Pierre knew quite well that this was a bull caribou, travelling wildly
till he found another herd. He would carry on the deception. "Wail for
the dead, as your women do in Ireland. That will finish them," he said to
Macavoy.

The giant threw his voice up and out, so that it seemed to come from over
the Fort to the Indians, weird and crying. Even the half-breeds standing
by felt a light shock of unnatural excitement. The Indians without drew
back slowly from the Fort, leaving a clear space between. Macavoy had
uncanny tricks with his voice, and presently he changed the song into a
shrill, wailing whistle, which went trembling about the place and then
stopped suddenly.

"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. Pierre had thrown
over the Irishman's shoulders the great skin of a musk-ox which he had
found inside the stockade. He was a strange, immense figure, as he walked
into the open space, and, folding his arms, looked round. In the shadow
of the gate behind were Pierre and the halfbreeds, with guns cocked.

Macavoy had lived so long in the north that he knew enough of all the
languages to speak to this tribe. When he came out a murmur of wonder ran
among the Indians. They had never seen anyone so tall, for they were not
great of stature, and his huge beard and wild shock of hair were a
wonderful sight. He remained silent, looking on them. At last the old
chief spoke. "Who are you?"