“The Indian didn’t know what to do with the corpse.  Ordinarily he’d have buried him and let it go at that.  But he knew that Dave Walsh was a big man, worth lots of money, a hi-yu skookum chief.  Likewise he’d seen the bodies of other hi-yu skookums carted around the country like they were worth something.  So he decided to take Dave’s body to Forty Mile, which was Dave’s headquarters.  You know how the ice is on the grass roots in this country—­well, the Indian planted Dave under a foot of soil—­in short, he put Dave on ice.  Dave could have stayed there a thousand years and still been the same old Dave.  You understand—­just the same as a refrigerator.  Then the Indian brings over a whipsaw from the cabin at Surprise Lake and makes lumber enough for the box.  Also, waiting for the thaw, he goes out and shoots about ten thousand pounds of moose.  This he keeps on ice, too.  Came the thaw.  The Teelee broke.  He built a raft and loaded it with the meat, the big box with Dave inside, and Dave’s team of dogs, and away they went down the Teelee.

“The raft got caught on a timber jam and hung up two days.  It was scorching hot weather, and Mr. Indian nearly lost his moose meat.  So when he got to Teelee Portage he figured a steamboat would get to Forty Mile quicker than his raft.  He transferred his cargo, and there you are, fore-lower deck of the Golden Rocket, Flush of Gold being married, and Dave Walsh in his big box casting the shade for her.  And there’s one thing I clean forgot.  No wonder I thought the husky dog that came aboard at Teelee Portage was familiar.  It was Pee-lat, Dave Walsh’s lead-dog and favourite—­a terrible fighter, too.  He was lying down beside the box.

“Flush of Gold caught sight of me, called me over, shook hands with me, and introduced me to the Count.  She was beautiful.  I was as mad for her then as ever.  She smiled into my eyes and said I must sign as one of the witnesses.  And there was no refusing her.  She was ever a child, cruel as children are cruel.  Also, she told me she was in possession of the only two bottles of champagne in Dawson—­or that had been in Dawson the night before; and before I knew it I was scheduled to drink her and the Count’s health.  Everybody crowded round, the captain of the steamboat, very prominent, trying to ring in on the wine, I guess.  It was a funny wedding.  On the upper deck the hospital wrecks, with various feet in the grave, gathered and looked down to see.  There were Indians all jammed in the circle, too, big bucks, and their squaws and kids, to say nothing of about twenty-five snarling wolf-dogs.  The missionary lined the two of them up and started in with the service.  And just then a dog-fight started, high up on the pile of freight—­Pee-lat lying beside the big box, and a white-haired brute belonging to one of the Indians.  The fight wasn’t explosive at all.  The brutes just snarled at each other from a distance—­tapping at each other long-distance, you know, saying dast and dassent, dast and dassent.  The noise was rather disturbing, but you could hear the missionary’s voice above it.