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Updated: June 18, 2025
"Sure, that's a poor game, Pierre," he whispered; "an' I'd rather be pluggin' their hides wid bullets, or givin' the double-an'-twist. It's fightin' I come for, and not the trick av Mother Kilkevin." Pierre arranged a plan of campaign at once. Every man looked to his gun, the gates were slowly opened, and Macavoy stepped out.
Among the Indian maidens Macavoy was like a king or khan; for they count much on bulk and beauty, and he answered to their standards especially to Wonta's.
Suddenly loosing him, he turned him towards the woods, 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.
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.
Quelle vie what life!" To this Macavoy said: "Spit-spat! But what the devil good does all yer thinkin' do ye, Pierre? It's argufy here and argufy there, an' while yer at that, me an' the rest av us is squeezin' the fun out o' life. Aw, go 'long wid ye. Y'are only a bit o' hell and grammar, annyway.
'Ay, little Tim Macavoy, he says, says he, 'you've bin 'atin' the husks av idleness long enough; when are you goin' to buckle to? You had a kingdom and ye guv it up, says he; 'take a field, get a plough, and buckle to, says he, 'an' turn back no more' like that, says Father Corraine; and I thinkin' all the time 'twas the want o' me belt he was drivin' at."
"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.
There was no corner in these hills that Macavoy and Pierre did not know, and at last, when despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, having spoken a low word to Pierre, said: "There's wan way, an' maybe I can an' maybe I can't, but I'm fit to try. I'll go up the river to an aisy p'int a mile above, get in, and drift down to a p'int below there, thin climb up and loose the stuff."
"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.
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.
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