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golden sunrise。 She was called Flush of Gold。 Ever heard of her？〃
Somewhere I had a confused and misty remembrance of having heard
the name； 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 sinned greatly
just the same。〃
〃But why do you speak always of her in the past tense； as though she
were dead？〃
〃Because of the darkness on her soul that is the same as 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 was not Flush of Gold。〃
〃And Dave？〃 I queried。
〃He built that cabin；〃 Lon answered； 〃He built it for her 。 。 。 and for
himself。 He is dead。 She is waiting for him there。 She half believes
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 for him there in
the cabin he built。 Who would rouse the dead？ Then who would rouse
the living that are dead？ Not I； and that is why I let on to expect to meet
Dave Walsh there last night。 I'll bet a stack that I'd a been more surprised
than she if I HAD met him there last night。〃
〃I do not understand；〃 I said。 〃Begin at the beginning； as a white man
should； and tell me the whole tale。〃
And Lon began。 〃Victor Chauvet was an old Frenchmanborn in the
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south of France。 He came to California in the days of gold。 He was a
pioneer。 He found no gold； but； instead； became a maker of bottled
sunshinein short； a grape…grower and wine…maker。 Also； he followed
gold excitements。 That is what brought him to Alaska in the early days；
and over the Chilcoot and down the Yukon long before the Carmack strike。
The old town site of Ten Mile was Chauvet's。 He carried the first mail
into Arctic City。 He staked those coal…mines on the Porcupine a dozen
years ago。 He grubstaked Loftus into the Nippennuck Country。 Now it
happened that Victor Chauvet was a good Catholic； loving two things in
this world； wine and woman。 Wine of all kinds he loved； but of woman；
only one； and she was the mother of Marie Chauvet。〃
Here I groaned aloud； having meditated beyond self…control over the
fact 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 of
Flush 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 pipe
aside。 〃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 the Flush of
Gold。 What more do you want？ Victor Chauvet never had much luck
to speak of。 He managed to live； and to get along； and to take good care
of Marie； who resembled the one woman he had loved。 He took very
good care of her。 Flush of Gold was the pet name he gave her。 Flush of
Gold Creek was named after herFlush of Gold town site； too。 The old
man was great on town sites； only he never landed them。
〃Now； honestly；〃 Lon said； with one of his lightning changes； 〃you've
seen her； what do you think of herof her looks； I mean？ How does she
strike your beauty sense？〃
〃She is remarkably beautiful；〃 I said。 〃I never saw anything like her
in my life。 In spite of the fact； last night； that I guessed she was mad； I
could not keep my eyes off of her。 It wasn't curiosity。 It was wonder；
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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 all men's
hearts 。 。 。 and heads。 She recalls； with an effort； that I once won a canoe
race at DawsonI； who once loved her； and was told by her of her love for
me。 It was her beauty that made all men love her。 She'd 'a' got the
apple from Paris； on application； and there wouldn't have been any Trojan
War； and to top it off she'd have thrown Paris down。 And now she lives
in darkness； and she who was always fickle； for the first time is constant
and constant to a shade； to a dead man she does not realize is dead。
〃And this is the way it was。 You remember what I said last night of
Dave WalshBig Dave Walsh？ He was all that I said； and more； many
times more。 He came into this country in the late eightiesthat's a
pioneer 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 thirteen fifty…
pound sacks of flour。 At first； each fall of the year； famine drove him out。
It was a lone land in those days。 No river steamboats； no grub； nothing
but salmon bellies and rabbit tracks。 But after famine chased him out three
years； he said he'd had enough of being chased； and the next year he
stayed。 He lived on straight meat when he was lucky enough to get it； he
ate eleven dogs that winter； 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。
He could outpack a Chilcat Indian； he could outpaddle a Stick； and he
could travel all day with wet feet when the thermometer registered fifty
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 tried to 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 could lie
his last dollar out of him。 'But it doesn't worry me；' he had a way of
laughing off his softness； 'it doesn't keep me awake