Rocky Raccoon
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2017 by qhml1

Western Sex Story: Chapter 1 - One day his woman ran off with another guy.

Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Western  

Rocky sat just under the ridge, surveying everything in front of him. Not that there was much to see, just rolling grass covered hills, continuing for as far as he could see, and he’d always had excellent vision. His mother said his grey eyes came from her side of the family, and all were known for their excellent eyesight. He also got her blond hair. Hair he wore long but kept pushed up under his hat, because the shine could give him away.

The rest of him, though, were duplicates of his father’s features, a Black Irish rogue with a silver tongue and a penchant for getting into trouble. His tongue managed to talk his wife into four children.

Rocky had grown up with three brothers and a sister, and they all scrapped. He was the only one with the blond mane of his mother, his brothers were dark haired, and Helga had flaming red hair. In his opinion, Helga was always the toughest of the lot, because she refused to quit.

He thought of her as he sat, watching the landscape, in no hurry. Her impatience was legendary. She would have been charging across the landscape by now, consequences be damned.

He was in Indian Territory, the Staked Plains, on his way to Texas, and though the plains looked empty, there could be a hundred Comanche warriors just over the next rise. His horse had been uneasy all day, and a man out here learned early on to trust his horse. No, movement brought attention, and attention could bring death, so he remained still for another hour before slowly easing along.

“I’m a fool,” he thought once again. “No bitch is worth this.” He had left his companions on the road, veering off on his own to a small town in the middle of nowhere, where someone thought they had seen her and her new lover. He did not for one second want her back, but he had a burning need for revenge against the man who had taken her, all his money, and his best horses.

Rocky mused as he drifted along, keeping a sharp eye out. He’d grown up in Minnesota, on a farm his mother had purchased while still in Germany, and there were always Sioux around. He’d been eleven when there had been an uprising, and remembered well helping load the rifles and pistols while his parents defended their farm. His two older brothers were also shooting, while Helga helped load. They were running low on powder and shot, and things were beginning to get desperate.

He’d pulled the old ten gauge shotgun down, the one his father used to hunt waterfowl, gliding along silently on the nearby lake until he came upon ducks or geese sleeping on the water. He had the shotgun on a swivel mount, knowing it would probably knock him out of the boat if he put it to his shoulder. He’d overload the gun with powder and shot, and when he fired it sounded like a cannon. There would always be two dozen or more waterfowl to be collected, which his mother canned in jars for winter meat.

Pouring a full measure and then adding more into it, he stuffed it with everything he could find, nails, a couple of spoons and forks, his mother’s thimble (he caught hell for that later), scraps of metal, and waited.

When the Indians, sensing victory, charged the cabin, He nodded to Helga, who threw open the door. The shot filled the room with smoke, throwing him back and dislocating his shoulder. When the smoke cleared, there were six dead Indians on the ground, including one with a fork protruding from his eye. They found out later that two more died from the shot, and four were wounded slightly.

It, and the arrival of the militia, took the fight out of them. Four years later they were all friends again, and Rocky often spent time in a local village. He learned by accident his Sioux name was Eight Killer. He also learned you could never tell what an Indian was thinking. He had a scar on his shoulder from what was supposed to be his best friend to prove it.

Deciding he was safe, at least for the time being, Rocky rode slowly, looking for a place to camp. Two hours later he came to a draw holding a little spring, small brushy trees giving the location away. He watered his horse first, then drank his fill and topped off his two canteens. He camped a little ways back from the spring, so the local wildlife could access the water. Rocky set a couple of snares, he’d had worse things than rabbit for breakfast, and lay out his blankets.

Smiley, his gelding, was shuffling nervously. Rocky saw a bird about to land on a branch and veer off suddenly. He eased the Remington in his holster, making sure the strap was off. He’d named his horse Smiley because of the white strip on his brown muzzle, making it look like he was grinning. His looks were deceiving, and he was downright cantankerous most mornings, but after showing his displeasure he would settle down. He placed a hand on the horse.

“I’m watching too, Smiley.”

The horse settled, but still eyed the brush nervously.

It was another thirty minutes before the attack came, and even though he was expecting something, Rocky was still surprised. It had to be one of the smallest warriors he’d ever seen, hurtling out of the brush and howling like a banshee. What he lacked in size he more than made up in determination, and he and Rocky spent a few minutes rolling around on the ground before Rocky managed to knock the knife away and slug him hard.

Indians rarely fought with their hands, preferring wrestling over blows, so it surprised the little warrior. He lay stunned as Rocky stood. Damn, thought Rocky, this is just a kid. He was thinking hard about spanking him good and sending him back to his tribe tied over his horse when the first arrow hit, going through his side along his ribs.

He looked down in surprise as another hit the small Indian.

“Not friends, I reckon,” thought Rocky as he dropped, two arrows whistling over the space he’d just occupied. He pulled his Remington from his hip and snatched the Dragoon Colt he’d had in his waistband. Not much of a speed weapon, but it packed quite a wallop once it was fired.

He could see at least four or five, rushing in, eager for the kill. Realizing instantly he could never down that many, he shoved the Colt into the hands of his former foe, hoping for the ‘enemy of my enemy’ theory would hold water.

The Kid’s eye went wide in surprise before he had the pistol in both hands. Faced with two pistols blazing, caught by surprise, they faltered, and died. Rocky had three down, the little warrior the other two. They waited as the smoke cleared, hearing the drumming of hooves, signalling the retreat of the survivors.

Rocky grinned at his companion, only to see the Walker pointed at him. He swung the Remington up, and they both fired at the same time. Both were surprised to hear the hammer fall on empty cylinders. They stared at each other before bursting out laughing, then both passed out from their wounds. Rocky had taken another arrow high on the right side, and the kid got hit low on the left.

Rocky woke with a start, instinctively raising his pistol, and looked over to see his companion still passed out, moaning slightly. Rocky staggered up, leaning against Smiley, who wasn’t happy with the smell of blood. He soothed the horse while he pulled a bottle out of the saddle bags, along with his only spare shirt. Ripping it to pieces, he broke the arrow still sticking out his side off behind the arrowhead. Taking a deep breath, he poured a liberal amount of whiskey on to a rag and coated the shaft, then pulled it out, hissing as the liquor burned into the wound.

He bound it, then tried to get the arrow out of his chest, but the head was lodged against a rib and wouldn’t come out. Afraid of passing out again, he broke the shaft off and covered the wound with a whiskey soaked rag. Only then did he look to his companion.

The kid was out cold, so Rocky removed the arrows and bound the wounds, hearing the boy whimper as the whiskey hit. Rocky grinned, knowing that if he were awake he’d bite his tongue off before showing pain in front of a white man.

He had reloaded instantly upon awakening, put the reloaded pistols back in the holster and waistband, and went to check his enemies. Four were already dead, the last down with a bullet through his spine. He waved his knife around, but Rocky kicked it away. Leaning down casually, he slit his throat, cutting off his death song.

Then he backtracked them for a quarter of a mile, finding about ten horses loaded with spoils, the obvious results of a previous raid. “Shouldn’t have got greedy,” Rocky thought, as he lead the horses back to camp, finding the kid’s mount on the other side just past the bushes. Judging by the tracks, there had only been one survivor, probably a kid left to hold the horses.

Rocky packed up, knowing the survivor would probably be back and bring lots of friends. Heaving the boy onto the best looking horse in the bunch while his body screamed at the effort, he thought about what he needed to do. He and the kid both needed medical attention, and the best place to get that would be at his village. If he rode in with the boy, they would be honor bound to help him, even if they killed him once he left. He hoped so, anyway. The last thing he did was scalp three of the fallen, the boy would want them, and even though he only killed two, Rocky added one as a bonus.

He pulled the boy along until the had traveled a mile or so, then put his original horse in front and swatted it with his hat. The horse immediately started south, and Rocky followed along, dozing in the saddle.

They traveled all night, and dawn found them on a ridge, looking down on a large village. Rocky woke with a start, assessing the situation. He pulled the boy to the front, shaking him. “Wake up, Little Big Man. You’re home.”

As soon as they topped the ridge riders flew out of camp like hornets from a nest. When they got close and saw the boy and the white-eyes riding together, pulling a string of horses loaded down with loot, they stopped, muttering among themselves. They were also eyeing the scalps that hung from the boy’s riding pad, a bit awed. Rocky and the boy kept moving, nothing but the force of will holding them to the saddle. They stopped in the middle, in front of the largest tipi of the village. “Somebody important lives here,” Rocky thought. They stayed in the saddle for five minutes, the boy sagging but refusing to fall, before the flap opened and a middle-aged man strode out. He was well dressed in buckskins done up in ornate bead work, so Rocky figured he was somebody worth talking to.

“Howdy,” he said, getting no response. “Me and the little warrior here ran into some trouble on the trail. He’s a hell of a scrapper for his size. Got hisself three, and a good bit of loot. You should be proud.”

The man stood impassive, saying nothing. Deciding he wasn’t going to get any help here, Rocky tipped his hat and turned to leave. He made it to the edge of the village before he passed out and landed with a thump on the grass.


Rocky’s eyes flew open, seeing the top of a ... tent? Then it came back to him, and he started to rise. A voice spoke out of the darkness.

“Best stay still. mon ami. You got a fever, them Paiute arrows were always filthy. Doe Eyes and the medicine man got the head of the arrow out of your chest, but it was infected something fierce. Good poultices and the bargaining Walking Buffalo did with the spirits brought you back. It’s good you’re awake, but you still need to take it easy.”

Rocky managed to pull himself up to a sitting position, his wounds complaining about the movement. “I’ll have to tell them thank you, figure some kind of nice payment to show my gratitude. How long I been out?”

“Five days. You don’t have to do anything extra for Doe Eyes. That was her kid brother you toted back here. Walking Buffalo’s been eyeing a couple of them knives you got from your enemies, as well as one of the horses.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Them hosses and truck you came in with. Doe Eyes’ brother says half of it is yours, for fighting beside him. He’s takin’ a fancy to you. If he hadn’t run into you and fought that scum, he’d still be considered a kid. Now he’s a man of importance, with a bag full of possibles and five nice horses. Not to mention three scalps. Did he really kill them?”

“Two for sure, and the third had bullet holes from both pistols, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Stuff like that isn’t important to me. The medicine man can have the knives and the horses, I don’t really need them anyway.”

The man finally came out of the darkened corner he’d been sitting in. Rocky was amazed. The man was easily over six feet, unusual for the time. His hair was jet black, even though his face said age, and there was a wide white stripe just to the left of center going from his forehead halfway through his scalp.

