A Romany of the Snows, Complete. Gilbert Parker

dread, and glided away with the other maidens, Macavoy staring after her, with a blustering kind of shame in his face. The half-breeds laughed, and, one by one, they got up, and walked away also. Macavoy looked round: there was no one near save Pierre, whose eye rested on him lazily. Macavoy got to his feet, muttering. This was the first time in his experience at Fort O’Angel that he had been bluffed—and by a girl; one for whom he had a very soft place in his big heart. Pierre came slowly over to him.

      “I’d have it out with her,” said he. “She called you a bully and a brag.”

      “Out with her?” cried Macavoy. “How can ye have it out wid a woman?”

      “Fight her,” said Pierre pensively.

      “Fight her? fight her? Holy smoke! How can you fight a woman?”

      “Why, what—do you—fight?” asked Pierre innocently.

      Macavoy grinned in a wild kind of fashion. “Faith, then, y’are a fool. Bring on the divil an’ all his angels, say I, and I’ll fight thim where I stand.”

      Pierre ran his fingers down Macavoy’s arm, and said “There’s time enough for that. I’d begin with the five.”

      “What five, then?”

      “Her half-breed lovers: Big Eye, One Toe, Jo-John, Saucy Boy, and Limber Legs.”

      “Her lovers? Her lovers, is it? Is there truth on y’r tongue?”

      “Go to her father’s tent at sunset, and you’ll find one or all of them there.”

      “Oh, is that it?” said the Irishman, opening and shutting his fists. “Then I’ll carve their hearts out, an’ ate thim wan by wan this night.”

      “Come down to Wiley’s,” said Pierre; “there’s better company there than here.”

      Pierre had arranged many things, and had secured partners in his little scheme for humbling the braggart. He so worked on the other’s good nature that by the time they reached the settler’s place, Macavoy was stretching himself with a big pride. Seated at Wiley’s table, with Hatchett and others near, and drink going about, someone drew the giant on to talk, and so deftly and with such apparent innocence did Pierre, by a word here and a nod there, encourage him, that presently he roared at Wiley and Hatchett:

      “Ye shameless buccaneers that push your way into the tracks of honest men, where the Company’s been three hundred years by the will o’ God—if it wasn’t for me, ye Jack Sheppards—”

      Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet with pretended rage, saying he’d insulted them both, that he was all froth and brawn, and giving him the lie.

      Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only stare, puffing in his beard, and drawing in his legs, which had been spread out at angles. He looked from Wiley to the impassive Pierre. “Buccaneers, you callus,” Wiley went on; “well, we’ll have no more of that, or there’ll be trouble at Fort O’Angel.”

      “Ah, sure y’are only jokin’,” said Macavoy, “for I love ye, ye scoundrels. It’s only me fun.”

      “For fun like that you’ll pay, ruffian!” said Hatchett, bringing down his fist on the table with a bang.

      Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, but there was nothing of the coward in his face. “Oh, well,” said he, “I’ll be goin’, for ye’ve got y’r teeth all raspin’.”

      As he went the two men laughed after him mockingly. “Wind like a bag,” said Hatchett. “Bone like a marrow-fat pea,” added Wiley.

      Macavoy was at the door, but at that he turned. “If ye care to sail agin’ that wind, an’ gnaw on that bone, I’d not be sayin’ you no.”

      “Will to-night do—at sunset?” said Wiley.

      “Bedad, then, me b’ys, sunset’ll do—an’ not more than two at a time,” he added softly, all the roar gone from his throat. Then he went out, followed by Pierre.

      Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and laughed a little confusedly. “What’s that he said?” muttered Wiley. “Not more than two at a time, was it?”

      “That was it. I don’t know that it’s what we bargained for, after all.” He looked round on the other settlers present, who had been awed by the childlike, earnest note in Macavoy’s last words. They shook their heads now a little sagely; they weren’t so sure that Pierre’s little game was so jovial as it had promised.

      Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much from his giant as yet. In a little while he had got Macavoy back to his old humour.

      “What was I made for but war!” said the Irishman, “an’ by war to kape thim at peace, wherever I am.” Soon he was sufficiently restored in spirits to go with Pierre to Bareback’s lodge, where, sitting at the tent door, with idlers about, he smoked with the chief and his braves. Again Pierre worked upon him adroitly, and again he became loud in speech, and grandly patronising.

      “I’ve stood by ye like a father, ye loafers,” he said, “an’ I give you my word, ye howlin’ rogues—”

      Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came up suddenly from the ground, and the chief said fiercely: “You speak crooked things. We are no rogues. We will fight.”

      Macavoy’s face ran red to his hair. He scratched his head a little foolishly, and gathered himself up. “Sure, ’twas only me tasin’, darlins,” he said, “but I’ll be comin’ again, when y’are not so narvis.” He turned to go away.

      Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the Indian touched the giant on the arm. “Will you fight?” said he.

      “Not all o’ ye at once,” said Macavoy slowly, running his eye carefully along the half-dozen; “not more than three at a toime,” he added with a simple sincerity, his voice again gone like the dove’s. “At what time will it be convaynyint for ye?” he asked.

      “At sunset,” said the chief, “before the Fort.” Macavoy nodded and walked away with Pierre, whose glance of approval at the Indians did not make them thoroughly happy.

      To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He had already three engagements of violence for sunset. Pierre directed their steps by a roundabout to the Company’s stores, and again there was a distinct improvement in the giant’s spirits. Here at least he could be himself, he thought, here no one should say him nay. As if nerved by the idea, he plunged at once into boisterous raillery of the Chief Trader. “Oh, ho,” he began, “me freebooter, me captain av the looters av the North!” The Trader snarled at him. “What d’ye mean, by such talk to me, sir? I’ve had enough—we’ve all had enough—of your brag and bounce; for you’re all sweat and swill-pipe, and I give you this for your chewing, that though by the Company’s rules I can’t go out and fight you, you may have your pick of my men for it. I’ll take my pay for your insults in pounded flesh—Irish pemmican!”

      Macavoy’s face became mottled with sudden rage. He roared, as, perhaps, he had never roared before: “Are ye all gone mad-mad-mad? I was jokin’ wid ye, whin I called ye this or that. But by the swill o’ me pipe, and the sweat o’ me skin, I’ll drink the blood o’ yees, Trader, me darlin’. An’ all I’ll ask is, that ye mate me to-night whin the rest o’ the pack is in front o’ the Fort—but not more than four o’ yees at a time—for little scrawney rats as y’are, too many o’ yees wad be in me way.” He wheeled and strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently.

      “He’s a great bully that, isn’t he, Trader? There’ll be fun in front of the Fort to-night. For he’s only bragging, of course—eh?”

      The Trader nodded with no great assurance, and then Pierre said as a parting word: “You’ll be there, of course—only four av ye!” and hurried out after Macavoy, humming to himself—

      “For the King said this,