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“At that there was thunder and fire in the sky, and because the great Macavoy blew his breath over them they withered like the leaves,” cried Wonta, laughing; but her laugh had an edge.

Macavoy stopped short, open-mouthed, breathing hard in his great beard. He was astonished at Wonta’s raillery; the more so when she presently snapped her fingers, and the other maidens, laughing, did the same. Some of the half-breeds snapped their fingers also in sympathy, and shrugged their shoulders. Wonta came up to him softly, patted him on the head, and said: “Like Macavoy there is nobody. He is a great brave. He is not afraid of a coyote, he has killed prairie-hens in numbers as pebbles by the lakes. He has a breast like a fat ox,”–here she touched the skin of his broad chest,–“and he will die if you do not fight him.”

Then she drew back, as though in humble 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.