“Jean-Baptiste Bordeaux, sir. A pleasure to finally get to talk to you, even if you don’t know shit about Comanches. If you gave the old man horses and prime loot, you would piss him off no end. He’d either have to kill you or give you something of better value in return. Best let me handle it. I’ll tell him how awed you are that he brought you back from the dead, and that you want to show your gratitude. Then I’ll ask him if it was all right for you to give him a small token of esteem for saving your life. That should puff him up, especially if we say it where his friends can hear. We’ll lay out the knives, and lead in the horses, telling him that he’s too important a person to anger, so he gets to choose. You’ll tell him through me you would never insult him by offering pay, but you would be deeply honored if he would chose something.”

The old man stooped, grinning. “He’s a right vain old bastard, so he’ll say he has to think about it. Then he’ll decide to do you a favor and ease that white-eye conscience of yours, and pick something. My money would be on one of the horses, he’s really taken a shine to a paint mare. It wouldn’t hurt you to offer the same deal to the chief, for not killing you out of hand. There was a pretty fiercesome argument going while you were out cold, most of the warriors all for killing you where you lay.”

Jean-Baptiste stopped for a minute to pull the flap open and spit. “The boy you saved was Walking Buffalo’s nephew, the son of his sister. That, and the balls you showed when you rode right into camp to bring him home sealed the deal. You better pray he likes you as much awake as he did whilst you was asleep.”

The flap opened, and Rocky was temporarily blinded by the light. When his eyes adjusted he thought he’d passed out again and was seeing an angel. Standing before him was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. She was dressed in traditional Indian clothes, but her hair was auburn.

“This here’s Doe Eyes, boy. She’s the one you need to thank for keeping you on this side of the dirt.”

Doe Eyes watched him impassively, her face a blank mask. She finally turned and said something to Skunk, who grinned.

“She says you got right pretty eyes, son. Say, you got a name?”

“Course I do,” snapped Rocky, “one that’s a whole mouthful. Liam Wilhelm Helgestad McGill. Most folks just call me Rocky.”

“Well then, Rocky it is.” He turned to the woman, translating his name. She said something back, a shy smile on her face, and Skunk burst out laughing.

“She says the name suits you, part of you, anyway. She says for a sick fella you’re plenty healthy, you sure got rock hard every time she bathed you.”

Rocky flamed red, then he realized he was naked underneath the blanket. “Where the hell are my clothes?”

“Doe Eyes washed them, for when you woke up. You need to show a little gratitude, between you and her brother, she ain’t slept much in the last few days. She also kept your carcass from stinking up the place. That’s how she knows how well you’re, equipped, I guess is the right word. She was plenty impressed. Then again, she ain’t married or ever been with a man, so she ain’t got much to compare to.” Skunk was grinning again, enjoying his discomfort.

Doe Eyes spoke again and Skunk translated. “She says she’s going to get you some supper, and you’d better eat every bite so you can recover. You also got to drink what Walking Buffalo fixes for you. I ain’t never tasted it, but everybody says it smells a little like a cross between buffalo piss and a dead skunk’s ass and I agree. Enjoy, mon ami. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

They both left and Rocky sat thinking. It looked like he was going to live after all. He rubbed his head, feeling the groove under the hair, remembering how he’d been laid up over that. He was getting pretty good at almost dying. He drifted off, remembering how he got to this point in his life.


When he was eighteen, he left the family farm. It was getting harder and harder to make a good living, as the ground was about wore out. His father Darby, talking to a neighbor while looking at Liam and Helga, three and four at the time, said it wasn’t much good for raising anything but young’uns and rocks. His neighbor called Liam Rocky from then on, and it stuck.

Every time Darby grumbled about giving it and moving on, he looked at his wife and smiled. The farm was hers, part of a land deal that had been worked out in her hometown, a village in western Germany. She and her husband traveled wit most of the village, by land and sea, finally ending up in New York City. Her husband caught a fever in the tight confines of the ship, and passed away a week before they landed, and they buried him at sea. Truth told, she really didn’t like him much, the marriage was a deal between her folks and his, and he was pretty worthless at everything he tried. She lay awake at night wondering how he was ever going to handle the hard work that goes with farming.

Heidi Helgestad stood on the dock, shocked when the land agent told her she had to have a husband or the deal was off. She would be refunded half the money and sent back to Germany. She begged, she pleaded, and he finally snapped at her.

“All right! Here’s the deal. We get on the train in three days. If you got you a husband by then, you get to go. Good day, madame.”

She looked around the dock, desperate, and her eyes locked on to Darby McGill, peacefully sleeping off a drunk on some bales of cotton. She got closer, decided he wasn’t bad to look at, seemed fit, and by what she could see of his unbuttoned trousers, was not badly equipped.

Liam woke up later to find a hand working his hardened cock, and his mouth full of pillowy tit. He though maybe he’d died and gone to Heaven until he heard her moan. His eyes fully opened just about the time Helga rose above him and impaled herself, shrieking a little as he filled her. All Liam could see was large bouncing breasts, and all he could hear was a woman moaning in a foreign language. Instinct took over and he grabbed a handful of very nice bottom, thrusting up. She peaked first, and when her muscles squeezed down on him, he exploded. He would always consider it the best sexual experience he’d ever had.

When the woman finally rolled off him, he saw bright blue eyes, a pretty smile, and yards of blond hair. He really did think he was either dead or dreaming. They cuddled, waking twice in the night to couple again. He was still exhausted the next day when a group of angry looking men burst into the room, yelling in that language again. Two were holding shotguns. The woman had the covers up to her chin, crying.

was dressed. His new shoes were a little tight, but he would break them in later.

It all came to him when they walked him into a hotel ballroom. There was Heidi, standing in front of what was obviously a preacher, wearing a white wedding dress.

“Now hold on just a minute, boys! She seems nice enough, but I ain’t about to get hitched.” One of the Germans explained to him in perfect English that if he did not marry this innocent woman, that had fallen for his glib lines and rakish appearance, they would hang him from the gaslight post outside. He looked at the shotguns, the serious faces of those who held them, and past them to the noose that hung on the post, and turned around. He could always slip away later.

Liam looked at Heidi and grinned. “Come on, me lovely, let’s get hitched.”

The celebration lasted into the early morning, the men now treating him like a long lost cousin returned to the fold. He had to admit Heidi looked beautiful in the form hugging gown, her blond mane intricately styled. He just barely remembered her helping him undress and feeling those pillowy breasts press up against him.

He woke up in a train compartment, eight hours from New York.

“I gotta get out of here” was his last thought until Helga had him by the cock again, guiding him into her snug pussy. Than all thought of leaving vanished. Forty years later, long after the fact that she had admitted to practically raping him in an effort to get a husband to keep her farm, long after all their children were gone and they were alone except for the multitude of grandchildren that kept showing up every time the parents wanted some time, he hugged Helga and told her it was the best thing that ever happened to him. Helga just smiled, gave him enough liquor to make him happy, and reenacted the ‘rape’ all over again.

Rocky had decided that while he liked farming, he needed to strike out on his own. There were no opportunities locally, the place was settled and any land available was either worthless or beyond his means. There were always flyers in the saloons and general stores advertising for railroad workers, so he decided to walk South and give it a go.

His mother cried and his father looked grim, but agreed in the end it was for the best. So on a crisp morning in early September he kissed his mother and sister, shook hands with his father and brothers, shouldered his heavy pack, and walked away. It would be years before he saw any of them again.

His father had offered a horse, but Rocky knew he really couldn’t afford to spare one, and besides, he was used to the woodland trails and walking behind a plow. He wouldn’t need a horse working on the railroad, and he could always pick one up later when he had money.

He also carried the old ten gauge, a gift from his father, as well as a Dragoon Colt his brothers had chipped in to buy, saying he would need it in his travels. They couldn’t afford a holster, so he carried it in the waistband of his pants. He also carried eighty dollars, all but five of it hidden in a money belt.

He’d been walking for about a month, stopping for a day here or there, helping someone on a farm or ranch in exchange for food and a warm place to sleep. Once he helped a storekeeper unload and stock three wagons full of goods. That earned him a bed and a new shirt. The shopkeeper wanted him to stay on for a few days but the way his young wife was eyeing him convinced him now was a good time to leave. He wasn’t experienced by any means, but he was a pretty good observer of human behavior, and he wasn’t about to walk that path because it never led anywhere.

Soon enough he was on a major road, and in a land where people weren’t used to seeing anyone walking. He got many a ride on the back of a wagon or a spare horse, cutting his travel time significantly. At his last camp, which he shared with a group of teamsters, they told him the railroad was about sixty miles away by the road they were on, but if he wanted to go over the mountain behind them it would cut fifteen miles off the trip. He was up before the light of day, stoking the fires and getting the coffee going before the night guard woke the rest up. They fed him a big breakfast, packed a lunch for him, and wished him the best.

Rocky made the crest of the mountain early in the afternoon, happy with his progress. He walked until the sun was low in the sky, and made camp. He was nursing the last of the coffee when he heard the horses. He quietly faded into the darkness.

They stopped, just out of pistol range, and called out. “Hello the camp! We’re friendly, just looking for a place to light for the evenin’. Can we come in?”

They kept their hands high, and Rocky let his hand slip off the Dragoon. He waved them in, adding more coffee to the pot. The two men rode in, and Rocky immediately didn’t like them. They seemed a little too ‘slick’, for lack of a better word.

Still, they were friendly enough, unrolling their beds on the opposite side of the fire, cooking a light supper of bacon and canned beans. They wiped their utensils out and settled down.

The tall one, Reggie, made more coffee, while the shorter, broad shouldered Jim kept Rocky talking. He accepted the cup from Reggie, and wondered why they were watching him so closely. Then he began to go numb. They had drugged him! He felt for the Dragoon, but even as his hand touched it he slumped over.

The cold woke him the next morning. He sat up, but slumped back down when the headache raced through his brain. It took him two hours to be able to stand up.

He had been robbed of everything he had, including his clothes and boots. It was early October by then, and he felt the cold. The first rational thought he had made him reach for the back of his longjohns, breathing a sigh of relief as he felt the throwing knife. His mother had sewed a slot for it in the back of every set, and the robbers had missed it. Finally he stood up, glad he had on thick winter socks. He was roughly Reggie’s size, and found his discarded clothes in a pile. The pants were too small, but he fit into the shirt, almost gagging at the smell. Best of all he’d dropped his old buckskin jacket, taking the long sheepskin Rocky loved. He couldn’t wear it as a coat, so he cut the sleeves off and fashioned some rough moccasins, wrapping the hide round his feet with thin strips, and donned the jacket as a sort of vest.

