cheerfully enough.

"Let me choose me ground," he said, "wid me back to the wall, an' I'll
take thim as they come."

Pierre instantly interpreted this to the Indians, and said for himself
that he would welcome their strongest man at the point of a knife when
he chose.

The chief gave an order, and the Little Skins were brought. The fires
still burned brightly, and the breathing of the pines, as a slight wind
rose and stirred them, came softly over. The Indians stood off at the
command of the chief. Macavoy drew back to the wall, dropped the musk-ox
skin to the ground, and stripped himself to the waist. But in his
waistband there was what none of these Indians had ever seen--a small
revolver that barked ever so softly. In the hands of each Little Skin
there was put a knife, and they were told their cheerful exercise. They
came on cautiously, and then suddenly closed in, knives flashing. But
Macavoy's little bulldog barked, and one dropped to the ground. The
others fell back. The wounded man drew up, made a lunge at Macavoy, but
missed him. As if ashamed, the other six came on again at a spring. But
again the weapon did its work smartly, and one more came down. Now the
giant put it away, ran in upon the five, and cut right and left. So
sudden and massive was his rush that they had no chance. Three fell
at his blows, and then he drew back swiftly to the wall. "Drop your
knives," he said, as they cowered, "or I'll kill you all." They did so.
He dropped his own.

"Now come on, ye scuts!" he cried, and suddenly he reached and caught
them, one with each arm, and wrestled with them, till he bent the one
like a willow-rod, and dropped him with a broken back, while the other
was at his mercy. 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.

"There's no bein' a king for nothin'," he replied, wiping blood from his
beard.

"It's my turn now, but keep your rifles ready, though I think there's no
need."

Pierre had but a short minute with the champion, for he was an expert
with the knife. He carried away four fingers of the Indian's fighting
hand, and that ended it; for the