Pierre put a flea in his ear. He was pensively indifferent to him even
in his most royal moments. He guessed the way to bring down the gusto
and pride of this Goliath, but, for a purpose, he took his own time,
nodding indolently to Macavoy when he met him, but avoiding talk with
him.
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. It was a sight to see him of a summer day, sitting in the
shade of a pine, his shirt open, showing his firm brawny chest, his arms
bare, his face shining with perspiration, his big voice gurgling in his
beard, his eyes rolling amiably upon the maidens as they passed or
gathered near demurely, while he declaimed of mighty deeds in patois
or Chinook to the braves.
Pierre's humour was of the quietest, most subterranean kind. He knew
that Macavoy had not an evil hair in his head; that vanity was his
greatest weakness, and that through him there never would have been
more half-breed population. There was a tradition that he had a wife
somewhere--based upon wild words he had once said when under the
influence of bad liquor; but he had roared his accuser the lie when the
thing was imputed to him.
At Fort Ste. Anne Pierre had known an old woman, by name of Kitty Whelan,
whose character was all tatters. She had told him that many years agone
she had had a broth of a lad for a husband; but because of a sharp word
or two across the fire, and the toss of a handful of furniture, he had
left her, and she had seen no more of him.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31