Now Pierre burst forth: “It is Simon! He is walking round four times, then he will stop and pay you a visit.” MacDonald leaped up—a beast at bay, afraid to stay, afraid to go out now, straining to hear the weird footfalls first passing away then returning, ever more and more distinct. And now there was a dead halt at the door. Would it fly open and usher in the hideous shape of Simon’s ghost? The door remained closed. But now Pierre rose with a grim laugh, dropping his gun. He walked toward his master and thrust his thumb at his face. “Simon has come to see us wrestle. I will wrestle you for Louise. Simon has made me Windigo. I will throw you and kill you and eat you, and he wants to look on.” Fearlessly and madly he sprang at the giant’s throat. The factor had not watched him, he had not heard his speech, he was still looking and looking at the door. Where now were those puissant arms that had held Pierre like an infant at Fort Hearne? Limp and powerless, they were hanging from a twitching heap that fell resistless at the first impact. Pierre beat him and kicked him and choked him. Without knife or gun, with his bare hands he murdered the great factor. And then—he was Windigo!