Citizen Ane

WOLFMAN Kane joined the Cheyenne with the words of General Patrick E Connor ringing in his ears. The Indians, Connor declared, "must be hunted like wolves." He ordered his troops: "Attack and kill every male Indian over 12 years of age."

Hatred burned within Kane. For months he had ridden with the Dog Soldiers of the Plains, felt instinctive kinship with the Cheyenne warriors. He had watched troops butcher Indian men, women and children. And now, from his perch on a rocky outcrop, he saw a Cheyenne war party attacking a wagon train in revenge. The settlers were quickly overwhelmed and killed. The warriors, led by Yellow Knife, stole flour, sugar, coffee and tobacco and rode off.

Kane knew there were two women in one of the covered wagons. They had remained hidden during the attack. He thought he heard his long-dead mother's voice coming to him across the ages: "Help them, help them." His mind drifted away and in those lost moments three cavalrymen galloped out of the trees.

They were drunk and fired up with bloodlust and they showed the women no mercy. When the blood-soaked Bluecoats rode of in a cloud of dust they left a scene of carnage, charred remains, the women scalped and their breasts cut off. There was nothing Kane could do. He knew the Indians would be blamed.

At the same time, Governor Edgar Jennings was meeting in Mansion House with the priest Friar Tucker. They drank brandy and discussed the latest influx of Mexican families. Jennings regarded Tucker with sour distaste. The priest had a reputation for debauchery but he had his uses and kept Jennings well informed about the secrets he heard during confession. The governor poured two more brandies and asked: "Well, what have you heard about the Cheyenne? Are they going to sign the treaty?"

The priest pondered for a moment. He thought they would sign with the right sort of incentive. The aim of the United States Government was clear: A land grab which would drive the Indians into reservations. The buffalo would be wiped out and the savages would be starved into submission. Genocide in other words. But these were sensitive matters. They had to be handled diplomatically.

While Governor Jennings droned on, Friar Tucker's mind strayed back to his morning session with Maria, the wife of a local leader. These people were peasants really, poorly educated and superstitious.

He again felt her heavy breasts as she succumbed to his passion, smelt her sweat and her hot breath. He fingered her sex and was pleased to find that she was dripping wet. She would do everything he asked and even feel slightly proud at the attention he was showing her.

Maria was lactating after a recent childbirth. Tucker squeezed her nipples and sucked at her milk. He loved a woman with big nipples, rolled them as if they were rosary beads. He decided to keep the main prize for their next meeting. He patted her on the head with a pudgy hand. "Make a good act of contrition, Maria," he said.

Now Jennings was saying: "I have a conference with tribal leaders tomorrow and would be grateful if you would attend. Always good to have your thoughts."

Tucker murmured assent. As he helped himself to more brandy he caught a glimpse of himself in the big sideboard mirror. A heavy-set man with thick dark hair, oozing enormous conceit. His smugness irritated most people but Tucker was satisfied with what he saw. He was opinionated and corrupt. His position gave him power. He was happy to take advantage of the weakness of the flesh.

"Of course Governor," he said. "If I can be of service."

Jennings's wife Martha entered the room and he regarded her coldly. "What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy with the Father?" She looked ashen and lost, mumbled an apology. "I'm sorry, I just wanted you to know there's a cavalry captain waiting outside to see you."

Captain William Jacobs reported on the massacre. "Cheyenne," he said. "A war party. We have the wife of Yellow Knife in custody. She refuses to say anything about his whereabouts but it won't be long before we get something out of her."

Jennings barked at the officer. He had drunk too much and was red-faced. "Good, keep me fully informed. And I want five Indians hanged immediately."

It did not matter which five.

Jennings had married Martha for her father's money. He preferred black women and usually took his pleasure among the slaves.

In just a few years, Martha, once a joyful young woman, had become a shrunken lost soul in constant fear of her husband's black moods.

When Friar Tucker left Mansion House he was in an expansive mood, pleased that his power was being consolidated. He thought of Martha, a striking woman despite her mousy demeanor, and still capable of passion. Just intimidated and repressed by her bullying husband. She wouldn't be Catholic, of course, but perhaps she would appreciate a sympathetic ear for her troubles.

The rogue priest mentally undressed her and felt his cock harden. Yes, a neglected wife would always respond to another man's kind attention. As he mounted his horse he spotted a tall man with long tawny hair lounging in the shadows.

Kane watched the priest ride away. A well-fed parasite, he thought. The face of a buffoon. He went back to observing the comings and goings at Mansion House. He would be with the Cheyenne at the meeting next day and wanted to build a picture of Governor Jennings's routine.

Kane already knew a lot about the malevolent priest. Tucker loved guns and hated homosexuals. At the seminary he would beat up any man he suspected of having carnal thoughts about another man.

Tucker ranted and raved. He quoted scriptures to prove the evils of homosexuality, fornication and onanism. He knew all about sins of the flesh and felt no shame over his own excesses. God would forgive. God always forgave.

It was winter and an icy wind howled across the plains. In their lodges fires burned through the night as the starving Indians huddled together for warmth. Hungry young children never stopped crying. They were given strips of buffalo hide and pieces of bark to chew on.

