"Then have I, too, seen many pictures of life," he began; "pictures not
painted, but seen with the eyes. I have looked at them like through the
window at the man writing the letter. I have seen many pieces of life,
without beginning, without end, without understanding."

With a sudden change of position he turned his eyes full upon me and
regarded me thoughtfully.

"Look you," he said; "you are a painter-man. How would you paint this
which I saw, a picture without beginning, the ending of which I do not
understand, a piece of life with the northern lights for a candle and
Alaska for a frame."

"It is a large canvas," I murmured.

But he ignored me, for the picture he had in mind was before his eyes and
he was seeing it.

"There are many names for this picture," he said. "But in the picture
there are many sun-dogs, and it comes into my mind to call it 'The Sun-
Dog Trail.' It was a long time ago, seven years ago, the fall of '97,
when I saw the woman first time. At Lake Linderman I had one canoe, very
good Peterborough canoe. I came over Chilcoot Pass with two thousand
letters for Dawson. I was letter carrier. Everybody rush to Klondike at
that time. Many people on trail. Many people chop down trees and make
boats. Last water, snow in the air, snow on the ground, ice on the lake,
on the river ice in the eddies. Every day more snow, more ice. Maybe
one day, maybe three days, maybe six days, any day maybe freeze-up come,
then no more water, all ice, everybody walk, Dawson six hundred miles,
long time walk. Boat go very quick. Everybody want to go boat.
Everybody say, 'Charley, two hundred dollars you take me in canoe,'
'Charley, three hundred dollars,' 'Charley, four hundred dollars.' I say
no, all the time I say no. I am letter carrier.

"In morning I get to Lake Linderman. I walk all night and am much tired.
I cook breakfast, I eat, then I sleep on 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 she is twenty years old,
maybe twenty-five years old. She look at me. I look at her. She is
very tired. She is no dance-woman. I see that right away. She is good
woman, and she is very tired.

"'You are Sitka Charley,' she says. I get up quick and roll blankets so
snow does not get inside. 'I go to Dawson,' she says.