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Author's note: Picture, courtesy of `HISTORICAL PHOTOGRAPHIC IMAGES'
* SILVER FOX *
Natives, or Indians, like horses, are, contrary to popular belief, not native to North America. True, both species of mammals did, and do, run wild, and breed, in the Western Hemisphere but neither originated there.
Natives, or First Nation's People, as they are called in today's culture, actually migrated and descended from their ancestors in the North, known as Eskimos, now called Inuit in Canada, who in turn had migrated and descended from their ancestors in the Orient.
The horse, relatively new to the continent, was introduced by the Spanish, on the West Coast, and the French, and English, on the East Coast.
It was not until the later part of the nineteenth century that Indians began to use horses. That is to say the Nomadic tribes captured wild ones, or stole domesticated ones, and then incorporated them for pulling and carrying.
Within a very short time Indians became quite adept at riding horses though they never learned to properly care for them. Not surprising since the Indians were primitive savages and compassion is not a natural instinct of any animal.
Pride or Spring Breeze, as she was later called, was a well groomed, and well fed, chestnut mare. Not what you would call a beautiful horse. Not ugly either but you wouldn't have bought her unless the auctioneer had started the bidding very low. She had a good shape to her body, and her head if you looked close, but you had to look close. You had to look past the rather peculiar colouring.
The entire front of her face, from ears to nose, was white. Not uncommon or unusual but from the eyes to her nose, on the sides, the white curved down to her upper lip.
It looked like she was wearing a miniature English riding saddle on her face. Above her ears the white curved down and reminded one of a bedroll tied behind the saddle.
Pride had carried her owner into a small settlement late in the evening and was pleasantly asleep in a stable when unfamiliar hands slipped a rope around her neck.
At first she balked because she was startled, she hadn't heard the person approach. Then she hung back because of the smell of this unwashed human.
She had been taught to follow and, after a few harsh tugs on the horse hair rope, she backed out of the stall and walked outside, behind her new owner.
Pride's complacency ended when she had been led past hearing range of the community and this human animal tried to mount her. She had never carried a passenger without a saddle, and the thief had never ridden a horse.
It took a running start for the thief, he was quite short, to grab Pride's mane and swing himself onto her back. This took several attempts because Pride would move aside when she saw the lad running at her.
Because of his size, and his inexperience, it was very difficult for the thief to stay aboard. Several times Pride dumped the native in the dust but was then unable to get away because of the rope trailing from her neck.
After many runs, which resulted in his sitting on the hard ground, rather than Pride's back, and several painful connections with the ground after he did gain Pride's back, the little thief was running out of energy and also patience.
The young native vented his frustration on Pride's hide. However, the beatings with his small fists did little to disturb her. When the youngster realized this he found a broken tree branch and began to inflict pain that she had never experienced before. The stick and the curses, in the strange tongue, finally convinced her that resistance was futile and that she now had a new master.
By the time they reached the Indian camp Spring Breeze knew what her new owner expected of her. Her new owner never did learn what she wanted. She never again saw hay or tasted oats. In fact she was never again fed, let alone groomed. She had to forage for herself and survive on dry prairie grass, along with the other horses, the members of the Indian tribe had captured, or stolen.
Indians had no knowledge of animal husbandry and they treated their horses as they did their dogs, simply as beasts of burden, or food, if the need be, and gave little thought to their welfare.
When the proud native returned to his camp with his prize, he was met with hoots of derision. The others teased him and disputed his story of the theft, saying he found the animal wandering and led it home.
In turn, they tried to steal the horse from him. After all why should a mere child, he had only seen eleven winters, own a horse. His determination to keep his prize and his swiftness with his knife soon convinced even the older and stronger braves that the horse was his.
(Not that any of them noticed the lads father standing in the entrance to his tee pee with tomahawk in hand.)
Spring Breeze, her ribs showing through her unkempt hide, ambled, lazily, and nibbled at the dry grass growing beneath the cottonwoods. Her tail was matted with burrs and her mane was tangled. For the moment her master was idle in thought and she searched for food as she followed a deer trail along the base of a small hummock. A noise attracted her and she stopped for a second.
Many winters had passed and the native had gained; weight, size, strength, and respect of his fellow braves, but never friends, nor compassion.
