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 Ste. Anne: a buryin’, two christ’nin’s, an’ a weddin’; an’ lashin’s av grog an’ swill-aw that, me button o’ the North!”
“La la! What a fool you are, my simple king! You’ve got the things end foremost. Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light a cigarette, and if you breathe this way, there will be a grand explode.”
“Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre! It’s like a baby’s, me breath is, milk and honey it is—aw yis; an’ Father Corraine, that was doin’ the trick for the love o’ God, says he to me, ‘Little Tim Macavoy,’—aw yis, little Tim Macavoy—says he, ‘when are you goin’ to buckle to, for the love o’ God?’ says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that Father Corraine should spake to me like that, for I’d only a twig twisted at me hips to kape me trousies up, an’ I thought ’twas that he had in his eye! ‘Buckle to,’ says I, ‘Father Corraine? Buckle to, yer riv’rince?’—feelin’ I was at the twigs the while. ‘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.”
Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then said: “Such a tom-fool! And where’s that grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch?”
A laugh shook through Macavoy’s beard. “For the weddin’ it wint: buckled the two up wid it for better or worse—an’ purty they looked, they did, standin’ there in me cinch, an’ one hole left—aw yis, Pierre.”
“And what do you give to Ida?” Pierre asked, with a little emphasis of the branding-iron.
Macavoy got to his feet. “Ida! Ida!” said he. “Is that saddle for Ida? Is it her and Hilton that’s to ate aff one dish togither? That rose o’ the valley, that bird wid a song in her face and none an her tongue. That daisy dot av a thing, steppin’ through the world like a sprig o’ glory. Aw, Pierre, thim two!—an’ I’ve divil a scrap to give, good or bad. I’ve nothin’ at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes an me back, an’ thim hangin’ on the underbrush!”—giving