Rocky was recovered enough by then to check his snares, happy to see two fat rabbits. At least he wouldn’t starve. Using the knife, he skinned the rabbits, saving the hides. He looked for an hour before he found the rock he needed, gathered moss and dry leaves, and struck the rock with the handle of his knife until a spark caught. The fire warmed him as he slowly roasted the rabbits. He ate one, and carried the other, snacking on it when he got hungry.

He was following the trail of his robbers, their tracks distinctive because their horses wore new shoes, and one wasn’t fitted right. Rocky knew the owner would have to fix it soon or the horse would go lame. It never occurred to him not to go after them. They stole from him, drugged him, left him to starve or die of exposure. He flipped the knife angrily at an oak fifty feet away, grinning as it sank into the bark.

The man that made the knife was Italian, Giovanni Martini, a close neighbor. He had married a German girl and made the move to the New World with the rest of the villagers, happy for a new beginning. He was a blacksmith by trade, but when he wasn’t making rims for wagons, or horseshoes, or fixing plows or any of the other things a blacksmith did to make a living, he made knives. His throwing knives were always perfectly balanced, kept their edge, and never rusted. His hinting knives were works of art, with bone, wood, or leather handles. Soon enough, he was making so much off his knives he almost stopped doing anything else.

Giovanni was extremely small man, five one, maybe a hundred pounds. But he had well developed muscles from his job, and was stronger than most bigger men. He was in the small village the farmers traded in one day when a bunch of drunks decided to have fun with him. There were four of them, and it gave them courage.

They insulted his name, his heritage, and his size, but he ignored them. Then one of them said something about his wife and things got interesting. Giovanni challenged him, daring him to face him in a knife fight, or apologize for what he said about his wife and leave.

The man as almost drunk, and fancied himself a knife man, so he agreed. Three minutes into the fight the man was down. a cut across his cheek baring bone, a stab trough his right hand that almost split it, and Giovanni had the blade to his throat, telling him to apologize or die right there in the dirt. He apologized profusely.

The others, angered by the way he had so casually bested him, declared they were going to see how well he could handle three. Giovanni smiled, and suddenly there were two knives in his hands. Two rushed him, and the little man seemed to dance, weaving around with a speed that astounded them. Soon one had a deep gash on his leg, and the other had a stabbed left buttock.

Rocky, in town on an errand, stood in awe, until the last man pulled a little derringer out and took aim. Rocky was at the local store to pick up among other things a new ax handle. He dropped his packages, and came down hard with the handle, breaking the wrist, making him release the derringer into the dirt.

There was no peace officer, but the men of the village had had enough. They grabbed the men and led them howling in pain and complaining to their horses, where they were politely invited to leave and never return. “Next time we’ll make you face him one-on-one, and hope you got enough in your pockets to bury you. If you don’t, there’s a gully out behind the saloon. The coyotes and skunks will take care of you soon enough.”

They looked at the shotguns and left, the man with the stabbed buttock standing in the saddle. They could hear the laughter from the villagers for a long time.

Rocky looked down and saw the derringer. He picked it up and asked the general store owner what he should do with it.

“Keep it, boy. I doubt them fellers ever come back, and if they do you can bet they won’t have the nerve to ask for it back.”

It was a genuine Henri Derringer, a double barreled model in .41 caliber, and looked almost new.

Giovanni, as thanks for keeping him alive, gave him a ride home. Rocky showed him the little pistol and his eyes lit up. “Wanna sell it?”

In truth, Rocky had no idea when the little gun might come in handy, if ever. He grinned at Giovanni.

“I’ll make you a trade. You make me a couple of those knives and show me how to use them, and the weapon is yours.”

He accepted the deal instantly, and was surprised when he asked that one be smaller, befitting a female hand. Rocky explained he was going to keep one and give the other to his sister. He didn’t like the fellow courting her now, he had a mean streak when he was drunk, and Helga had never seen it. He was always well behaved around her brothers and parents, but Helga trusted Rocky, and when he told her his fears her affection for him cooled.

He made threats, but Helga smiled as the knife appeared in her hand. “Try something, big man. You’ll end up talking in a higher voice than I got.” The man went pale and left, and never spoke to her again. Helga baked Giovanni a cake as a thank you.

Giovanni gave him all sorts of tips, and soon he could do a double and even a triple spin and still hit his target. He also made him practice up close fighting with wooden practice knives, showing him tricks he’d never heard of before. Rocky asked him once how he came to learn it.

Giovanni smiled, but it was a sad smile. “I never tell anyone this before, Rocky. You no blab, okay?” Rocky promised. “My familia in Sicily were big deal, life members of local criminal society. My mother’s family were from Corsica, members of the Unione Corse, another big crime family. They were the royalty of both organisations, but serious differences started coming up over the way things were being handled, and a small war erupted. We killed their people, they killed ours, until one day I look around and realized we were losing. My mother, father, and brothers were dead, and they were closing in on me. I grabbed all the money I could and fled, eventually coming to a small village in Germany. I meet my wife there, and when she say we go to America I was glad. No one looking for me here. I like being farmer and blacksmith, no? It is simple and decent, and no one try to kill you. Well, not often anyway.”

He paused, remembering. “A Roma taught me how to use blades, even a little of knife making. I learn to blacksmith in Germany, and kept working in my spare time until I make decent blades.”

Rocky stopped to retrieve his knife, snapping back to the present. It would be dark soon, and he needed to find shelter for the night. The oak he’d sunk his knife into was just the first in a big grove, and a small stream ran nearby. He drank deeply and set a few snares in likely spots, using strips of leather from the jacket. he was resigned to going to bed hungry when a squirrel decided he didn’t like Rocky invading his territory, sitting on a fallen log and scolding him. It was a two turn throw at a small target, but Rocky was good enough or lucky enough to knock the squirrel off the log, his blade through his body. He quickly started a fire, and set the cleaned squirrel on a spit, letting it roast while he gathered leaves. When he had a pile about waist high and six feet around, he checked the squirrel.

It was done, kind of plain without salt or pepper, but Rocky was just glad he got to eat. After finishing off the meager supper and drinking once again, he doused the fire and walked into the middle of the pile of leaves. Then he lay down and burrowed until he was about two feet beneath the leaves but still had plenty under him for a comfortable rest. He arranged them as carefully as he could, leaving just a small hole for his eyes and nose. The leaves were excellent insulators, and soon he was warm and comfortable, able to get a good night’s sleep.

The Sioux had taught him that, as well as how to make small snow caves, necessary if you were caught out in a Minnesota blizzard.

Rocky woke the next morning rested but hungry. He’d caught a couple of rabbits, but other predators had found them, and didn’t pass up a meal they didn’t have to work for. He gathered up the strips and put them in his pocket, made a small bowl out of tree bark, and heated some water, drinking down the warm fluid gratefully. There had been frost on the ground this morning.

Rocky walked all day, set his traps and made his bed. There were no irate squirrels around, so Rocky went hungry. There was nothing in his snares the next morning, so he just continued walking. The temperature had been dropping all day, and he knew he would be in serious need of shelter.

He was in hill country now, and was starting to see a little sign, tracks here and there that told him he was on a ranch. He was still following the tracks when he topped a rise, seeing the ranch building spread below him.

He recognized the dun Jimmie had been riding, and knew they were either there or had swapped horses. Not knowing what to expect, he eased down just before dark, making it to the barn without being seen.

Rocky wondered where the dogs were, every ranch had a few just to let them know someone was about and to help herd cattle. He got his answer when he eased around the side of the barn, to see two large dogs sprawled in the dust, obviously shot. This did not look good for the rancher and his family.

He knew his enemies were in the house. He also knew he was unarmed, and had to figure a way to get them out of the house and into the barn. Rocky looked around as quickly as he could in the dark, but all he found for a weapon was the pitchfork. It was old and worn, but that just meant the tines were sharper. He had to figure a way to bait one of them into the barn, and hope both didn’t come. There was an old hat there and he put it on, both for warmth and to alter his appearance.

Rocky looked out the door, surprised to see it snowing. The weather had been getting progressively colder all day, and the clouds were getting thicker. Maybe that would help.

He was about out of ideas when the ranch door opened and Jim came out. He stopped and pissed off the porch, and he could hear him singing as he made his way to the barn. He sounded happy and a little drunk.

“Come on in here, you nags. I never seen horses too stupid to get in out of the snow. Let me throw a little grain in this trougth and shut the door. It looks like it’s really gonna be a big storm. Know what, though, nags? There’s a fine looking woman in there, and about twenty bottles of booze. We ‘bout got her broke in, she don’t fight near as hard as she used to. Too bad you’re gelded, Dunny. We might have let you have a go at her, just for fun. I bet she’d squeal then, by God.”

The horses hadn’t come in out of the corral because Rocky had blocked the door. Jim couldn’t see it in the dark. He walked right by him, hidden behind loose hay and some empty feed sacks. He lit the lantern he was carrying and hung it on a hook, frowning when he saw the entrance blocked.

Rocky rose up, and with no remorse at all, drove the pitchfork into his enemy. He had robbed him and left him to die, and deserved no more than he got. Rocky had aimed for his chest, but because Jim was shorter it went a little high, right into his neck, one tine severing the spinal cord. Jim dropped like a rock, dead before he hit the ground. Though surprised, Rocky quickly pulled him under the sacks, watching the life fade from his eyes.

“It should have been more painful, you bastard. You got what you deserved.”

Rocky quickly searched the body, pissed that he hadn’t come out armed. He did find a little pocket pistol, a one shot American in .36 caliber. Not much, but better than nothing.

He felt pity on the horses and let them into the barn. They snorted at the smell of blood and kept away from Jim, but were soon munching on the grain. Rocky felt like an idiot when he let the horses in, noticing for the first time his pack and the saddles in the lantern light, sitting in a corner. More important, there sat his ten gauge. He checked it, pleased to see it still loaded and ready to fire.

It was pitch dark and snowing like crazy when the door opened again. He could see Reggie in the light. He called out. “Jim! What the hell you doing out there? Get your ass back in, we got a woman to entertain this evening. I’d hate to disappoint her.” He started laughing, and Rocky concluded he was almost drunk.

Rocky started walking towards the door, knowing he would be next to impossible to see in the darkness and the snow. He wanted to be close, wanted Reggie to know who was ending him. Reggie yelled again and Rocky muttered loud enough for him to hear. “Comin’, Reggie. Almost there.”

He was almost to the porch when he leveled the shotgun. “Hello, asshole.”