The two, black-tipped, white, eagle feathers, sticking up from his black hair, waved in the breeze. The breeze came from the South bringing more dry air to suck moisture out of the already parched land.
Childless, still single, and still a virgin, not counting masturbation, or that time he caught the female coyote that was in heat, Silver Fox contemplated his lonely life while he rode West, on a Vision Quest.
It was early Spring and the buffalo had been migrating North. He had helped his family, and their Blackfoot tribe, stampede a herd of buffalo over a small creek bank. Screaming and yelling the braves had cut a path through the buffalo and separated many of them from the main herd.
With their horses and their yells, despite the White Queen's mandate that this action was no longer allowed, they guided this separated group of buffs up a small rise that ended in a sheer drop. Many buffalo broke their necks, or their backs, as they plummeted down to the prairie below. Those that were too stunned, or crippled, to move away were slaughtered by the natives. The Indians, with their bows and rifles, killed the buffalo at the bottom of the hummock.
When the males or braves of the tribe had done their deed the females or squaws moved in to dress out the animals.
Hides for; clothing, trade with the white man, or walls for tents. Bones for utensils. Meat for food. Stool for fuel. No part of the animal was left to waste.
While the women were butchering the beef, Silver Fox took leave of his father. With only the cloth around his loins and his bow and arrow, he went to seek a sign from the spirits.
Several days of slow travel had taken Silver Fox West, through the lands of the Blood and the Sarcee, until he found himself in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.
His thoughts were on Running Water, and how he might win her for his squaw, when his horse stopped. His natural instincts caused him to look where the horse was looking and he saw a rabbit eating.
Very slowly Silver Fox took his bow from its carrying position and strung it tight. Quietly he removed an arrow from its quiver. Notching the arrow to the bow string he pulled and released.
As the bow twanged with the release of the arrow the rabbit looked up. The arrow flew straight and caught the rabbit behind the head severing, the spinal cord.
Silver Fox, with a whoop, dug his heels into Spring Breeze's skinny flanks. Sliding down the side of the horse he retrieved the arrow, with the rabbit still on it, while Spring Breeze was at full gallop.
As the horse slowed to a walk Silver Fox extracted the arrow from the hare and placed it and the bow beneath his thigh. With his knife he gutted the rabbit and tied it to the mane of his horse.
Thus his hands were free and his weapon close at hand when Spring Breeze walked out of the trees onto a trail.
Tommy, formerly Thomas, before he had come West, was a youngster or a young man, depending on the era and the area one lived. At the age of twenty-four he had been in the Wild West for four years and was a seasoned veteran of the trail.
Having spent hours riding the prairie, in search of wild horses, with lots of time on his hands, he was greased lightning when it came to drawing his revolver from its holster, having spent many hours practicing, while sitting horseback.
Tommy, or Tom, as he preferred to be called, had never actually killed anyone, though you are never sure whose bullet does the deed when in a running battle. He had however wounded an Indian once, well at least he thought it was his shot. The fact remains that he was fast, fearless, and relatively accurate.
Of the six animals that suddenly appeared before Silver Fox only Tom was of any real threat. Of course Silver Fox didn't know this and it was only chance that caused him to pick Tom as his first target. His arrow ripped open Tom's throat.
The cowpoke, though dying, would have surely killed the Indian but the blood pouring onto his hand made his pistol too slippery to hold. Tom dropped the weapon and followed it to the ground as he tried to extract the arrow from his throat. Coughing, and kicking, he drowned, as his lungs filled with his own blood.
Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew had never ridden horses before. They had ridden in carriages, behind horses, and were currently dressed as if that is what they were now doing rather than following Tom through the Wild West.
Several years previously the Bartholomew's had grubstaked, Mrs. Bartholomew's brother, Tom's employer, to venture across the ocean in search of gold. They hadn't really expected their listless relative to accomplish anything and were now, dubiously, going to inspect his spread.
Mrs. Bartholomew's brother had realized that there is more than one form of gold and was running a prosperous horse and cattle ranch.
Although Mr. Bartholomew, or Bart as he was known among his friends, had indirectly killed many men, and what millionaire hasn't, he had never actually seen anyone die.
Having listened to all the tales of the Wild West before leaving Boston he had actually purchased a hand gun. Possibly if he had taken the time for some lessons on its use it may have been at hand but it probably wouldn't have made any difference.
