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to be half Cheyenne and half wildcat. She didn’t live Cheyenne, though. Didn’t know much about their ways. I had to find that out for myself.”
    The little group was silent for a minute, with only the first one muttering comments about wise-ass honkies to himself.
    â€œI tried that,” the Cherokee said. “Wouldn’t nobody talk to a no account Black man like me. Seems we’re considered inferior by Indians as well as everybody else.”
    â€œGot that right.” It was one of the guys leaning on a fender.
    â€œAlways the black knight,” somebody else said. A wise and thoughtful comment, and as unlikely in a group of post-midnight street drinkers as a Cheyenne painted for a spirit quest or a sympathetic Cherokee.
    â€œTrue,” Mad Dog said. “The Cheyenne, they didn’t want to talk to me at first. Especially after a little research showed mom was equal parts Cheyenne and Buffalo Soldier.”
    â€œNow you’re shittin’ me,” Cherokee said.
    â€œNo, really,” Mad Dog countered. “A sergeant in the 10th Cavalry was my great-granddaddy.”
    Nobody said anything to that.
    â€œAnd,” Mad Dog continued, “I got acquainted with a Choctaw once. Choctaw and Cherokee have a lot in common, since they’re both members of the Five Civilized Tribes.”
    â€œI’ve heard that,” Cherokee said.
    â€œThat Choctaw, he was dying,” Mad Dog said. “I gave him a tree burial so Bonepicker and Buzzardman could clean the flesh off his bones before I put him in a burial mound.”
    â€œWhat bullshit.” The first guy, the one who’d been looking for trouble from the start, had had enough.
    â€œShut up, man,” Cherokee said. “He’s right. I read up on it. That’s the way it’s got to be done, you want your soul to travel to the Milky Way like it’s supposed to.”
    â€œThe Milky Way,” Mad Dog said, “is where my people go, too.”
    â€œWell fuck me, then,” the trouble maker said. He tossed Mad Dog a sixteen-ouncer. “Sit down and tell us about your spirit world while you share some of ours.”
    Mad Dog, who limited himself to occasional beers or glasses of wine, popped the top on the malt liquor can. “Thanks,” he said, and went over and sat by the guy who’d thrown him the drink. “That’s real kind of you.”
    â€œI guess we’re all brothers here,” the man said.
    Cherokee said, “That’s a fact.” After a general rumble of agreement from the rest of the men, he continued. “What else do you know about my people?”
    â€œNot a lot,” but Mad Dog figured he could always slip over into Cheyenne lore when he ran out of Chocktaw. And maybe these guys would let him use a telephone. Or give him a ride. Or just refrain from pounding the honky in blackface into a bloody pulp.
    ***
    The sheriff hadn’t really thought this would work, so he didn’t have a ready answer for Fig Zit’s question. He had no idea who Fig Zit really was. But this god-like cartoon character didn’t know who Madwulf was, either. And that might keep the conversation going. Maybe even tease some clue out of the monster.
    â€œAsk him the same thing,” the sheriff said. “Ask him who we are?”
    Mrs. Kraus typed and the character threw his head back and laughed at her message.
    â€œYou’re Harvey Edward Mad Dog,” the voice boomed. “You’re a sad old man from the middle of nowhere and I can kill you in reality as easily as I do here. As easily as I destroyed your home. As easily as I turned you into a murderer. You are nothing and I am all powerful.”
    â€œNot so all powerful as he thinks,” the sheriff said. “Let’s tell him so. Say, ‘I am not Mad Dog.’”
    Mrs. Kraus did it, and this time the character didn’t respond. It just stood there, breathing deeply,