The missionary had edged off
to one side, and so Flush of Gold faced the box when it struck. It was
like in a play. It couldn't have been better planned. It struck on end,
and on the right end; the whole front of the box came off; and out swept
Dave Walsh on his feet, partly wrapped in a blanket, his yellow hair
flying and showing bright in the sun. Right out of the box, on his feet,
he swept upon Flush of Gold. She didn't know he was dead, but it was
unmistakable, after hanging up two days on a timber jam, that he was
rising all right from the dead to claim her. Possibly that is what she
thought. At any rate, the sight froze her. She couldn't move. She just
sort of wilted and watched Dave Walsh coming for her! And he got her. It
looked almost as though he threw his arms around her, but whether or not
this happened, down to the deck they went together. We had to drag Dave
Walsh's body clear before we could get hold of her. She was in a faint,
but it would have been just as well if she had never come out of that
faint; for when she did, she fell to screaming the way insane people do.
She kept it up for hours, till she was exhausted. Oh, yes, she
recovered. You saw her last night, and know how much recovered she is.
She is not violent, it is true, but she lives in darkness. She believes
that she is waiting for Dave Walsh, and so she waits in the cabin he
built for her. She is no longer fickle. It is nine years now that she
has been faithful to Dave Walsh, and the outlook is that she'll be
faithful to him to the end."

Lon McFane pulled down the top of the blankets and prepared to crawl in.

"We have her grub hauled to her each year," he added, "and in general
keep an eye on her. Last night was the first time she ever recognized
me, though."

"Who are the we?" I asked.

"Oh," was the answer, "the Count and old Victor Chauvet and me. Do you
know, I think the Count is the one to be really sorry for. Dave Walsh
never did know that she was false to him. And she does not suffer. Her
darkness is merciful to her."

I lay silently under the blankets for the space of a minute.

"Is the Count still in the country?" I asked.

But there was a gentle sound of heavy breathing, and I knew Lon McFane
was asleep.

THE PASSING OF MARCUS O'BRIEN

"It is the judgment of this court that you vamose the camp . . . in the
customary way, sir, in the customary way."

Judge Marcus O'Brien was absent-minded,