and said: “Run, ye rid divil, run for y’r life!”
A dozen spears were raised, but the rifles of Pierre’s men came in between: the Indian reached cover and was gone. Of the six others, two had been killed, the rest were severely wounded, and Macavoy had not a scratch.
Pierre smiled grimly. “You’ve been doing all the fighting, Macavoy,” he said.
“There’s no bein’ a king for nothin’,” he replied, wiping blood from his beard.
“It’s my turn now, but keep your rifles ready, though I think there’s no need.”
Pierre had but a short minute with the champion, for he was an expert with the knife. He carried away four fingers of the Indian’s fighting hand, and that ended it; for the next instant the point was at the red man’s throat. The Indian stood to take it like a man; but Pierre loved that kind of courage, and shot the knife into its sheath instead.
The old chief kept his word, and after the spears were piled, he shook hands with Macavoy, as did his braves one by one, and they were all moved by the sincerity of his grasp: their arms were useless for some time after. They hailed as their ruler, King Macavoy I.; for men are like dogs—they worship him who beats them. The feasting and dancing went on till the hunters came back. Then there was a wild scene, but in the end all the hunters, satisfied, came to greet their new king.
The king himself went to bed in the Fort that night, Pierre and his bodyguard—by name Noel, Little Babiche, Corvette, Jose, and Parfaite—its only occupants, singing joyfully:
“Did yees iver hear tell o’ Long Barney,
That come from the groves o’ Killarney?
He wint for a king, oh, he wint for a king,
But he niver keen back to Killarney
Wid his crown, an’ his soord, an’ his army!”
As a king Macavoy was a success, for the brag had gone from him. Like all his race he had faults as a subject, but the responsibility of ruling set him right. He found in the Fort an old sword and belt, left by some Hudson’s Bay Company’s man, and these he furbished up and wore.
With Pierre’s aid he drew up a simple constitution, which he carried in the crown of his cap, and he distributed beads and gaudy trappings as marks of honour. Nor did he forget the frequent pipe of peace, made possible to all by generous gifts of tobacco. Anyone can found a kingdom abaft the Barren Grounds with tobacco, beads, and red flannel.
For very many weeks it was a happy kingdom. But presently Pierre yawned, and was ready to return. Three of the half-breeds were inclined to go with him. Jose and Little Babiche had formed alliances which held them there—besides, King Macavoy needed them.
On the eve of Pierre’s departure a notable thing occurred.
A young brave had broken his leg in hunting, had been picked up by a band of another tribe, and carried south. He found himself at last at Fort O’Angel. There he had met Mrs. Whelan, and for presents of tobacco, and purple and fine linen, he had led her to her consort. That was how the king and Pierre met her in the yard of Fort Comfort one evening of early autumn. Pierre saw her first, and was for turning the King about and getting him away; but it was too late. Mrs. Whelan had seen him, and she called out at him:
“Oh, Tim! me jool, me king, have I found ye, me imp’ror!”
She ran at him, to throw her arms round him. He stepped back, the red of his face going white, and said, stretching out his hand, “Woman, y’are me wife, I know, whativer y’ be; an’ y’ve right to have shelter and bread av me; but me arms, an’ me bed, are me own to kape or to give; and, by God, ye shall have nayther one nor the other! There’s a ditch as wide as hell betune us.”
The Indians had gathered quickly; they filled the yard, and crowded the gate. The woman went wild, for she had been drinking. She ran at Macavoy and spat in his face, and called down such a curse on him as, whoever hears, be he one that’s cursed or any other, shudders at till he dies. Then she fell in a fit at his feet. Macavoy turned to the Indians, stretched out his hands and tried to speak, but could not. He stooped down, picked up the woman, carried her into the Fort, and laid her on a bed of skins.
“What will you do?” asked Pierre.
“She is my wife,” he answered firmly.
“She lived with Whelan.”
“She must be cared for,” was the reply. Pierre looked at him with a curious quietness. “I’ll get liquor for her,” he said presently. He started to go, but turned and felt the woman’s pulse. “You would keep her?” he asked.
“Bring the liquor.” Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the sleeve of his shirt in it, wetted her face gently.
Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that the woman would die. He stayed with Macavoy beside her all the night. Towards morning her eyes opened, and she shivered greatly.
“It’s bither cold,” she said. “You’ll put more wood on the fire, Tim, for the babe must be kept warrum.”
She thought she was at Malahide.
“Oh, wurra, wurra, but ’tis freezin’!” she said again. “Why d’ye kape the door opin whin the child’s perishin’?”
Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shaking him.
“I’ll shut the door meself, thin,” she added; “for ’twas I that lift it opin, Tim.” She started up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell back.
“The door is shut,” said Pierre.
“But the child—the child!” said Macavoy, tears running down his face and beard.
THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING
Once Macavoy the giant ruled a tribe of Northern people, achieving the dignity by the hands of Pierre, who called him King Macavoy. Then came a time when, tiring of his kingship, he journeyed south, leaving all behind, even his queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and yarrow, came forth no more into the morning. About Fort Guidon they still gave him his title, and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and generosity, Pierre called him “The Simple King.” His seven feet and over shambled about, suggesting unjointed power, unshackled force. No one hated Macavoy, many loved him, he was welcome at the fire and the cooking-pot; yet it seemed shameful to have so much man useless—such an engine of life, which might do great things, wasting fuel. Nobody thought much of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps, Pierre, who sometimes said, “My simple king, some day you shall have your great chance again; but not as a king—as a giant, a man—voila!”
The day did not come immediately, but it came. When Ida, the deaf and dumb girl, married Hilton, of the H.B.C., every man at Fort Guidon, and some from posts beyond, sent her or brought her presents of one kind or another. Pierre’s gift was a Mexican saddle. He was branding Ida’s name on it with the broken blade of a case-knife when Macavoy entered on him, having just returned from a vagabond visit to Fort Ste. Anne.
“Is it digging out or carvin’ in y’are?” he asked, puffing into his beard.
Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not reply to the insinuation, for he never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it; and he would not quarrel with Macavoy.
“What are you going to give?” he asked.
“Aw, give what to who, hop-o’-me-thumb?” Macavoy said, stretching himself out in the doorway, his legs in the sun, head in the shade.
“You’ve been taking a walk in the country, then?” Pierre asked, though he knew.
“To Fort