Not a man to panic in any situation Bart turned to extract the weapon from his saddle bag. A feathered arrow entered his left ear. He was dead before he left the saddle.
Mrs. Bartholomew was not so lucky. She died slow. The warrior was in no hurry. He could savour his victory. There was little chance that other whites were in the area.
Her horse shied and the lady left her saddle. Stunned by the fall she was unable to do more than shrink back when the Indian approached.
Grabbing the neck of the lady's dress the Indian ripped it from her body and tried to do the same with her corset. Cursing in his native tongue he pulled his knife to cut the clothing. The lady screamed and fainted.
At fist the native was stunned and then he began to laugh. He had thought that he would take this woman back to his camp but now he saw she was too weak to be of any use as a squaw. With his knife he continued to remove her clothing until he had her spread, naked, on the ground.
Before him lay the sights other braves had enjoyed but had been denied him because of his deformity. Now he could experience the fleshly delights that they knew so well. His manhood was ready and was telling him to proceed but his mind said wait, until she was awake.
While he waited, for her to come to, he gathered the horses. They tried to shy away from the smell of this unwashed heathen but their trailing reins made it easy for him to capture them. He stripped them of their useless white man's saddles and tied them in a string behind Spring Breeze.
On one of the saddles he found a canteen and he poured part of it's contents on Mrs. Bartholomew's face and dribbled a trail of water across her breasts, her stomach, and the black curly hairs of her womanhood. Now his manhood was ready and so was he. It was time to lose his virginity.
He shoved aside his breech cloth and started to squat over her as her vision began to clear. Through the fog in her mind she sensed what was happening and struck out. Her blow was ineffectual.
Reaching out again she raked his manhood with her fingernails. The brave grunted and slapped her across the face. She started to scream and then fainted again.
`What rabbits these white women are,' he thought. He stood above her, his manhood wilting in the warm sunshine. Her skin so white, like a mare's milk or like the cream from his penis when he milked it, while lying on the banks of the river.
While he waited for her to come to again he gathered the bedrolls and other belongings of these white devils.
He picked up Tom's hat thinking it would be like other Indians for him to wear this fine Stetson. He took the feathers from his hair and stuck them in the hat band. Placing it on his head he danced around the body of the young man and let out a couple of war whoops. With his knife he took the scalp from the cowpoke and, shaking it in the air, did another dance and emitted more whoops.
The spirit was in him now and he was enjoying the spoils of his victory. Beside the fallen dude, he found a different type of head adornment, one that would create interest among his tribesmen. He transferred his feathers from the Stetson.
Then, collecting the scalp from the head that had worn the Bowler, he did another little dance, shouting and waving the headpiece and the hairpiece.
Pilfering the packs of his dead enemies he found many trinkets, guns, and white man's money. None of which was any use to him personally but he was not so stupid as to realize the bargaining power that he now had.
A mirror and other trinkets to please his fair maiden, horses and guns to trade for her. And if he didn't have enough, the white man's money would buy him more at the trading post.
This was a great trip. It had been a wise decision to go by himself and to seek guidance from the Spirits. They had smiled upon him and he would no longer be a lonely man. Soon he would have sons like the other braves his age.
He need not defile his manhood by putting it in this white devil. He kicked her legs apart and standing between them, urinated on her pubic mound, matting her black hairs with his golden stream.
As he filled her navel with his yellow liquid she started to revive. Walking forward he rained on her white pendulous breasts and when she started to protest he filled her oral cavity with the remainder of the contents from his bladder.
Choking and coughing from the foul tasting liquid in her throat, she didn't faint when he withdrew his knife and grasped her by the hair. New to the West she was unaware of what was happening when she felt the pain across her forehead and was blinded by the blood running into her eyes.
The pain was excruciating as this vile creature continued to pull on her hair while he cut and scraped at the skin covering her head. When he was through he pushed her down on the ground and danced around, waving her scalp in the air.
The brave was in purest ecstasy now. This was better than losing his virginity to some white devil. He would save that for the one he loved, as he would the scalp of this white squaw.
The scalp had long shiny black hair. Almost as long and almost as black as that of the maiden he loved. The three scalps would make a fine present for her. Maybe even allow her to overlook the fact that his face was scared.
