Lifting the lid, I found nothing but coffee grounds in the bottom. I set
the pot on a heap of cold ashes in the centre, and filled it half full
of warm Missouri River water. During this performance I felt conscious
of being watched. Then breaking off a small piece of our unleavened
bread, I placed it in a bowl. Turning soon to the coffeepot, which would
never have boiled on a dead fire had I waited forever, I poured out a
cup of worse than muddy warm water. Carrying the bowl in one hand and
cup in the other, I handed the light luncheon to the old warrior. I
offered them to him with the air of bestowing generous hospitality.

"How! how!" he said, and placed the dishes on the ground in front of his
crossed feet. He nibbled at the bread and sipped from the cup. I sat
back against a pole watching him. I was proud to have succeeded so well
in serving refreshments to a guest all by myself. Before the old warrior
had finished eating, my mother entered. Immediately she wondered where I
had found coffee, for she knew I had never made any, and that she had
left the coffeepot empty. Answering the question in my mother's eyes,
the warrior remarked, "My granddaughter made coffee on a heap of dead
ashes, and served me the moment I came."

They both laughed, and mother said, "Wait a little longer, and I shall
build a fire." She meant to make some real coffee. But neither she nor
the warrior, whom the law of our custom had compelled to partake of my
insipid hospitality, said anything to embarrass me. They treated my
best judgment, poor as it was, with the utmost respect. It was not till
long years afterward that I learned how ridiculous a thing I had done.