Reggie’s eyes went wide, and he started to turn for his gun. He’d opened the door in his long johns, pulling everything off in anticipation of raping the woman again. Rocky was so angry he had forgotten to allow for the elevation of the porch, so when the shotgun roared it literally blew his cock and balls off. Reggie screamed, in a surprisingly high voice, as the charge lifted him off his feet and threw him back into the ranch house. Rocky had the derringer in his hand, but one look at Reggie made him put it away. He had landed against the back wall in a sitting position, and was desperately trying to stop the blood from his ruined crotch.

Rocky looked at him once, hoped he lived for a little longer in great pain, and turned to the woman. She was tied naked to the couch, a rag in her mouth. Her eyes flew wide as Rocky grabbed a butcher knife off the kitchen table and started towards her. “Lady, I ain’t here to harm you. I’m gonna cut you loose and back off. I’ll leave the knife beside you, it might give you some comfort.”

He cut one hand and foot loose and handed her the knife. She grabbed the rag out of her mouth, then cut her other limbs free. She looked at the knife in her hand, Reggie moaning against the wall, and flew across the room, sliding into the kitchen in front of Reggie. “Bastard!,” she screamed as she stabbed him in the thigh. “Asshole!” accompanied the sight of her burying the blade in his stomach. “LOW LIFE MOTHERFUCKING RAPIST SON OF A BITCH!”

She pulled the knife upward with all her strength, gutting Reggie, his insides falling all over the kitchen floor. She grabbed his long hair, smiling in his face. “How you like this, boy? Feel good?”

Rocky was kind of sickened as he saw her plunging the knife into his asshole, sawing it in and out, laughing hysterically as Reggie screamed out his last. When she was sure he was dead she stuck the knife in his mouth penning him to the wall, and slumped beside him, the adrenalin wearing off as she passed out.

Not knowing what to do, he picked her up, carried her to the couch, and covered her with an afghan from the floor. Then he dragged what was left of Reggie out to the tackroom, beside Jim. He grinned as he looked down. “Good night, boys. Don’t run off now, you hear? See you in the morning, even if you can’t see me.”

He came in, noticing the woman gone. She came out of a bedroom fully clothed, holding Reggie’s pistol. Rocky put up his hands and spoke in a reasonable voice. “Hold on now. I told you I meant you no harm, cut you loose, even covered you when you fainted. Those men robbed me of everything, including my clothes, and left me to die of exposure. If I hadn’t come along you’d still be tied to the furniture. You’ll be all right now. I just need to get my clothes and gear and I’ll leave you in peace. I’ll even sleep in the barn tonight.”

She looked at him, noticing how he was dressed, and giggled. Then the mirth was gone. “I’ll never be all right again! Those bastards took my honor, no decent man will ever want me now. I’m ruined!”

Rocky sensed she was right on the edge, so he spoke softly and gently. “Nobody but you, me, and the dead assholes know what happened here, and they ain’t talking. I would never speak out of turn about the honor of a lady. If you don’t tell, no one will ever know.”

Here eyes flicked back and forth as she thought, and finally she lowered the pistol. “You’re right stranger. This is one secret I’ll be taking to my grave. Now, I still have my husband’s clothes, and you look about the same size. They’re old, but clean and in good shape. I’ll fetch them.” She stopped, listening to his stomach growl.

“How long since you had a meal?”

“In the last five days I’ve had two rabbits and a squirrel, including nothing for the last forty-eight hours. I could stand to eat, ma’am.”

“You poor man! I’ll fetch the clothes if you’ll drag the tub in off the back porch. I think we both need baths tonight. We’ll put it in front of the fireplace to warm while I fix some supper.”

By the time Rocky got back with the tub she was in the kitchen, frying eggs and ham. “I’ll feed you better later, right now you something quick and easy. Sit down.”

She ladled about half a dozen eggs and almost a pound of ham onto his plate, adding two big chunks of bread that she had buttered liberally. Rocky, thinking of his mother, refused to eat until she fixed her plate, even rising to hold her chair as she sat. She bowed her head.

“Father, bless this meal and those who consume it to do your work. Thank you for bringing this man to me in my hour of need, and bless him in his future endeavors. Amen.”

Rocky ate slowly, knowing that if he wolfed it down it would probably come back. Still, he managed to clean the plate. She put the plates in a sink when they were done, and poured hot water from the stove reservior into it, making short work of cleaning up.

Rocky helped her gather things up before she shooed him away, telling him to see if the tub was warm. He checked, and the side closest to the fire was too hot to touch, and the four inches of water he’d poured into it was lukewarm. She had a big cast iron kettle bubbling in the fire place, and he poured it into the tub, replacing the water from a barrel in the kitchen.

“Bath’s ready, Ma’am.”

She seemed surprised Rocky wanted her to go first.

“No, you go on ahead.”

“Ma’am, ain’t a thing wrong with me a little water and soap can’t fix, but you been beat pretty fierce. I think you should go first, get those cuts washed out as soon as you can. I’ll wait right here in the kitchen, have a cup of coffee or two. Go on now.”

She wanted to resist, but the wisdom of his words were evident. Reggie had beat her back from her neck to her knees with a quirt, and some of the blows were deep enough to bleed. She suspected one or two may have become infected.

So with a grateful glance, she went into the main room, stripped, and eased into the water, sighing. The bath felt like heaven, and the ability to clean her female parts helped her peace of mind. She looked down at the bruises on her stomach, legs, and her breasts, wondering how long it would take them to heal.

Then she slid down, wanting the water to cover her back and help her heal. When the still warm water hit her infected cuts, the pain was so intense she screamed.

The door flew open, and Rocky rushed in with his Dragoon in hand. Seeing her alone he started stuttering and backing out. She actually laughed.

“Don’t be embarrassed. You’ve seen all of me anyway, so while you’re here will you look at my back? It aches something awful.”

Rocky was soon kneeling beside her as she leaned forward, showing him her back. Rocky looked at the two infected cuts and another deep one that must have been recent, because it was still oozing blood.

“Ma’am, you got any medical supplies? Something I can doctor with? You got two infected wounds that need to be cleaned, treated, and bound, and another one that looks pretty fresh. It could probably stand a couple of stitches.”

“My name is Vivian, sir. I believe we are past the stage of being unnamed. And if you will go into the parlor, you’ll see my sewing basket. In the sideboard you will find the little medical supplies we keep, and plenty of liquor. Grab a bottle to use as a cleanser.”

He rose to his feet, smiling. “I’ll be right back, Miss Vivian. And you can call me Rocky.”

Rocky found everything he needed, staring at the rows of liquor bottles. Her husband had been either a tippler of fine spirits or a raging drunk.

Viv, as she told him she preferred over Vivian, was still soaking. She leaned forward, compliant, while Rocky cleaned and bandaged her infected wounds, and didn’t even grunt when he put five stitches in the worst. She did hiss when the alcohol hit them, but knew it was necessary. She commented on his sewing ability.

“My mother taught me. She said there may be a time in my life when I didn’t have a woman to do it for me, so it would be handy to know.”

“Your mother was a smart woman, Rocky. Now, will you help me up and into my bedroom? I’ll be all right from there.”

She rose unashamed from the bath, and even though he knew it was impolite, he couldn’t help admiring her body. She told him later she was twenty nine, but because she had never bourne children, was as firm and taut as any teen. He was particularly impressed by her breasts, sitting high and firm on her chest.

She knew he looked, and even after the ordeal she had been through, she was pleased at his obvious appreciation. He helped her into her room, then went back for his own bath, washing five days of grime off.

Her husband had been just a bit larger, so everything fit him very comfortably. He put on a pair of winter long johns, stoked the fires in the living room, parlor, and kitchen, and slipped beneath two large comforters.

He woke in the night to the bed shifting, and reached for his pistol. “Easy, Rocky. It’s me.”

“Vivian? You need something?”

“Yes,” she said, as she slid into the bed beside him. “I need you to hold me for awhile. I promise I’ll go back in a bit, but right now I need to feel arms around me that mean me no harm. Please, Rocky.”

So he cuddled her as she wept in his arms, until the weeping went to snuffles, and the snuffles went to deep, regular breathing. He held her gently as she spooned to him, careful not to get close enough to rub her raw back, and drifted off again.

He woke in the morning, alone, to the smell of coffee and bacon. Rocky found Vivian in the kitchen, bustling around, humming. She saw him and smiled.

“Good morning! Let me thank you for last night, it did me a world of good knowing there were still decent men in the world. Now, get a cup of coffee and sit. I hope you like buckwheat pancakes and honey, with bacon on the side.”

He confessed it was one of his favorite meals, and showed his appreciation by doing in two stacks of six and half a pound of bacon. She ate with him, talking of her ranch.

“Three sections, with good water and sheltered by the hills. We ran about five hundred head on average, and Bob had just sold off all but a hundred and fifty heifers and five bulls this fall. Sold at the right time, to the Army. They even offered him a contract. He didn’t take it, saying he wanted to talk to me first.

He was a good man, but he loved his drink. He would work hard all day, and be passed out by eight. I think the fact that he was hungover most of the time contributed to his death. He was half asleep in his saddle when the mare he was riding walked up on a rattler. She went straight up, then tumbled over backwards down the trail, landing right on top of him, then dragging him half a mile home. His head was pretty much mush. I buried him two months ago, and decided to hang on until the spring, gather up what we had left and sell them, along with the ranch.

Then four days ago those animals showed up. The ordeal makes me even more determined to sell, take the money, maybe open some kind of shop in a good sized town. I go half crazy ever winter with just Bob to talk to, when he was sober enough to talk.”

Rocky told her of his life, and what he wanted to do. “I’m not sure exactly what it’ll be. I figure I’ll work a year or two on the railroad, maybe take some of that government land that’s coming up.”

It was still snowing. Not the white out it was last night, but steady. Viv got him to help her string a rope from the house to the barn, for when it got really bad, then took two of her horses, using Reggie’s saddle for Rocky, and they traveled for thirty minutes before coming to a larger barn.

They stomped off the snow and entered the barn, to find a dozen horses, some of the finest Rocky had ever seen. Viv grinned.

“Bob was always good with horses. We kept these hid and only kept a few head at the house. They got shelter, plenty of hay, and a good source of water, but I check on them everyday, give them some grain now and then, rotate a couple of head back every few days, so they don’t forget their training.”

She let her horse go, saddled another, and they rode back. She went into the barn, avoiding the stall with the remains of her rapists, fed the chickens and gathered eggs, while Rocky chopped wood. By then it was snowing hard again.

“It will probably snow for another day or so, then the sun will come out and almost blind you. A day or two of that will melt most of it, and you will be able to travel. The closest town is most of a day’s ride from here. I’ll go with you, there are some things I’d like to pick up, maybe find an older hand to help me until spring. That is, unless you want to stay?”