Kane knew they were heading for extinction. Soon it would all be gone. He remembered the words of the Sioux chief Red Cloud: "When the white man comes in my country he leaves a trail of blood behind him." Other threats were arriving. Gold fever brought white men pouring in to dig for yellow metal. Month by month, the Cheyenne were forced to retreat from the Colorado Plains.

Aeons of existence across countless galaxies had given Kane unique power and knowledge. Only among the Dog Soldiers had he felt that he was with true brothers on earth. He talked long into the night with Yellow Knife. At first they told stories of happy hunting, laughter, life on the long summer trails that wound through fields of golden grain.

Kane told of giant pyramids on the River Nile, elephants and whales, of the yurts which were home to nomad tribes in central Asia, whose hard lives were not unlike the lives of the Indians.

Yellow Knife listened in wonder. He could not imagine how his friend had knowledge of such things. Then it was time to talk about Yellow Knife's missing wife Waynoka, Sweet Water.

"The soldiers have her," said Yellow Knife. "They have told their officers it was our braves who killed the white women at Powder River. She won't talk, but I will not see her alive again."

He stared into the flames. "Still, we must go to parley with the governor tomorrow. This is hard on us. I do not want to go on fighting so somehow we have to make peace. They will make promises but give us nothing." He opened his arms and embraced Kane. "After the conference, I will find Waynoka and we will die together. I do not want to live on this earth without her."

In the morning, Yellow Knife prayed to the Great Medicine Man and to the water spirit. He asked for soothing balms to heal the hurt of his wife, Sweet Water. When he set out for Mansion House, he wore a bonnet made of eagle feathers. Kane was in buckskin and carried a hunting knife.

They were greeted with barely-disguised disdain by Governor Jennings. He offered no food, only water. After several hours of fruitless talk around the conference table it became clear that nothing had changed.

During a short break in proceedings, Yellow Knife told his men: "The white men are treating us like children. They want us to sign away our lands in exchange for a few blankets and many promises. Our women and children are starving and we will soon have no choice but to fight."

The chief felt tired and sick at heart. They had nothing more to give. Kane agreed to stage a diversion inside the fort to give Yellow Knife time to leave and rejoin the 50 or so warriors who waited outside. He returned to the conference room where Martha Jennings was serving coffee to her husband and Friar Tucker.

As he shut the heavy oak door he quietly closed the bolt, locking the four of them inside and the guard outside. Kane pulled the big knife. Tucker squealed and dropped to his knees, sketching a sign of the cross in the air. "Madre de dios! What do you think you are doing?"

The Wolfman snarled and bared his canine fangs. "Keep quiet, you prattling fool, or I will kill you." He turned his stony gaze on the governor and forced Jennings to sit in a chair. Kane tied his hands with his bandana.

Martha watched as if it was all happening in slow motion, but at the same time she felt strangely unafraid. Neither was she surprised when Kane beckoned her to him and spoke softly to her. "You have nothing to fear. I will not hurt you. I have one small duty to perform, then I will be gone."

Loud banging came from outside the room. Kane heard gunfire and knew the Indians had attacked. It would not take the soldiers long to break down the door. He had to be quick.

Kane made Martha strip to her drawers and chemise. Her dress lay rumpled on the floor. He undid his trousers and pulled her head onto his cock. She was puzzled by the color, a light purplish tinge, as she took it in her mouth and worked her tongue up and down the shaft. Only once previously, on her first wedding anniversary, had she given head to her husband. A sharp thrill ran through her whole body.

She cupped Kane's balls in her hand and turned her head towards her husband and gave a small smile of triumph. Kane took her reverse cowgirl so that the cuckold governor could see her face. She rode the cock hard, still the smile, holding her husband's cold gaze with her eyes, moaning quietly.

Martha felt a freedom she had not known in a long time. She did a mock strip, peeled off her top and white stockings and spread her furry slit wide in front of her husband. She watched for some sign of emotion in him but there was none.

She took Kane's shaft in her hand and stroked him, marveling at the size. She had only known her husband, puny by comparison, and here it was, this rigid veined rod with bulbous end, and she surprised herself by uttering the words, "Cock, give me your cock," then she guided him into into her slippery slit. Yes, she thought, now she could hear Jennings grind his teeth.

She watched her husband intently as Kane pulled out and spunked over her face, four or five powerful spurts. Now she could see it, cold fury in her husband's eyes.

The priest was still on his knees. Sweat beaded his fleshy face as he watched Martha fuck. He grew hard under his cassock and hoped the Wolfman would not notice.

But Kane knew that Tucker was a foul voyeur. He grinned and bared his teeth. "How is it with you, padre? Perhaps you would like me to take your balls."

Martha laughed. She was almost done. "Yes," she breathed, "take his balls. He is a beast and a hypocritical swine."

Tucker feared the big knife but he could not help himself. As Kane emptied the priest groaned and spilled his own seed.

Governor Jennings closed his eyes, angry words gushing from his lips. "You filthy bitch, you will pay for this. You will wish you had never been born."

