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“You are kind to offer such a feast,” Blue Thunder said as he eyed the platters piled high with venison meat, fruit, vegetables, and bread. “Pila-maye.”
He smelled the familiar aroma of the black drink called coffee, which had become one of the usual offerings at a time of trade.
And then a soldier brought a wrapped pipe and handed it the colonel.
Blue Thunder watched as the colonel unwrapped the red cloth, revealing a beautifully feathered, long-stemmed pipe.
“This was a gift given to me by a Cheyenne chief some time ago after a peace treaty was signed between us,” Colonel Cline said. He shook tobacco from a leather drawstring bag into the lovely painted bowl of the pipe. “Smoke with me. It will seal our friendship and future trades.”
Blue Thunder hoped that he hid his uneasiness and resentment at the sight of the pipe. Such a gift, after a peace treaty was signed, was supposed to seal the friendship which had resulted in peace. In reality, most of the time those treaties had been broken by whites and the gift of the pipe was made a mockery.
Knowing that he had no choice but to take a smoke from the pipe or insult this new white leader, Blue Thunder accepted it.
He held the long stem and took one long drag from the pipe, quickly inhaling the smoke, then returned the pipe to the colonel. He watched as Colonel Cline smoked from the same pipe stem, exhaling the smoke much more slowly as his eyes met and held Blue Thunder’s.
And then, that quickly, that part of the ceremony was over.
Then the feast began.
Many white soldiers came and sat at the same table as Blue Thunder and his warriors. They laughed and ate and seemed sincere in their kindness toward their visitors.
But all the time that Blue Thunder sat and ate, his eyes were never still.
He looked over his shoulder, and then straight ahead, and then glanced to one side and another, as other white people, both uniformed and not, came to look at the rich pelts and robes that had been brought for trade.
Suddenly Blue Thunder’s heart skipped a beat when he spied a man with golden hair worn to his waist, and piercing blue eyes. He held a small girl in his arms . . . a child who perfectly fit Megan’s description.
She had wrapped one tiny arm around the man’s neck, and in her blue eyes there was such sadness!
Blue Thunder did not want to attract the attention of the colonel or any of the other soldiers at the table. He had to be subtle in his observation of the man.
The golden-haired man moved slowly down the line of long tables piled high with items for trade.
Trading was the last thing on Blue Thunder’s mind as he tried not to stare at the white man and child. He must not draw suspicion toward himself, or their plan might be jeopardized.
So he finished the food on his plate, as did everyone else, and then the white and redskinned men rose from the table and the bargaining commenced.
As the white people made their choices, Blue Thunder stood back with the colonel, awaiting the time when his warriors would receive their payment in the large room where supplies were kept. Then each would choose the items he wished to take home to his wife.
When the colonel excused himself after a soldier came with news that required his attention, Blue Thunder seized this opportunity to approach the white man he’d been surreptitiously watching. He sidled up next to him and walked along the tables beside him.
Surprisingly, the white man stopped and turned to Blue Thunder, who was known far and wide as a good and peaceful chief.
“Good afternoon, Chief,” Earl said, a glint in his blue eyes as he gazed at Blue Thunder. “Mighty fine pelts you and your warriors have brought for trade.” He reached his hand out toward Blue Thunder for a handshake. “Earl. Earl Mingus is my name, and this here is my sweet daughter Megan.”
Now that he knew for certain that he was face-to-face with Shirleen’s husband and her pretty, sweet daughter, for a moment Blue Thunder could not find his voice to respond.
Quickly pulling himself together, Blue Thunder took Earl’s hand and politely shook it. “Yes, the trade is good today,” he said, but he removed his hand as soon as he could without letting on that the very touch of this man’s flesh filled Blue Thunder with loathing.
Blue Thunder turned his attention elsewhere. He smiled at Megan, whose eyes showed anything but happiness. “Your child is how many winters old?” he asked.
He was trying to think of a way to carry on a conversation with the man until he could get away from him. Now that he knew Earl and Megan were in Fort Dennison, he was to contact Speckled Fawn so their plan could proceed.
He was anxious to get this accomplished so that he could return to the safety of his village with the little girl who showed fear in her beautiful blue eyes . . . fear of her very own ahte.
Earl gazed at Blue Thunder as he raised an eyebrow. “What did you just ask me? What does it mean . . . how many winters?”
“Your daughter’s age,” Blue Thunder said, smiling to himself at this man’s ignorance of Indian terms. “You see, I have a daughter who might be the same age.”