Kicked by a horse when he was a child his nose and face were flattened. His features were terribly askew. Though he worshipped Running Water from afar, Silver Fox, because of his grotesqueness, had never told her of his feelings.
But now she would be his. He would shower her with gifts and purchase her from her father. Yes, the Spirits were kind.
Tying his new found properties to the horses, he mounted and rode away, without another thought to the hairless female moaning on the ground
The story of the kill would make a fine story to tell the other braves. And the scalps would make a fine gift for the love of his life. Thinking of her he became aroused.
Feeling the long black hair of the scalp, he still held, reminded him of Running Water. The long black tresses. His breech cloth was still on his hip and he dragged the hairs across his penis. With, the warm setting sun on his back, and the gentle rocking of the horse, he tried to envisage an image of Running Water's breasts. He wondered if they would be as large and slack as those of the white squaw he had taken the hair from.
Such lovely hair. Such a soft feel on his manhood. He wrapped the hairs around his muscle and began to stroke, milking it, imagining that Running Water was wrapping her hair around it and milking it for him.
Silver Fox bedded early. Before dusk he came across a quiet stream and there he tethered the horses and built a small fire to cook the rabbit he had killed that morning.
Mrs. Bartholomew crawled through the prairie grass. Blinded by the pain in her head, and the blood in her eyes, she crawled, on her hands and knees, and at times her stomach. Knowingly she encountered needles from cacti. Unknowingly she collected cuts and scrapes on her tender skin, but at the same time she erased the smell of the Indian from her breasts and navel.
Having distanced herself from the scene of the crime and the smell of man or horses the small amount of human smell left on her person was mostly masked by the smell of blood.
A smell that was attractive, masked a smell that was hated, and the cougar walked right up to this curious worming thing. Coming up behind her, as she crawled along on all fours, like some woodlands creature, he instinctively sniffed her buttocks. Smelling her womanhood he began to lick it as he would that of a female cat.
He may have wondered at the words, "Who's there? Who are you?" but paid them no heed as his maleness was now aroused. The female in front of him was squirming to see what was behind her. A short bound brought his front paws onto her shoulders, driving her face into the ground, drowning her screams and moans as she was raped by a member larger than that which nature had equipped her to handle.
When the feline was satiated he fell asleep on the back of his newfound mate. Mrs. Bartholomew's lungs, imprisoned between the hard prairie soil and the weight of the cat were unable to function fully and her mind went into sleep state, from lack of oxygen.
A short time later the cat hearing a small noise came partly awake and rolled off the lady, his member falling from her ruined vagina.
Freed of the animal's weight Mrs. Bartholomew began to stir.
The cat, lazily, reached out with a furry paw. One nail, partly extended, accidentally slashed Mrs. Bartholomew's right breast. Her yowl of pain brought the cat fully awake.
The smell of blood caused an instant reaction. With a quick lunge his large mouth engulfed the blood covered mammary. One smooth flex of his jaw muscles and his incisors severed the protuberance from her chest.
Screaming in pain and hollering for help Mrs. Bartholomew tried to roll away from the golden haired animal. As he masticated her mammary the cat followed this prey that he had recently violated. When his mouth was empty he proceeded to take another bite of the tender flesh.
Though the words being yelled, and the shape of this animal, were strange to him, the screams as he torn open the stomach were not. The struggles, that he stilled by placing a big furry paw on the mutilated chest, were common to any meal.
Silver Fox was up before the sun. Anxious to return to his tribe and tell of his tale which had now grown to five men and two women.
As the sun came over the horizon, which at this point was the bank of the creek above him, it shone on a thin spiral of smoke.
Cautiously approaching, Silver Fox saw a small cabin in a clearing. A white lady dressed in a thin gown went to a small cabin, then returned to the main cabin.
Slowly Silver Fox circled the little clearing but could find no sign of any white braves. Cautiously he approached the cabin. Peering inside he could only see one occupant and with a blood curdling scream he dashed through the open doorway.
A quick blow with his tomahawk silenced, forever, the scarred white squaw and Silver Fox made a quick examination of the interior of the cabin. Seeing no one else he stepped outside and watched for several minutes until he was sure Vilma's screams had gone unheard.
