Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 by Terry C. Johnston Page A

Sullivant. A reflective man who studied the careers of great men, he read of Hannibal, Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon—and became expert on the military campaigns of George Washington. Those who served with Carrington knew he made no bones of aspiring to greatness himself.
    Without turning to his adjutant, the colonel inquired, “Any civilians in Templeton’s party?”
    The German cleared his throat. “Yes, Colonel. Two women. A child. Plus an infant and a colored servant girl. Along with a Captain Samuel Marr—retired—Missouri volunteer regiment in the war. Two others traveling north to the goldfields with Marr. Along with a surgeon assigned to our post, named Hines. And a chaplain.”
    Carrington turned, his face brightened. His eyes closed as if in momentary prayer. Margaret will have her clergy at long last, here in the heart of the wilderness. “A chaplain, you say?”
    â€œDavid White,” Phisterer answered, again studying his papers. “And … this is interesting—a photographer. Name of Glover.”
    â€œTell me of the fighting men.” Carrington turned back to watch the sun settle on the Big Horns.
    â€œOnly…” He looked up at Carrington, waiting for the Colonel to turn around, “… fourteen.”
    Eventually Henry dismissed his adjutant with a nod of his head. Not a word more spoken. Both sensing the dread shared between them. Carrington brooded.
    My god. These civilians scurrying north to the goldfields at Alder Gulch like hungry ants. Civilians sent to the slaughter. What are those fools at Laramie thinking of? They heard Red Cloud’s threat with their own ears!
    The women. Children. And … and a baby. Every last one of them offered in sacrifice.
    *   *   *
    Louis Gazzous had spent enough winters here on the high plains to understand Indians. But the way Black Horse and his warriors had acted when they drew up to the Frenchman’s camp was something altogether different. And more than a little unsettling.
    After leaving the conference at the soldiers’ camp and climbing north over Lodge Trail Ridge, the Cheyenne had bumped into their old friend French Pete, as Gazzous was widely known from Montana and to Dakota Territory. His years of talking straight and dealing square gave French Pete and his men a degree of safety as they made the annual rounds of villages along the Tongue, Rosebud and Little Bighorn. East to the Powder and west to the Wind River, season after season, Gazzous pulled his creaky wagons into Sioux and Cheyenne camps, trading for furs and hides. Some years he could afford more help than others. This season, French Pete fed five drivers. It would be a good year for trading, Gazzous told himself. Five wagons burdened with buffalo hides would give him the stake he needed to open a small post down along the Belle Fourche. Maybe on south to the Republican.
    So many seasons of struggle and hope. Now he had five wagons and a future. So, why did the somber mood of the Cheyenne make him edgy?
    Black Horse, Red Arm and Dull Knife did most of the talking around the campfire at twilight when all had finished their supper and Gazzous presented every warrior a tin cup of steaming coffee. Yes, French Pete knew, coffee always loosened tongues.
    The chiefs spoke of trading and of wandering south before the season turned cold and the great honkers pointed the way. Gazzous agreed. He felt it in his bones. This would be a winter of cold like no man alive could remember. “A winter in a hundred,” the Cheyenne called it.
    With pride, Black Horse and the others showed French Pete their gifts from the commander of the new fort. And as the sun sank with a purple ache beyond the hills, the Cheyenne told his old friend the trader of his new friend the soldier chief. Again and again Gazzous had his Sioux woman brew pots of coffee, dumping sugar in each cup before she handed them to the Cheyenne chiefs.