then, with a bunch of the young bucks, she went over Chilcoot, cleaned
up her gold-cache, and brought it back with her.

"'And here I be, stranger,' she concluded her yarn, 'and here's the most
precious thing I own.'

"She pulled out a little pouch of buckskin, worn on her neck like a
locket, and opened it. And inside, wrapped in oiled silk, yellowed with
age and worn and thumbed, was the original scrap of newspaper containing
the quotation from Thoreau.

"'And are you happy... satisfied?' I asked her. 'With a quarter of a
million you wouldn't have to work down in the States. You must miss a
lot.'

"'Not much,' she answered. 'I wouldn't swop places with any woman down
in the States. These are my people; this is where I belong. But there
are times--and in her eyes smoldered up that hungry yearning I've
mentioned--'there are times when I wish most awful bad for that Thoreau
man to happen along.'

"'Why?' I asked.

"'So as I could marry him. I do get mighty lonesome at spells. I'm just
a woman--a real woman. I've heard tell of the other kind of women that
gallivanted off like me and did queer things--the sort that become
soldiers in armies, and sailors on ships. But those women are queer
themselves. They're more like men than women; they look like men and
they don't have ordinary women's needs. They don't want love, nor little
children in their arms and around their knees. I'm not that sort. I
leave it to you, stranger. Do I look like a man?'

"She didn't. She was a woman, a beautiful, nut-brown woman, with a
sturdy, health-rounded woman's body and with wonderful deep-blue woman's
eyes.

"'Ain't I woman?' she demanded. 'I am. I'm 'most all woman, and then
some. And the funny thing is, though I'm night-born in everything else,
I'm not when it comes to mating. I reckon that kind likes its own kind
best. That's the way it is with me, anyway, and has been all these
years.'

"'You mean to tell me--' I began.

"'Never,' she said, and her eyes looked into mine with the straightness
of truth. 'I had one husband, only--him I call the Ox; and I reckon he's
still down in Juneau running the hash-joint. Look him up, if you ever
get back, and you'll find he's rightly named.'

"And look him up I did, two years afterward. He was all she said--solid
and stolid, the Ox--shuffling around and waiting on the tables.

"'You need a wife to help you,' I said.

"'I had one once,' was his answer.

"'Widower?'

"'Yep. She went