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

Coffee loosened tongues, Pete knew. And sugar sweetened the talk.
    As stars came out, the Cheyenne began trading with Pete in the time-honored way. Hours had been spent in socializing, sharing both talk and coffee. They had retold old stories heard many times before. Now they could trade. But as the Cheyenne laid out a handful of dressed robes for Pete’s inspection, a pony’s snort crept through the trees. The crik-crik of many unshod hoofs trampling across the rocky bed of Peno Creek burst through the sudden silence fallen over Pete’s camp.
    They were surrounded by Sioux.
    A party of more than eighty warriors drew their ponies to a halt, ringing the campsite. Pinning the Cheyenne in with the Frenchman and his drivers. As the flickering tongues of yellow light danced off the high branches of the pines, one warrior kicked a leg over and dropped to the ground.
    Man-Afraid strode into the light at the edge of the fire and settled to his haunches, his short bow held loose before him. A slash of a smile on his wolfish face. Without a sound he nodded to French Pete. Then to Black Horse. And Dull Knife. After acknowledging Two Moons, the Sioux chief looked back at the trader.
    Pete motioned his wife forward. She poured a cup of the thick coffee, dumped some sugar into the liquid, and set it before Man-Afraid. He drank noisily, slurping those last few swallows most heavily sweetened. With a finger he dug at the soggy sugar trapped at the bottom of the cup. Then wiped the back of his hand across his wet lips.
    No Sioux had stirred from their ponies. No Cheyenne had taken his eyes off this feared war-chief who had appeared from the darkness.
    â€œTrader!” Man-Afraid bellowed as he glared at French Pete. “You bring me the mirrors you promised your last visit?”
    Gazzous signaled one of his men to the wagon. With his gift in hand, the trader set the heavy burlap sack at the warchief’s feet. Hoping the expensive presents would mollify the fiery Sioux leader. “The mirrors you wanted, my friend.”
    Without a reply, Man-Afraid opened the top of the sack, pulled one mirror out and inspected it, finally smiling. “They are good, trader. You have done well to bring them to us.”
    Pete cleared his throat and wiped his brow, still not sure the gift would appease Man-Afraid. “T-Tell me … do all the Sioux admire themselves—to look at themselves in those new mirrors?”
    He was startled as Man-Afraid rared back his head and laughed loudly, the sound of it harsh, like a knifeblade grating across a stone. The rest of the warriors laughed with him. Suddenly the warchief gripped the trader’s shirt.
    â€œWe do not look at our beauty, trader. These mirrors are for something more important than Sioux beauty.”
    â€œW-What is that, Man-Afraid?”
    He smiled, with the look of the badger come to call on a man’s hen house. “We learn to use our new mirrors to talk to one another.”
    â€œTalk? You say talk?”
    â€œYes. From hill … to hill … to hill.”
    â€œTalk?”
    â€œYes, trader!” His voice showed his impatience as he glanced down at Black Horse. “Our mirrors will talk, using the sun to signal our attacks on the soldiers at the new fort.”
    â€œSignal … signal mirrors. Ahhh, yes,” Pete replied, licking his lips nervously, relieved as the warchief let him go and turned toward the Cheyenne leader.
    â€œTell me, Black Horse,” Man-Afraid said, beginning the conversation between Indians without the social amenities of a smoke and story telling, “tell me of your visit to the white soldier camp beyond Lodge Trail Ridge. When will the soldier chief take his men south to the old mud fort?”
    Black Horse removed the hat he had received from Carrington, feeling Sioux eyes on him as never before. His skin burned under their appraisal.
    â€œThe soldier chief, he will not take his men south