Rocky smiled and shook his head. “I would probably enjoy it, but that’s not where my desire lies. I want to see more of the world, you know?”

Vivian smiled sadly. “I thought as much. You know, we need to take the bodies into town with us, tell what happened. You came by while they were trying to rob me, and you defended me, killing both the brigands. That will satisfy most people.”

Rocky agreed, and while she prepared supper he went out and retrieved the saddlebags, wanting to find his money belt. They ate, a hearty stew with plenty of bread, and a dried apple pie for dessert. He complimented her cooking, and she seemed to appreciate it.

“I’m fair to middlin’, if I do say so myself. I usually fix a big pot and it lasts me three days. I’m just thankful I have someone to share meals with. It’s worlds better than eating alone.”

The meal over, the dishes done, they lay the saddlebags of the two men on the table, and opened the first one. They found his money belt, the cash still inside. They found another money belt in the other side, and both stared wide eyed at the contents. Vivian got out a pencil and paper, and recorded it. Eighty twenty dollar gold pieces, nine hundred dollars in bills, and a little over a hundred in loose silver coins. A small fortune for the time.

They got another surprise when they opened the other one, not finding a money belt but loose coins in four bags. Fourteen hundred dollars worth. They stared at each other in shock.

“You know they didn’t come by this honest, Viv. What should we do about it?”

“Nothing,” she said. as she divided the money evenly. “We have no idea where it came from, or how to return it. If we give it to the sheriff it’ll just lay around until the county decides to keep it. You take half, and I’ll take half. Another secret I’ll take to my grave.”

It took her another day, but finally he agreed. It would go a long way towards buying his own spread. Besides the money, there were both pistols, a ‘66 Yellowboy Winchester, and an old Henry, still in good shape. She took the Winchester, saying it would be easier for her to handle. He took the Henry and one of the pistols, an almost new Remington that took metal shells, in .38 caliber. Besides the shells in the belt, he found two more boxes in the saddlebags. He took his hunting knife back, as well as another he wore in the back of his belt, out of sight.

His sheepskin was hanging up, and had no blood on it, as well as his boots. They were too big for either outlaw, and he was sure they took them to narrow his chances of survival. He confessed he felt a little odd about taking everything.

Viv set him straight. “Out here, a man tries to do you harm and you kill him first, everything he has becomes yours, unless he has a family, and it’s still up to you to keep it or give it back. Another thing, you know as well as I all that money was stolen. We need to cart them into town, run them by the local sheriff. They may have papers on them, and we may be due a reward.”

That night, just as Rocky was drifting off, she came into his room, slipping under the covers. He was shocked to feel her naked skin touch his.

She felt his unease and soothed him. “Calm down, honey. We’re going into town tomorrow, and after that I’ll probably never see you again. I want us to make love tonight, I want a good memory to replace the ones I have now. I’m not putting any claims on you, consider it a reward for your good deeds.”

He fumbled around for a bit before he admitted something. “Viv, I have to tell you something. I probably won’t do you much good, because I’ve never done this before.”

“Oh my God! You’re a virgin? Don’t fret, honey, let me cure you of that.”

For most of the night, she kept him up, making love three times. Viv was pleased he was fairly large, larger than her husband or both outlaws, and once he figured out how to use it, it was very satisfying for her. They did everything but missionary, because of her injured back. She rode him like a bucking bull, then got on her hands and knees for him. They ended the session in the spoon position, him gently pumping while she sighed and cooed.

The biggest surprise was him waking to his cock in her mouth. He started, and she rose up. “Calm now, Rocky. This is my gift to you. I know most think only whores do something like this, but most women I talk to admit they sometimes do it to please their men. Some men even return the favor, but we don’t have time for that lesson. So lay back and enjoy, honey.”

She went back down, and the sensations he felt were like nothing he’d ever experienced before. He decided pretty quick he liked it, very much. The biggest surprise was when he warned her he couldn’t hold out much longer, and she kept going, draining him dry. He didn’t think he had the energy to move ever again.

She bounced up from under the covers, wiping her mouth and smiling. She slapped his thigh, making him flinch, telling him to see to the horses while she fixed breakfast.

He hitched up her buckboard, and tied the dun behind. Rocky would be keeping it, to speed his travels. She came out dressed nicely, in a heavy coat, with a thick quilt to spread over them as they traveled. She sat beside him on the seat, arranging the quilt, and sighed. Then she turned and gave him a kiss that started out soft and tender but turned forceful and lust driven. She pulled back panting, considering taking him back inside before she changed her mind. She fought the urge, and brushed his cheek.

“That was our goodbye kiss, honey. It wouldn’t do for me to do it in front of the townspeople. I just want to thank you for saving me, in more ways that one. Drive, Rocky.”

He looked at her as he drove, remembering her naked. She was a tall brunette, and her hair was quite long. She kept it in a braid during the day, shaking it loose at night and brushing it until it would shine in the lantern light. Though no expert, he suspected her breasts were larger than the average woman. He recalled the soft hair at the top of her legs, thick and shining. Rocky knew he would remember his time with her as long as he lived.

She snuggled and held his hand until they hit a traveled road, then put a little distance between them. Viv had him drive directly to the county sheriff’s office. He came out on the porch to greet her, staring at Rocky in surprise.

Viv made the introductions. “Sheriff, this is Rocky McGill. Can we come in and talk?”

He invited her in, gave them coffee, and listened spellbound as she described her husband’s death, her time alone, her ordeal with the outlaws, and Rocky showing up and saving her. She then shocked him by telling him the bodies were on the back of the buckboard, and gave him a letter addressed to Reggie. The sheriff went out and looked them over, the severed spinal cord from the pitchfork, and the ruined mess that was Reggie. He took in Reggie’s wounds, and smart old lawman that he was, read between the lines.

He went back in and shuffled some wanted posters until he found what he was looking for. “Here it is! Ma’am, the one that got shot is worth four hundred dollars, and his sidekick is worth a hundred. I’ll write up the vouchers for you, you can run over to the courthouse and they’ll give you a letter for the bank. You can have the money by this afternoon.”

“It’s not my money, Sheriff. If it wasn’t for my young friend here, we know how it would have ended. He killed them, he deserves the money. And if you would, write out a bill of sale for the horse, I believe he deserves it.”

Rocky was about to say something, but she warned him off with her eyes. They went through channels, and he got the money. He and Viv had a nice dinner at the cafe, and he walked her to her wagon. She was spending the night with a friend, and he was in the local hotel. She held her hand out. “I believe this is goodbye, Mr. McGill. It has been quite the experience meeting you. I wish you the best of luck. I’d like to present you with this, as a parting gift. I bought it this fall, planning to use it as a Christmas present for my husband, but he no longer has need of such things. I wish you a happy and fulfilling life.” She handed him, of all things, a hat box.

“As I do you, Mrs. Robinson. I hope you find your happiness, and I will cherish the memory of our time together and what you taught me as long as I live.”

She blushed a little, and gave him a short but hard hug. “Godspeed, Rocky McGill.”

He watched as she drove down the street until she was almost out of sight, before going into the hotel. He opened the hat box to find a brand new black Stetson, wide brimmed and low crowned, the type of hat a man of means would wear.


The next day Rocky rode West, making good time now that he had a horse. He didn’t like the animal, it was contrary and high strung, but it beat walking, and as soon as he found the railroad he’d be getting rid of it.

He hit End Of Tracks four days later, just outside a good sized town. Before he sought employment, he stopped by the Wells Fargo office and banked all but his original money belt. The manager was surprised that one so young could have that much, and commented on it. Rocky, a little irritated, braced him.

“Mister, one thing I’ve learned as I’ve traveled here is the virtue of minding your own business. I got this money legal, and if you’re in doubt you can wire the Sheriff of Buckskin County, and he’ll vouch for me. Now, if you don’t feel comfortable with my money, give it back and I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

The manager took in his travel stained clothes, the gun that hung on his hip and the other shoved in his waistband, the look in his eyes, and mentally backed up.

“I meant no harm, friend. Wells Fargo is always happy to work with respectable young men such as yourself.”

Rocky just grunted, took his voucher, which he could redeem at any of their offices, and walked out.

He sold the horse at the only livery stable in town, not getting as much as he hoped, but enough. He also sold the saddle, having no need for it. He walked the streets for a little while, getting a new set of clothes, along with a decent suit, the first he had ever owned. It never hurt to make a good impression.

The next morning found him wearing his new suit, at the office of the railroad engineer. He knocked, politely, and waited until the man called for him to enter.

The engineer noted the obviously new suit, the wide brimmed Stetson, the clean shaven face, and the confidence of the young man before him.

“Something I could do for you, son?”

“Yes sir. My name is Rocky McGill, late of Minnesota. I am here seeking employment with the railroad. Could you direct me where to apply?”

Mannered, too, thought the man, admiring the firm grip and the way he held his eyes. Not like most of the Irish trash that worked the line, shifty eyed, dirty, profane men who would just as soon kill you as look at you.

They were always short of workers, they either quit or just disappeared, with no notice at all. The boy reminded him of his son in Boston. “We always need people, son. I have to warn you, it’s hard brutal work, but we pay decent wages. We’re not like the bastards that are working their way towards us, using hordes of Chinese, not paying the slant eyes diddly.”

Rocky had never seen a Chinaman, so he kept his opinions to himself. “I’m used to hard work, Mister Horton, and I’ll give a good day’s labor for my pay.”

The engineer had a thought. If this youngster could read and write, maybe he could replace his clerk, who finally gave up his grand dream of seeing the West and wanted to go back to Maine. He asked Rocky a few questions.

It soon came to light Rocky was better educated than the average Westerner, able to read and write in two languages, English and German. He proved to be above average in math skills as well. Horton hired him on the spot, letting him work with the departing clerk for two weeks.

Rocky fit in quite well with everyone. He would let his father’s brogue slip in when he talked to the track workers, and kept his English proper in the office. Horton, bored, taught him Morse code and how to use the telegraph key. It became part of his duties to post the miles laid to the powers that be back East, and hand Horton the irate responses received when they didn’t meet projections.

He would sigh as he looked at the messages. “If they’d ever get off their fat, pompous asses, come out here and look at the work it takes, the dirt, the fights, the blood, they might have a better understanding. I don’t see that happening, son, so we’ll just keep telling them the truth, and let them deal with it. Back to work for us, Mr. McGill. Let’s make them even richer than they are, so they can look down their nose at us from a higher distance.”

Despite his comments, Bill Horton lived and breathed the railroad. He was married, with adult children, and hadn’t seen his wife in almost a year. His wife and son had promised to come out in late spring, and spend the summer with him. He kept their pictures on his desk, and wrote a letter to his wife every day, without exception.