Back inside he explored the little cabin. Silver Fox was rich beyond his wildest dreams.
Two days in a row. He could not believe his good fortune. Nor could he believe what he had found, the uniform of one of the feared Red Coats.
Scarlet tunic, rifle, high top boots, Sam Browne with pistol, black pill box hat. This was much nicer than the Bowler. Again he transferred his feathers.
He was about to throw the Bowler aside but then thought it might make a good trading trinket. Into the stolen saddle bags went the Bowler along with the scarlet jacket, much too warm to wear it now. He would put it on as he rode into his camp. Wouldn't his father be surprised.
Sgt. Harold Fitzgerald could, by some female standards, be called handsome. Born in Upper Canada, of Scottish parents, he joined the Northwest Mounted Police when he was eighteen, made Corporal by the time he was twenty, received his third hook within two years and soon became senior NCO at Ft. Macleod.
Taking a break from his desk, duties that he hated, he was escorting a troop of new recruits across the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.
Hatchet Hucker Dave (Hatch for short), the Indian scout, was on the crest of a hill signalling the troop to break ranks. Quickly Sgt. Fitzgerald swung his columns left and right.
Silver Fox was getting close to his camp. Not close enough to make it home today but by the time the sun was high again he should have Running Water in his tee pee. Running Water with her long black hair gently gliding across his testicles.
With his eyes closed, the warm sun on his back, the gentle rhythm of the horse, Silver Fox reached for the scalp of the white squaw, and thrusting aside his breech cloth, trailed the blood and semen matted tresses across his genitals.
What noise was this to interrupt his fantasies? Red Coats coming directly at him. Quickly, he turned his horse, only to find that more Red Coats were coming from the other direction. Before he could respond further he was surrounded, dragged from his horse, disarmed, and shackled with metal bracelets.
What trick was this? Was he not in favour with the Spirits? What were they saying to him, yelling in his face in their foreign tongue? Who were these heathens to be taking from him the scalps that he had earned? How dare these pale faced exploiters rummage through the trinkets that he would use to win his sweet Running Water? How dare they treat a Blackfoot Brave in such a manner?
With booted feet, and rifle butts, the soldiers pummelled the warrior into the prairie soil. By the time the scout arrived, to interpret, Silver Fox was willing to tell them anything they wanted to know.
Try as he might he could not convince the soldiers that he had not killed one of them. They would not believe that the uniform had been found.
The patrol would have to back track the Indian to find the people he had killed. It would be a long trip and the Indian would only be one more mouth to feed and in the end he would be summarily hanged.
There were no trees in the area to use as a gallows. One of the braves own arrows, fired from his own bow, pierced his heart (After all, bullets were a scarce commodity in the territories).
The troop did the Christian thing and buried Silver Fox in the English manner. At the head of Silver fox, in lieu of a cross, they built a small cairn of rock and said a few words for trooper Trevor Monaghan, who had not reported to his post for several months.
The weather held and so did the luck of the guides. Many guides claimed to be able to track a cougar across shale in the rain. The truth of the matter is that most guides relied on common sense, a lot of second guessing, and plain old luck.
The troop came across the cabin, just where Silver Fox had said it would be. He had negated to tell them that he had burnt it to the ground and that the remains of a pregnant paleface were hidden beneath the ashes.
The Mounties continued to follow the trail. After all they really didn't have anything more pressing to do. Patrolling the vast prairies was their total itinerary.
Eventually they came across the site of the massacre. Hatch, the eldest of the two scouts, went into some bushes to relieve himself and saw the spot where Silver Fox had killed the rabbit. The running horse had cut deep into the soft leafy soil, beneath the trees, and it was easy for Hatch to follow the tracks to the trail.
His partner, Jimmy Feathers, and the troop, were already examining the blood on the ground. Amongst the nearby trees they found two recently dug graves.
When Tom hadn't returned to the ranch with his escorts Mrs. Bartholomew's brother had organized a search party.
As their search didn't cast that far from the trail, neither the search party, or the troop under command of Sgt. Fitzgerald, found any sign of Mrs. Bartholomew. And other than the items recovered from Silver Fox, the troopers never found any trace of Cpl. Trevor Monaghan, aka; Jamie, Tarka, James Ferro, Fero.
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