthe idea that he had no backbone. You remember aboutthe bear he went after with the popgun. When it came tofighting Dave was the blamedest ever. He was the limit， ifby that I may describe his unlimitedness when he got intoaction， he was easy and kind with the weak， but the stronghad to give trail when he went by. And he was a man thatmen liked， which is the finest word of all， a man’s man.
“Dave never took part in the big stampede to Dawsonwhen Carmack made the Bonanza strike. You see， Davewas just then over on Mammon Creek strikin’ it himself.
He discovered Mammon Creek. Cleaned eighty-fourthousand up that winter， and opened up the claim so thatit promised a couple of hundred thousand for the nextwinter. Then， summer bein’ on and the ground sloshy，he took a trip up the Yukon to Dawson to see whatCarmack’s strike looked like. And there he saw Flush ofGold. I remember the night. I shall always remember. Itwas something sudden， and it makes one shiver to thinkof a strong man with all the strength withered out of himby one glance from the soft eyes of a weak， blond， femalecreature like Flush of Gold. It was at her dad’s cabin， oldVictor Chauvet’s. Some friend had brought Dave along totalk over town sites on Mammon Creek. But little talkingdid he do， and what he did was mostly gibberish. I tell youthe sight of Flush of Gold had sent Dave clean daffy. OldVictor Chauvet insisted after Dave left that he had beendrunk. And so he had. He was drunk， but Flush of Goldwas the strong drink that made him so.
“That settled it， that first glimpse he caught of her.
He did not start back down the Yukon in a week， as hehad intended. He lingered on a month， two months，all summer. And we who had suffered understood， andwondered what the outcome would be. Undoubtedly，in our minds， it seemed that Flush of Gold had met hermaster. And why not？ There was romance sprinkled allover Dave Walsh. He was a Mammon King， he had madethe Mammon Creek strike； he was an old sour dough， oneof the oldest pioneers in the land—men turned to lookat him when he went by， and said to one another in awedundertones， ‘There goes Dave Walsh.’ And why not？ Hestood six feet four； he had yellow hair himself that curledon his neck； and he was a bull—a yellow-maned bull justturned thirty-one.
“And Flush of Gold loved him， and， having dancedhim through a whole summer’s courtship， at the endtheir engagement was made known. The fall of the yearwas at hand， Dave had to be back for the winter’s workon Mammon Creek， and Flush of Gold refused to bemarried right away. Dave put Dusky Burns in chargeof the Mammon Creek claim， and himself lingered onin Dawson. Little use. She wanted her freedom a whilelonger； she must have it， and she would not marry untilnext year. And so， on the first ice， Dave Walsh went alonedown the Yukon behind his dogs， with the understandingthat the marriage would take place when he arrived on thefirst steamboat of the next year.