When he wasn’t working, Rocky would take the Henry and hunt, bagging enough elk and deer to help feed the workers. Once he got a big bear, startled out of hibernation by an unseasonably warm snap. Remembering his upbringing, he roasted it slowly, seasoning with a sauce he had made from ingredients he could scrounge, until it was falling off the bone. The managers, upon tasting it, decided it was to fine a meal for the average worker, but Rocky took exactly half, over their objections. He had made friends among the track layers, and he delivered it to his favorite team. They ate like pigs, and declared him a friend for life.

They worked hard, sweat often dripping down and freezing on their clothes in the bitter cold. The only time they even considered stopping was when a blizzard hit. They would hunker down, ride it out, and be working again even as the last flakes fell. Sickness and disease were rampant, and many a worker succumbed, leaving a trail of graves along the right of way. It was one of the many reasons they were always needing new workers.

They were in Wyoming Territory by then, and nearing the mountains. Rocky knew that meant a lot of blasting and tunneling in the near future, something they hated because it was so time consuming. On the upside, it was springtime, and most of the snow was gone, reducing the chances the blasting would trigger avalanches.

They were into the Dakota region by now, close as legally allowed under the treaties at the time. The railroad people were nervous, having survived a few brushes with hostiles along the line. It didn’t help when they noticed braves skylined on ridges, just watching. Rocky grinned, knowing it was just for show. If the Sioux wanted to fight you, you’d realize it about the time you were asshole deep in warriors.

A few days later about fifty braves appeared outside of camp, sitting just out of rifle shot. They were obviously waiting on them to make contact. Mr. Horton, used to these encounters by now, gathered up his supervisors and foremen, arming all with Winchesters and revolvers, and rode out to meet them, surprised to see Rocky trailing along. He wore no belt gun, and his rifle was still in it’s sheath.

They stopped twenty feet away, and waited. After thirty uncomfortable minutes, the leader finally spoke, a long statement in his native language. Horton turned to his scout. “What did he say?”

The scout grinned. “No idea. I speak Comanche, Arapaho, and Crow, but I don’t speak no Sioux.”

“He wants to know what you’re doing here, on the lands of his people.”

They all looked at Rocky and he shrugged. “I’m from Minnesota, remember? Most of my neighbors growing up were Sioux. I learned the language as a young’un.”

Horton recovered, grinning, thanking his lucky stars he’d hired the young man. “Tell him we’re well outside the treaty boundaries, and we will not cross them. We’ll just build our railroad and move on, leaving them in peace.”

Rocky rode forward and repeated what he said, identifying himself, telling him the tribe he was from in Minnesota (he’d been adopted two years after the cabin fight), and his name.

The leader, a subchief named Long Horse, was surprised at the blonde speaking his language like a native, and impressed with his name, Eight Killer. He spoke at length, pausing to let him translate.

“He says treaties don’t mean shit to him, this was his tribe’s land long before the white eyes ever came here. What it comes down to, boss, is he wants some kind of tribute to leave you alone.”

“We’ll not be blackmailed by ignorant savages! Tell them to go to hell.”

“Might want to think that one over,” Rocky drawled, looking at the second in command who’d come out with the statement. “We got no idea how many warriors he has, or how many friends in other villages. You want to start a shootin’ war with the whole Sioux nation? Won’t be laying any track for awhile if you do. And don’t start about the Army stepping in. We’re a hundred and twenty miles from the nearest post. Even if we telegraph them, it will still take them five or six days traveling at full speed to get here. Be a lot of dead railroad men before then.”

Horton listened to the exchange, noticing how restless the Sioux were becoming. He suspected at least some of them knew enough English to get an idea of the conversation. “Eric! Calm down! Rocky, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest we all go over to that stand of trees and sit in the shade, talk the thing over, come to some type of agreement. Send a couple of cooks out, get a fire going, brew a few pots of coffee. I know they made bear sign this morning, and I’ve never met an Indian in my life who didn’t have a sweet tooth. Send any you got left with the coffee, and if you ain’t got enough to go round, make more. Let’s get them fed and happy before we start negotiating.”

Horton agreed, issuing quiet orders. “What do you think they’ll want, Rocky?”

“Guns, liquor, and horses, none of which we’ll give them. Make up some packs of flour, coffee, and sugar, maybe a couple of knifes for the head man. We’ll go from there. I’ll get them settled while you rustle up the coffee and doughnuts (called bear sign out West, because of their shape).

Soon he and the chiefs were sitting around on blankets, smoking his tobacco. Rocky had never learned to smoke, trying it once and not liking it, but he carried tobacco out of habit, because it was a sort of icebreaker. He explained he didn’t smoke because of a spirit vision, something they could understand. The coffee was soon flowing, the Indians taking theirs with lots of sugar, and devouring the doughnuts as soon as they were cool enough. In between, Rocky translated while Horton and the chief bargained.

The Indians left with fifty pounds of flour, twenty pounds of sugar, twenty pounds of coffee, and ten pounds of bacon. The chief sported a new knife. They also got a bag of beads and a few bolts of bright cloth, hastily assembled from deliveries slated for stores down the tracks. They got no booze, and no guns.

Rocky also negotiated a deal for them to hunt for the railroad, keeping railroad hunters from straying into their territory and insuring their goodwill. Soon the crews were enjoying deer and elk, and an occasional buffalo. The Sioux thought the whole thing was hilarious, being paid to do what they always did, and took their pay in cloth, coffee, and sugar. It was a very satisfying arrangement. Rocky spent a few days with their village, spreading goodwill. He was much taken by the land, and asked Long Horse if he could rent some after he was done with the railroad, if he stayed outside the treaty borders.

Technically he would be buying the land from the railroad, but he knew that would mean nothing to the Sioux. If it cost him a few pounds of flour or coffee, or an occasional beef or two, it would be a small price to pay for peace of mind. Long Horse conferred with other local chiefs, and told him to talk to them when he returned, indicating a deal could be made.

Horton wrote a report, praising Rocky for his efforts, and was rebuked for spending company money placating savages. Still, work continued without incident, and they gained ground on their competitor.


It finally happened. The railroad was complete. Rocky, dressed in his suit, listened to the speeches, watched them drive the golden spike, and walked away.

His boss begged him to stay. “You’ll never lack for work, Rocky. Not with all the branches that will have to be built. There will be a time in the not too distant future when every town of significance in America will have a railway station. You’ve been noticed, my boy, and they are pleased with what they see. There’s a good future for you, if you stay.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Horton. You’re a good boss, and I like the work, but it’s not for me. I think I’m going to take some money and see about some of the land that’s going up for sale. Maybe I’ll try ranching, but in my heart I’m still a farmer.”

He left with an aching head, thanks to the party they threw for him. The track layers, the cooks, even the bosses, mingled as they gave him a sendoff to remember. He received a Winchester as a parting gift, with the railroad logo, his name, and an engine engraved on the brass receiver. He also got one of the last spikes they carried, plated in silver.

Rocky was moved beyond words that he had made so many friends. One old track layer approached him before the drinking started.

“I’m getting too long in the tooth for this shit, Rock. I got a little saved up, and when I get enough I’m going to buy me a section of land with good water, and take up farmin’ again. I’ve seen some spots that look mighty good for potatoes, and Lord knows I know enough about them. If you see any likely spots, drop me a line. Maybe I can get my name in the hat quick enough to get it.”

Rocky grinned and shook his hand. “Good plan, O’Shea. Railroad work won’t last forever, and everybody still has to eat. I’ll keep an eye out for you. Maybe when I get settled I’ll drop you a line. If things go according to plan I may need help. It would give you a home base while you looked around.”

“You do that very thing, Rocky McGill, and I may show up on your doorstep.” He grinned as they shook, and then grabbed a beer.


He left riding a bay, an outstanding piece of horseflesh, looking almost exactly like her Arabian ancestors. She had the smoothest gait of anything he’d ever ridden, and he’d had many offers for her, all of which he turned down. She even got stolen once, and Rocky hired a local Indian to track her, catching the thieves in three days. His wasn’t the only one stolen, and all were surprised when he rode into camp a week later leading a dozen horses, three that had belonged to the outlaws.

He still had the skills of a woodland hunter, and he and Big Bear were right on top of them before they knew it. Rocky stepped out of the shadows, the Remington in one hand, the Dragoon in the other, and ordered them to surrender.

Two were fairly close together. The third was to the far right, and Rocky knew he would be a problem. He’d practiced a lot with the Remington in the past year, and while he wasn’t a fast draw he had excellent eye/hand coordination, and was a dead shot with either hand. It was another gift from his family.

“Sometimes, Rocky me boyo, you don’t get to be right handed or left handed, so you got to learn to use both. It’ll make your life easier down the road.” So he learned to shoot with either hand, amazingly accurate shots.

The bandits, knowing it was a sure hanging if they surrendered, went for their weapons. One still had his safety thong over his trigger, and died before he got it loose. The other managed to get his out of the holster, but never got it leveled before the bullet hit him squarely on the tobacco tag that hung out of his left pocket, the next hitting him in the head as he fell forward.

The third man had enough time that his pistol was up, the hammer cocked back. An arrow flew out of the bushes, catching him in the stomach. Rocky’s last bullet from his Remington put him out of his misery.

Rocky stood, keeping an eye on them as he reloaded. Satisfied they were both dead, he walked up to the one hit by the arrow, tugged it out, and shot into the hole. He knew it would do the local Indians no good to bring a man in, even a horse thief, with an arrow wound.

He and Big Bear gathered their things, loading it onto the horses. Big Bear took a hat and a hunting knife, and an Indian pony that held no brand. Rocky insisted he take one of the rifles, an old Mississippi cap and ball. He refused anything else, grasped Rocky’s arm in the traditional clasp, and disappeared into the woods.

Rocky was kind of disappointed, between the three of them they held just over thirty dollars. He kept a Colt Navy revolver that looked fairly new, and that was it. Everything else he sold, including the horses and saddles, adding it to his account with Wells Fargo.

By now, his nest egg had grown considerably. He had drawn a good wage from the railroad, and since he slept in a backroom at the office or on a freight car when they traveled, at the insistence of Mr. Horton, to be able to respond to the telegraph instantly, he paid no room or board. All his meals, unless he wanted something a cut above, came from the camp cooks. He rarely drank, usually two beers or one whiskey if he was in the mood, but he did stand a round almost every time he was in a saloon.

The tracklayers for the most part accepted him, and the ones that didn’t got a sample of the fighting skills he had learned from his father, a decent boxer, his friends the Sioux, and everything else he could pick up. He rarely lost, although many were called draws because once he started he refused to stop.

