A Romany of the Snows, Complete. Gilbert Parker

a long time ago, I’m thinkin’,” he said, “since I lost me frinds—ages an’ ages ago. For me frinds are me inimies now, an’ that makes a man old. But I’ll not say that it cripples his arm or humbles his back.” He drew his arm up once or twice and shot it out straight into the air like a catapult. “It’s all right,” he added, very softly, “an’, Half-breed, me b’y, if me frinds have turned inimies, why, I’m thinkin’ me inimy has turned frind, for that I’m sure you were, an’ this I’m certain y ‘are. So here’s the grip av me fist, an’ y’ll have it.” Pierre remembered that disconcerting, iron grip of friendship for many a day. He laughed to himself to think how he was turning the braggart into a warrior. “Well,” said Pierre, “what about those five at Wonta’s tent?”

      “I’ll be there whin the sun dips below the Little Red Hill,” he said, as though his thoughts were far away, and he turned his face towards Wonta’s tent. Presently he laughed out loud. “It’s manny along day,” he said, “since—”

      Then he changed his thoughts. “They’ve spoke sharp words in me teeth,” he continued, “and they’ll pay for it. Bounce! sweat! brag! wind! is it? There’s dancin’ beyant this night, me darlins!”

      “Are you sure you’ll not run away when they come on?” said Pierre, a little ironically.

      “Is that the word av a frind?” replied Macavoy, a hand fumbling in his hair.

      “Did you never run away when faced?” Pierre asked pitilessly.

      “I never turned tail from a man, though, to be sure, it’s been more talk than fight up here: Fort Ste. Anne’s been but a graveyard for fun these years.”

      “Eh, well,” persisted Pierre, “but did you never turn tail from a slip of a woman?”

      The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered his beard in his mouth, chewing it confusedly. “You’ve a keen tongue for a question,” was his reply. “What for should anny man run from a woman?”

      “When the furniture flies, an’ the woman knows more of the world in a day than the man does in a year; and the man’s a hulking bit of an Irishman—bien, then things are so and so!”

      Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trembling. “Come into the shade of these maples,” said Pierre, “for the sun has set you quaking a little,” and he put out his hand to take Macavoy’s arm.

      The giant drew away from the hand, but walked on to the trees. His face seemed to have grown older by years on the moment. “What’s this y’are sayin’ to me?” he asked hoarsely. “What do you know av—av that woman?”

      “Malahide is a long way off,” said Pierre, “but when one travels why shouldn’t the other?”

      Macavoy made a helpless motion with his lumbering hand. “Mother o’ saints,” he said, “has it come to that, after all these years? Is she—tell me where she is, me frind, and you’ll niver want an arm to fight for ye, an’ the half av a blanket, while I have wan!”

      “But you’ll run as you did before, if I tell you, an’ there’ll be no fighting to-night, accordin’ to the word you’ve given.”

      “No fightin’, did ye say? an’ run away, is it? Then this in your eye, that if ye’ll bring an army, I’ll fight till the skin is in rags on me bones, whin it’s only men that’s before me; but woman—and that wan! Faith, I’d run, I’m thinkin’, as I did, you know when—Don’t tell me that she’s here, man; arrah, don’t say that!”

      There was something pitiful and childlike in the big man’s voice, so much so that Pierre, calculating gamester as he was, and working upon him as he had been for many weeks, felt a sudden pity, and dropping his fingers on the other’s arm, said: “No, Macavoy, my friend, she is not here; but she is at Fort Ste. Anne—or was when I left there.”

      Macavoy groaned. “Does she know that I’m here?” he asked.

      “I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away, and she may not hear.”

      “What—what is she doing?”

      “Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan’s green.” Then Pierre told him somewhat bluntly what he knew of Mrs. Macavoy.

      “I’d rather face Ballzeboob himself than her,” said Macavoy. “An’ she’s sure to find me.”

      “Not if you do as I say.”

      “An’ what is it ye say, little man?”

      “Come away with me where she’ll not find you.”

      “An’ where’s that, Pierre darlin’?”

      “I’ll tell you that when to-night’s fighting’s over. Have you a mind for Wonta?” he continued.

      “I’ve a mind for Wonta an’ many another as fine, but I’m a married man,” he said, “by priest an’ by book; an’ I can’t forget that, though the woman’s to me as the pit below.”

      Pierre looked curiously at him. “You’re a wonderful fool,” he said, “but I’m not sure that I like you less for that. There was Shon M’Gann—but it is no matter.” He sighed and continued: “When to-night is over, you shall have work and fun that you’ve been fattening for this many a year, and the woman’ll not find you, be sure of that. Besides—” he whispered in Macavoy’s ear.

      “Poor divil, poor divil, she’d always a throat for that; but it’s a horrible death to die, I’m thinkin’.” Macavoy’s chin dropped on his breast.

      When the sun was falling below Little Red Hill, Macavoy came to Wonta’s tent. Pierre was not far away. What occurred in the tent Pierre never quite knew, but presently he saw Wonta run out in a frightened way, followed by the five half-breeds, who carried themselves awkwardly. Behind them again, with head shaking from one side to the other, travelled Macavoy; and they all marched away towards the Fort. “Well,” said Pierre to Wonta, “he is amusing, eh?—so big a coward, eh?”

      “No, no,” she said, “you are wrong. He is no coward. He is a great brave. He spoke like a little child, but he said he would fight them all when—”

      “When their turn came,” interposed Pierre, with a fine “bead” of humour in his voice; “well, you see he has much to do.” He pointed towards the Fort, where people were gathering fast. The strange news had gone abroad, and the settlement, laughing joyously, came to see Macavoy swagger; they did not think there would be fighting.

      Those whom Macavoy had challenged were not so sure. When the giant reached the open space in front of the Fort, he looked slowly round him. A great change had come over him. His skin seemed drawn together more firmly, and running himself up finely to his full height, he looked no longer the lounging braggart. Pierre measured him with his eye, and chuckled to himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his coat and waistcoat, and rolled up his sleeves. His shirt was flying at the chest.

      He beckoned to Pierre.

      “Are you standin’ me frind in this?” he said. “Now and after,” said Pierre.

      His voice was very simple. “I never felt as I do since the day the coast-guardsmin dropped on me in Ireland far away, an’ I drew blood an every wan o’ them—fine beautiful b’ys they looked—stretchen’ out on the ground wan by wan. D’ye know the double-an’-twist?” he suddenly added, “for it’s a honey trick whin they gather in an you, an’ you can’t be layin’ out wid yer fists. It plays the divil wid the spines av thim. Will ye have a drop av drink—cold water, man—near, an’ a sponge betune whiles? For there’s manny in the play—makin’ up for lost time. Come on,” he added to the two settlers, who stood not far away, “for ye began the trouble, an’ we’ll settle accordin’ to a, b, c.”

      Wiley and Hatchett were there. Responding to his call, they stepped forward, though they