It was in the A. C. Company’s big store at Dawson, on a morning of crisp frost, that Lucille Arral beckoned Smoke Bellew over to the dry-goods counter.  The clerk had gone on an expedition into the storerooms, and, despite the huge, red-hot stoves, Lucille had drawn on her mittens again.

Smoke obeyed her call with alacrity.  The man did not exist in Dawson who would not have been flattered by the notice of Lucille Arral, the singing soubrette of the tiny stock company that performed nightly at the Palace Opera House.

“Things are dead,” she complained, with pretty petulance, as soon as they had shaken hands.  “There hasn’t been a stampede for a week.  That masked ball Skiff Mitchell was going to give us has been postponed.  There’s no dust in circulation.  There’s always standing-room now at the Opera House.  And there hasn’t been a mail from the Outside for two whole weeks.  In short, this burg has crawled into its cave and gone to sleep.  We’ve got to do something.  It needs livening—­and you and I can do it.  We can give it excitement if anybody can.  I’ve broken with Wild Water, you know.”

Smoke caught two almost simultaneous visions.  One was of Joy Gastell; the other was of himself, in the midst of a bleak snow-stretch, under a cold arctic moon, being pot-shotted with accurateness and dispatch by the aforesaid Wild Water.  Smoke’s reluctance at raising excitement with the aid of Lucille Arral was too patent for her to miss.

“I’m not thinking what you are thinking at all, thank you,” she chided, with a laugh and a pout.  “When I throw myself at your head you’ll have to have more eyes and better ones than you have now to see me.”

“Men have died of heart disease at the sudden announcement of good fortune,” he murmured in the unveracious gladness of relief.

“Liar,” she retorted graciously.  “You were more scared to death than anything else.  Now take it from me, Mr. Smoke Bellew, I’m not going to make love to you, and if you dare to make love to me, Wild Water will take care of your case.  You know him.  Besides, I—­I haven’t really broken with him.”

“Go on with your puzzles,” he jeered.  “Maybe I can start guessing what you’re driving at after a while.”

“There’s no guessing, Smoke.  I’ll give it to you straight.  Wild Water thinks I’ve broken with him, don’t you see.”

“Well, have you, or haven’t you?”

“I haven’t—­there!  But it’s between you and me in confidence.  He thinks I have.  I made a noise like breaking with him, and he deserved it, too.”

“Where do I come in, stalking-horse or fall-guy?”

“Neither.  You make a pot of money, we put across the laugh on Wild Water and cheer Dawson up, and, best of all, and the reason for it all, he gets disciplined.  He needs it.  He’s—­well, the best way to put it is, he’s too turbulent.  Just because he’s a big husky, because he owns more rich claims than he can keep count of—­”