He befriended a few Welshmen, miners in their home country, who had come to the West with the vague idea of being gold or silver miners. Running out of funds, they signed on with the railroad. Short, stocky men, with dark features, they reminded him of his father.

They all carried walking staffs and he always wondered why until he saw them face four times their number in a brawl, twirling the sticks with skill, laying over half out before they got close. Rocky had been visiting them, fascinated by their stories, and ended up fighting beside them. They taught him how to use a staff out of gratitude and friendship, and for most of his life afterwards he kept one close.

He traveled slowly back to the Northeast, looking over several sections, camping and exploring the canyons and plains. He almost decided on one spot, but decided there wasn’t enough timber available, and he didn’t want to travel a week or two just to cut firewood.

Finally, he found himself on the lands of Long Horse’s tribe, and picked up a couple of shadows as he explored. It wasn’t long until six warriors broke from a draw, yelling at the top of their lungs as they galloped towards him. He just reined in and waited. When they recognized him, they exchanged greetings in their language and smoked his tobacco as they rode. He had a couple of pack horses with him, one with his personal things and one with things he had bought specifically for his Indian friends.

He spent two months with the tribe, riding with the braves, putting his new Winchester to good use as they hunted for meat to dry for the upcoming winter. He stayed with Long Horse, and Swallow, Long Horse’s wife, adopted him, and if he gave the tribe something, he always gave her a little extra. If he brought out pans and butcher knives, hers was always just a little better and and more durable. He gave her two bolts of cloth in the bright colors they favored, and soon she and her close relatives had clothes just a little finer than the rest of the tribe. It didn’t take long before unmarried young women started sharing their meals, doing the Indian version of flirting. He was always kind but never expressed interest, and soon they backed off.

He and Long Horse took long rides, and soon Rocky found the exact spot he wanted. A small plain that backed up into a few canyons covered with timber, with two good creeks and three beaver ponds. If he ran livestock, they could winter in the canyons, avoiding the winds and much of the snow. Deer, Elk, and Bear were plentiful, and he often heard the howls of wolves at night. He was on the right side of the treaty line, and four days from the village.

Long Horse and his elders deliberated, bringing in representatives from the other close villages, and struck a deal. Rocky could have the land he chose, for a a hundred pounds of flour, fifty pounds of sugar, thirty pounds of coffee, and six bolts of cloth a year. As a bonus, Rocky promised that if he brought in cattle, they could have one or two a year, if they needed it.

He gave them his word, and rode back to the nearest town two weeks away, checking in to the local rail office to look up the proper sections of land. He found what he needed, wrote a letter to Mr. Horton, and soon became the proud owner of one of the biggest spreads in the territory. The railroad warned him he was pretty close to Indian territory, and he gave them a promise in writing he would honor the treaty.

The agent was surprised when he paid with a draft on the local bank. Rocky had transferred two thirds of his savings into it, holding the rest with Wells Fargo, as an emergency fund. The next day, he hit the livery stables, finding two wagons and purchasing them, along with two teams of four horses to pull them. The he hit both local emporiums, buying tools, hardware, everything he thought he could use to build with. Half of the larger wagon he filled with foodstuffs and cloth, barrels of rice and beans, kegs of salt and a big bag of peppercorns. He also bought a hundred pounds of coffee beans, and two small casks of tea.

Rocky had thought all of his purchases over before he spent the first dime, hoping he hadn’t missed anything. The shopkeepers were happy for his business, even if they thought some of his purchases were downright odd. He scored points by asking the wives for their advice, adding things he never even considered, like a sack of dried apples and a pound of cinnamon, and the proper amount of baking powder for his flour. One, who raised chickens, sent three dozen eggs, and gave him the promise of eight hens and two roosters from spring hatchings.

Finally, he looked over the weapons for sale, before buying two twelve gauge coach guns and a case of of mixed shells, from bird shot to 00 buck, enough for any type of game he wanted to hunt. The last thing he did was send a telegram to Mr. Horton, asking him if he would contact O’Shea and give him directions to his new homestead. He was going to need all the help he could get.

He returned to the land he had chosen, set up the large tent he’d bought, shelter until he could get something more permanent up, and took a wagon to his Indian friends. They were delighted with the things he’d brought. Swallow was particularly impressed with the sets of needles and the amount of thread he had brought to her. Long Horse was beyond words when Rocky gave him one of the shotguns, with a mixed bag of shells, enough to last the winter. Rocky knew it would come in handy when food got low.

She and the other wives had been busy, and presented him with a full buckskin outfit, almost white, with very intricate bead work. He was also given a winter cloak, made from the hide of a grizzly, something he knew was very valuable. It moved him to know they thought that much of him.

He formally announced he was adopting Swallow and Long Horse as parents, and let it be known he would always watch out for them. Swallow tried not to cry as he addressed her as ‘mother’ in her language, while Long Horse just looked solemn, but everyone could see the pride in his eyes. They had no children, both sons had fallen in battle, and without children to look after them they knew their old age would be bleak. Now, they had no worry.


Rocky worked from daylight to dark, but knew there was no way he would be ready for the harsh Dakota winter. He was just about to look for winter lodgings when he saw a wagon approaching. Getting out his spyglass, he grinned. It was O’Shea, and half a dozen of his old track crew. They jumped down off the wagon, pounding his back and grinning.

“I got your message, and figured you would need a little help. Me mates were at loose ends, so I talked them into coming along. Can you use them?”

“Every manjack among ye,” he said, slipping into his brogue. “I got a ranch to build. The first order of business will be a barn and a bunkhouse, along with enough wood to last us through the winter. We got four months before the snow flies, so we’d best get to it.”

They gathered round his table, looking at his plans. One man grinned and pointed. “Ye need the barn there, son. Build it into the side of yon hill, and everything inside will be a lot warmer in the cold months. You can position the hayloft so you can load it from the high side, it’ll save you a lot of time.”

They decided to build the barn first. If it got bad before they were done with the other buildings, they could overwinter in it. After all, except for his mare and draft horses, he had no other animals.

O’Shea, once he knew what Rocky wanted, disappeared for a couple of weeks, reappearing with another load of workers, and things progressed well into the fall. The barn was complete, the loft filled with enough hay to last his animals the winter, and he’d hauled in enough grain to feed them every couple of days, to keep their strength up.

They built the bunkhouse next, capable of holding a dozen men with ease. It was snug, a long, narrow structure with a fireplace at each end, built for comfort. There were a few tables scattered about, and Rocky picked up every book, newspaper and magazine he could on his trips to town, to keep them occupied during the bitter cold, when they went outside only when necessary, to fetch more wood or see to the livestock. There were also checkers and chess sets, as well as decks of cards, although when they gambled it was for small amounts, sometimes just for matchsticks or chores.

Rocky was smart enough to lay in extras, things like rock candy, dried fruits for pies and cakes, anything he could think of to make their life more bearable. He had bought several barrels of tobacco, and gave each man a box of cigars at Christmas, along with two bottles of liquor. They stayed happily drunk for three days.

Only O’Shea and three others stayed, the rest opting to winter in town. Those staying had free room and board, and most were older, intent on saving their money for their own spreads.

They had built Rocky’s house last, a four room cabin, constructed with an eye for expansion. Rocky had hopes of finding a woman and filling it with children, once he was established.

When spring broke, they harnessed up the wagons and rolled into town. As O’Shea had predicted, the old crew had scattered, only one remaining in town. He was happy to see Rocky and the crew, and had four more men with him, all hoping to get hired on.

Rocky sent them back with O’Shea and the resupplied wagons, but stayed in town for a couple of days to buy some more horses if he could find them. There wasn’t a lot to choose from, so he traveled south for a week, ending up at a small ranch.

The owners were from Texas, and hated the Dakota winters, so they were going back. He managed to buy several good mounts, and on a whim, bought the small ranch, including the small herd of cattle. He had looked over the place, liked it, especially the small river that ran through the back. It would be a great place to grow potatoes. They rode into the nearest town to register the new deed, and he shopped some, piling his purchases on a dozen packhorses. There was an Army base outside town, and he stopped by, listening as the commanding officer expressed his fears that an Indian war was coming. Rocky kept his own counsel, but did manage to sell the small herd he had bought, because he wasn’t sure he wanted cattle just yet. He gave a good price, earning a lot of goodwill. It was always good to have friends in the military.

He also picked up a magazine, a matchmaking service, one that matched suitable men and women up for matrimony. He would look it over when he got home. Rocky remembered Vivian and another widow he had met while employed by the railroad, another woman who missed the companionship of a man. They saw each other for several months, getting intimate after the first. She wasn’t looking for another husband just yet, hers had left her pretty well off, but she was missing a bed mate.

No promises were made, and when he left the railroad, she gave him a sendoff that left him weak in the knees. Rocky had to admit to himself he was lonely, and wanted a wife, someone who would stand with him, helping as he built a good life.


Rocky sat on the ridge, looking down on his home. It had taken almost two years of hard work, but the buildings were all complete, corrals done, the fields he wanted tilled and full of crops. O’Shea was in charge of the crops, and his beloved potatoes were going to be a bumper crop. Rocky had already told him he would get twenty per cent of the profits, as a thank you for all his hard work.

There were fields of corn and grain, almost ready to harvest for winter feed, and he was going to have part of the wheat ground for flour. Some of it would be sent to Long Horse, along with the other supplies he had promised in return for the land. One of his hands was Welsh, and he explained the virtues of a root cellar to Rocky, so they built two, a large on in the side of a hill, and a smaller one at the back of the barn, for the dead of winter. The only access was inside the barn, and could be hidden hidden behind bales of hay. “That way, should the savages cause trouble, you’ll have access to food without risk.”

He and the Welshman had been digging for three days, working until they had a chamber eight feet wide, six high, and ten deep. They were going to line it with shelves when they were done, to maximize the amount they could store.

Barney stopped digging suddenly, picking up a small rock and holding it to the lantern. Rocky thought he looked a little pale, and asked if he needed to go outside for a minute.

“Yes I do,” he said. “Where are the others?”

Rocky thought it was odd he asked. “O’Shea has most of them in the fields, harvesting the potatoes. Tex and Shorty are off to the East, checking to see if the hay will be ready soon. Why?”

“Come along, Rocky. You need to see this.”

They went outside, blinking in the sun. Barney led him around the barn, completely out of sight, and handed him the rock. It looked like an ordinary quartz to Rocky, until he noticed the yellow seams. “Is that...”

“It is indeed, boyo. High grade gold. I’ve never seen anything quite as good, and I was in California for awhile. You are literally sitting on a gold mine. Congratulations.”

