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Wiley and Hatchett were there. Responding to his call, they stepped forward, though they had now little relish for the matter. They were pale, but they stripped their coats and waistcoats, and Wiley stepped bravely in front of Macavoy. The giant looked down on him, arms folded. “I said two of you,” he crooned, as if speaking to a woman. Hatchett stepped forward also. An instant after the settlers were lying on the ground at different angles, bruised and dismayed, and little likely to carry on the war. Macavoy took a pail of water from the ground, drank from it lightly, and waited. None other of his opponents stirred. “There’s three Injins,” he said, “three rid divils, that wants showin’ the way to their happy huntin’ grounds…. Sure, y’are comin’, ain’t you, me darlins?” he added coaxingly, and he stretched himself, as if to make ready.

Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three Indians, and they stepped forth warily. They had determined on strategic wrestling, and not on the instant activity of fists. But their wiliness was useless, for Macavoy’s double-and-twist came near to lessening the Indian population of Fort O’Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm, however. The Irishman came out of the tangle of battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his beard all torn, and face battered. A shout of laughter, admiration and wonder went up from the crowd. There was a moment’s pause, and then Macavoy, whose blood ran high, stood forth again. The Trader came to him.

“Must this go on?” he said; “haven’t you had your fill of it?”

Had he touched Macavoy with a word of humour the matter might have ended there; but now the giant spoke loud, so all could hear.

“Had me fill av it, Trader, me angel? I’m only gittin’ the taste av it. An’ ye’ll plaze bring on yer men–four it was–for the feed av Irish pemmican.”

The Trader turned and swore at Pierre, who smiled enigmatically. Soon after, two of the best fighters of the Company’s men stood forth. Macavoy shook his head. “Four, I said, an’ four I’ll have, or I’ll ate the heads aff these.”

Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All on an instant the four made a rush on the giant; and there was a stiff minute after, in which it was not clear that he was happy. Blows rattled on him, and one or two he got on the head, just as he tossed a man spinning senseless across the grass, which sent him staggering backwards for a moment, sick and stunned.

Pierre called over to him swiftly: “Remember Malahide!”

This acted on him like a charm. There never was seen such a shattered bundle of men as came out from his hands a few minutes later. As for himself, he had but a rag or two on him, but stood unmindful of his state, and the fever of battle untameable on him. The women drew away.

“Now, me babes o’ the wood,” he shouted, “that sit at the feet av the finest Injin woman in the North,–though she’s no frind o’ mine–and aren’t fit to kiss her moccasin, come an wid you, till I have me fun wid your spines.”

But a shout went up, and the crowd pointed. There were the five half-breeds running away across the plains.

The game was over.

“Here’s some clothes, man; for Heaven’s sake put them on,” said the Trader.

Then the giant became conscious of his condition, and like a timid girl he hurried into the clothing.

The crowd would have carried him on their shoulders, but he would have none of it.

“I’ve only wan frind here,” he said, “an’ it’s Pierre, an’ to his shanty I go an’ no other.”

“Come, mon ami,” said Pierre, “for to-morrow we travel far.”

“And what for that?” said Macavoy.

Pierre whispered in his ear: “To make you a king, my lovely bully.”