promoted Gyng to be chief factor. He loathed the heathen and he showed
his loathing. He had a heart harder than iron, a speech that bruised
worse than the hoof of an angry moose. And when at last he drove away a
band of wandering Sioux, foodless, from the stores, siege and ambush took
the place of prayer, and a nasty portion fell to Fort o' God. For the
Indians found a great cache of buffalo meat, and, having sent the women
and children south with the old men, gave constant and biting assurances
to Gyng that the heathen hath his hour, even though he be a dog which is
refused those scraps from the white man's table which give life in the
hour of need. Besides all else, there was in the Fort the thing which
the gods made last to humble the pride of men--there was rum.

And the morning after Gyng and his men had departed, because it was a day
when frost was master of the sun, and men grew wild for action, since to
stand still was to face indignant Death, they, who camped without,
prepared to make a sally upon the wooden gates. Pierre saw their intent,
and hid in the ground some pemmican and all the scanty rum. Then he
looked at his powder and shot, and saw that there was little left. If he
spent it on the besiegers, how should they fare for beast and fowl in
hungry days? And for his rifle he had but a brace of bullets. He rolled
these in his hand, looking upon them with a grim smile. And the Idiot,
seeing, rose and sidled towards him, and said: "Poor Grah want pipe--
bubble--bubble." Then a light of childish cunning came into his eyes,
and he touched the bullets blunderingly, and continued: "Plenty, plenty
b'longs Grah--give poor Grah pipe--plenty, plenty, give you these."

And Pretty Pierre after a moment replied: "So that's it, Grah?--you've
got bullets stowed away? Well, I must have them. It's a one-sided game
in which you get the tricks; but here's the pipe, Idiot--my only pipe for
your dribbling mouth--my last good comrade. Now show me the bullets.