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Updated: June 18, 2025
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.
"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.
It reached the ears of those above like a greeting from an outside world. They answered, "Right, Macavoy!" Years afterwards these men told how then there came in reply one word, ringing roundly through the hills the note and symbol of a crisis, the fantastic cipher of a soul: "M'Guire!"
A new batch of settlers was coming from the south, and among them was an old Irishwoman who called herself now Mrs. Whelan, now Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she was to find, one Tim Macavoy, whose fame Gossip had brought to her at last. She had clung on to the settlers, and they could not shake her off.
Pierre watched Macavoy, sitting with a sponge of vinegar to his head, for he had had nasty joltings in his great fight. A little laugh came crinkling up to the half-breed's lips, but dissolved into silence. "We'll start in the morning," he said. Macavoy looked up. "Whin you plaze; but a word in your ear; are you sure she'll not follow us?" "She doesn't know. Fort Ste.
But first he made Macavoy from a lovely bully, a bulk of good-natured brag, into a Hercules of fight; for, having made him insult and be insulted by near a score of men at Fort O'Angel, he also made him fight them by twos, threes, and fours, all on a summer's evening, and send them away broken. Macavoy would have hesitated to go with Pierre, were it not that he feared a woman.
Once or twice he smiled and puffed in his beard, but perhaps that was involuntary, or was, maybe, a vague reflection of his dreams, themselves most vague, for he was only soaking in sun and air and life. Within an hour they saw the wild duck-again passing the crest of Guidon, and they watched it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling the gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams.
Pierre turned her shy coaxing into irony that was on the day when all Fort O'Angel conspired to prove Macavoy a child and not a warrior. But when she saw what she had done, and that the giant was greater than his years of brag, she repented, and hung a dead coyote at Pierre's door as a sign of her contempt.
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.
Then it was that Macavoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly stopped beside the horse, drew from his pocket the promissory note that Pierre had written, and said, "Yis, but all the weddin'-gifts aren't in.
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