Jennings always looked for scapegoats, someone to blame. So now it was Martha, her father's money, her education, her sense of entitlement. The puritan streak that disguised her true whore's nature.

Kane punched the governor hard in the mouth. He needed to leave. There was a door leading to the library and a corridor to the outside. He blew once on the whistle he carried around his neck, made from the wing bone of an eagle. It was a signal of defiance. Then he was gone.

The fort was engulfed in chaos. Bluecoats swarmed in search of the fugitive as reinforcements poured in from the nearby garrison. It was all over when the soldiers wheeled up a Howitzer and blew the Indian position to pieces., killing 35 warriors. Kane and Yellow Knife had melted away into the snow drifts.

Governor Jennings and Friar Tucker drank brandy and mulled over recent events. Martha was not discussed. Jennings decided he would deal with her later and in his own way. She would probably just disappear, go back East to be with her parents.

Jennings remembered the squaw who as being held prisoner and who could lead him to Yellow Knife. He asked the priest: "What shall we do with her?"

Tucker's eyes were dark pools of malice. "Crucify her," he said.

From the moment of her capture, Waynoka had not spoken a word. One cry of anger and shame as the soldiers stripped her naked and flung her into a cell. That was all.

Not even when drunk Bluecoats staggered into the cell during the night and took turns raping her. Not even when the fort sadist beat her with his fists and demanded over and over again: "Where is he? Where is your husband? Where is the miserable dog?" Nothing. She would give them nothing.

Waynoka had the stoicism of her tribe. They knew suffering. She would endure.

She heard the battle raging outside and then everything became silent. The cold seeped through the white-washed walls and she lay on the wooden cot and turned her face to the wall.

They came for her and dragged her, still naked, into the snow-covered street where they nailed her to a makeshift cross. Nobody came to watch. The town was covered in a blanket of shame. The smell of death hung heavily over the houses.

It was there in the deserted street, as dawn broke, that Yellow Knife found his wife. She was broken and bleeding, barely alive.

He looked up at her and whispered: "My love, my love."

Just for a moment her eyes opened. She saw him through her fog of pain and smiled.

Yellow Knife slipped soundlessly behind the cross and shot her in the head with his revolver. Then he blew his own brains out.

A street away, Kane heard the shots and knew instinctively what had happened. He saddled a horse and rode in pursuit of Friar Tucker.

His nose told him that Tucker, knowing the Indians would come after him, had fled west towards the mountains.

Kane allowed the swift mustang to have his head. He rode easily in the early-morning light, happily at harmony with the horse.

Tucker had calculated that by staying away from towns he would have a better chance of avoiding capture. From his prized collection of weapons he had picked a Springfield rifle and Colt revolver. He would hunt game and keep off the beaten tracks. As he trotted along, he talked to himself. He was always happiest listening to the sound of his own voice.

Well, he thought, I have led an interesting life. Not perfect, to be sure, but if I have sinned I have always made proper penance where that was possible. In fact, I believe I have been such a good servant to the church that perhaps a promotion, a small reward, would be in order.

Yes, he chuckled, I am sure the Holy Father in Rome would approve. So from this day on I will be known as a monsignor, Monsignor Tucker.

And he believed there was nothing wrong with ambition. You had your princes of the church. Perhaps, in time, he could even move to a city to continue God's work. He swelled up with immense self importance.

Hours later, he came to a small settlement, just a few houses, and stopped to ask for water for his horse. A woman showed him to the well and offered him food. Her husband was away, she said. "Will you say a prayer, Father?"

It startled him. He was wearing a plain shirt and trousers, heavy sheepskin coat, nothing that would betray his true status.

"I guessed, she said. "You are an educated man. We have nothing much here...." Her voice trailed away into wistful silence and he could not help himself.

He cleared his throat and said proudly: "I am a monsignor, you see, and I am trying to tread the path of a truly humble and chaste disciple."

The woman dropped to her knees and grabbed for his hand. And now that he looked more closely he could see that she was not unattractive, long straight hair and white teeth, a pleasing shape.

"Of course," he said. "After we have eaten."

She brought him wine and he soon fell asleep, curled up on a bed that smelled musty and stale.

When he woke up she was standing beside the bed fiddling with her beads. She begged him to hear her confession. It had been years, she said. She did not want to die with her soul unburdened.

He swore a sullen oath under his breath and once she had started there was no stopping her. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have told lies. I haven't fasted in Lent. I have lain with two men. I have lusted after others and had impure thoughts." On and on it went, nothing much really, a humdrum litany of human imperfections.

He yawned and spoke words of absolution, laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, drew her to him with soft crooning sounds. It was all too easy. He despised her weakness, her poor threadbare clothes, her neediness.

Outside the tumbledown cabin, Kane watered the mustang and paused a while to watch the setting sun. When he stepped through the door he saw Tucker's naked flabby body moving up and down on the woman's pale slender frame, heard their moans.

Tucker felt a great weight, his own damned soul and the sorrows of the world. He paused his mechanical rutting and loomed over the woman. How he wished he could save her. "May almighty God have mercy on you," he intoned.

Kane drew the big knife from his waistband. "Amen to that, he said" It was the last sound Friar Tucker heard.