Rocky looked down at the rock, thinking. He could mine it, and if it played out, be set for life. Then he envisioned what it would mean when the discovery came to light. Prospectors would overrun the area. The treaty would be ignored, and a war would break out. The Indians would lose, of course, winding up in broken remnants of a once proud people, herded on to a reservation somewhere far away. He could imagine Long Horse falling, and a dirty, starving Swallow living on handouts until she died of hunger or exposure.

“You can’t tell anybody, Robert. Not one soul, you hear me? If you do, this place is done, and I’m not just talking about the ranch. Miners would descend on the Black Hills like a plague, devouring everything that would stand in the way. You think Yellow Rose would like that?”

Yellow Rose was a Sioux maiden that Robert was desperate to make his own. He realized the truth of Rocky’s words, when inspiration hit him.

“I’ll make you a deal, Rocky old son. If you let me mine a little in the root cellar, I’ll give you two thirds, and lie about where it came from. That way, I can get up enough to give her old man the bride price he wants, and have enough left over to start me own spread.”

Rocky thought it was a great idea, but had questions. “I agree, but when you show up with this grade of gold, the assayer will immediately want to know where it comes from. We’d be back to square one.”

Robert grinned. “Just so. But, say I was to quit in a couple of months, maybe go to Colorado, find me a likely stream, stake a claim, do a little panning, and sink a couple of sample shafts. Who’d be the wiser if I took our gold a little at a time and turned it in? I could work the claim until the snow flew, then tell everyone I was sick of mining, and come back to work for you. Who knows, I might actually find gold. Would that work?”

Rocky grinned. “I believe it would. Let me shake your hand, and wish you well in the gold fields.”

They shook to seal the deal. Rocky told the others Robert would be working by himself for a while, as he had other duties. They gave Robert shit for getting out of working the spread, but he countered and told them he could always use another man good with a pickax. Remembering their times laying track, they all declined.

Robert followed the vein for a couple of weeks, as it twisted, amazed when he realized he was under the house. Rocky, knowing it may come in handy some day, had a trapdoor hidden under a rug. If he ever needed to get out fast without exposing himself, he was covered. Shortly after, Robert got Rocky alone and told him he thought they should stop for awhile.

“The vein actually splits up four ways, and every one shows a lot of good ore. Best time to stop, for now, so I can get to Colorado on time.” He handed Rocky a paper, the estimated value of the gold he’d mined, and his eyes got big at the number.

“Really?”

“Aye, lad, and it can only rise if we mine farther. If we do though, word will get out. You can’t keep a secret like this forever. You seem to be pretty comfortable, moneywise, so if it were me, I’d not touch it until I needed it. I’m off for the goldfields tomorrow. Look for word of your account at Wells Fargo to grow, starting in about a month.”

The crew wished him good luck, giving him a sendoff that ended with aching heads. Rocky took advantage of him leaving, getting him to drive one of the wagons to town for him, filled with potatoes. He drove another, with cabbage, carrots, onions, and more potatoes.

Of course, the wagon Robert drove had the gold, hidden under false floorboards. He also had a passenger. He and Yellow Rose had married in a traditional Sioux ceremony, the elders blessing the union because they felt it would tie the white eyes to them even closer, a good thing in unsettled times. They were a little disappointed they would be leaving so soon, but were assured they would be back before winter.

Rocky had gifted her with a brand new set of pots and pans, a sewing kit, cloth, blankets, and anything else Swallow told him a new bride needed. Rocky learned to put his sleeping roll as far away as he could, so the newlyweds could have a little privacy. Even then, they got pretty loud at times. It made Rocky long for a wife even more.

Three weeks later he got a letter, holding papers that named him half owner of the Subterfuge Mining Company.

He made a very nice profit off the produce he offered, and sent telegrams to Mr. Horton and the nearest Army base, asking if they would be interested. He got replies back in less than a day. Mr. Horton gave him an order from the railroad company he was working with, to be delivered as soon as possible, and the Army wanted to know how many hundred weight he could deliver. Judging by the yield on the first few acres, Rocky made a deal for ten tons of potatoes, half a ton of cabbages, half a ton of onions, and three tons of pumpkins, as they became available. He contracted with the railroad to haul them, and a group of teamsters to deliver them to the railhead.

He figured it out per acre, and found he was making more off produce than he could off cattle, so he intended to expand his acreage and not concern himself with cattle right now. He did have about a hundred head, that he used to feed his men and his tribe, and the herd grew because they were breeding faster than they could eat them. Potentially, with his land, he had the capability of handling five thousand head, without overgrazing.

It was a bone of contention between him and his resident cattleman, a laid back Texan by the name of Zane Buzby, that went by “Tex”. He was constantly on Rocky to let him go South and purchase a herd.

“Cattle are cheap right now, especially in Mexico. I could get you a herd of yearlings, heavy on heifers, for practically nothing. Two thousand would be a good number, but it would take three separate drives to get them all up here. It could make you rich, Rocky, think about it.”

He promised him faithfully he would, wondering why if he loved Texas so much he was up here. Rocky thought perhaps he was not so welcome in his home state these days. Tex was only five one, small among the burly ex-miners and tracklayers, but he soon showed them he was a hell of a scrapper. He was also the best horseman Rocky had ever seen, and Rocky put him in charge off all livestock.

They got a demonstration of how good he was with guns on a trip to town. Tex was of the opinion that if you didn’t have at least one gun on you at all times you were naked. He carried five pistols, two big .44’s in holsters in front of his saddle, and three .36 Colts, two in twin holsters and one in his waistband.

It seems his past had caught up with him. He and Rocky walked out of a saloon, to find three men, all armed, facing them in the street. Tex started, then relaxed, speaking to Rocky in German. There were many German enclaves in Texas, and he’d picked it up when he courted a local.

“These men mean me harm, Rocky. Best step aside and let me handle it.”

Of course, Rocky had no intention of deserting his friend, and told him so. Tex sighed, and told him to take the one on the left. The leader spoke up.

“Looks like we’ve finally run you to ground, Zane. You ready to pay the piper?”

“I killed your brother because he was a horse thief. I caught him dead to rights, told him I was takin’ him in, and he objected. He went for his pistol and I had no choice. If it means anything, I gave him a chance, and was looking him in the eye when I shot him. I hear that you don’t usually give a man an even break, and here you are, three to one. At least one of you, probably two, are going to die right here in the street. You willin’ to bet you ain’t one of them?”

“You ain’t got a chance! We’ll shoot you and your partner to doll rags before either of you clear leather, asshole. We’ll...”

Those were his last words. As Darby had taught Rocky, when it comes down to it, make war, not war talk. He drew, catching them all flatfooted, and had the loudmouth down before the other two could respond. Then the sound of shots filled the air. Tex had his man down before he cleared leather, but the third had his pistol out and got two shots off before his head exploded. He went down with four shots in him, two from Rocky and two from Tex.

He died in the dirt, trying to curse Tex with his last breath. The town didn’t have a need for a marshal, but most of the businessmen in town had seen and heard the altercation, so no inquiry was launched. In a surprise to everyone, Tex had coffins made, and packed the bodies in salt, to send them home to their families.

Rocky, seeing it, paid the freight bill. Tex left them a message, written on one of the coffins. “They should have stayed home. I mean your family no harm, but from now on, if I see one, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later. Leave me alone!”

They also sent back their saddlebags and their personal items, and the price they got for the horses and guns. They had a mother, and one of them had a wife. All Tex said was “They’ll need that money, I suspect. I’ll see no child starve.”

Tex didn’t get a scratch, but Rocky got a groove along his left arm. Ah well, he thought, as least it wasn’t his face.


Rocky picked up another flyer for mail order brides, read it cover from cover, and sent out five replies that winter, along with a picture of himself. He described his ranch, not revealing his financial position other than to say he could give the woman and any children they had a good life, and waited.

Two sent replies thanking him for his interest, but they had already found husbands. One never responded, but two did.

One was from Maine, wanting a detailed list of his assets and instructions on what kind of house she expected him to build for her. She made it plain she was of upper class heritage, whose father had lost everything due to bad investments. To that end, she insisted he let her handle all finances so he wouldn’t botch things, and a demand for a first class ticket as soon as spring arrived. She sent a picture. The woman was overweight, with a sharp nose and a severe expression on her face. She was in effect an old maid, twenty-eight, and Rocky suspected he could guess the reason. Rocky never replied.

The other letter was from a young woman from Georgia, still in her teens. She was the daughter of a shopkeeper, and explained in her letter there were really no suitable mates in her area. War had taken some, and the area was financially depressed, a holdover from the war, even seven years later. She wanted a fresh chance at life, with someone, as she put it, who was a person of substance, willing to work hard for her and the children she hoped to have. She also stated she was not afraid of hard work, especially if it bettered their life.

The picture showed an elegantly dressed young woman, with a small smile on her face. Rocky was smitten instantly. He sent her a letter, asking to come to her town to meet her in person. This was unusual, in most cases they committed to one another and met for the first time, getting married immediately.

She sent him a note saying she would be most pleased to receive him in her home, at a time of his choosing. He wrote back saying he would be there between April tenth and seventeenth, depending on travel conditions.

In February, he casually asked Tex if he would like to accompany him South, maybe swing through Texas and look over some of the cattle he was raving about. Tex didn’t hesitate in replying.

“Shore, Rock,” he said in that slow drawl of his, “I been pinin’ to see my folks, enemies be damned. Besides, Ma wrote at Christmas, told me the last of that worthless family met a bad end at the hands of some Texas Rangers, so I got no worries. Name the day.”

Rocky left O’Shea in charge, with a detailed list of what he wanted accomplished. He had him accompany him to town when they left, with a sled full of potatoes and carrots from the big root cellar to sell to the town, and took him into the bank, where he set up a ranch account and put O’Shea on it, to pay wages, make purchases, and other incidentals that may arise.

Rocky also made sure the sled was filled with flour, sugar, and coffee, for Long Horse and his tribe. All his hands were aware of his arrangement, and though some thought it foolish, all agreed it was a lot better to live in peace with them than create enemies. It was 1872 then, and tensions were rising. Word had it some hot shot officer from the war was going to do a survey into the Black hills come good weather, and all the locals, especially the hands on his ranch, felt it was a bad mistake.

After a few last minute instructions and handshakes, Tex and Rocky boarded the train. As they dozed in the passenger car. Tex dreamed of his home, and Rocky dreamed about a blond-haired girl named Nancy.


Sometime in the reliving of his past, Rocky dozed off. He woke when Doe Eyes came into the tipi, giving him a bowl of the most foul smelling concoction he’d ever encountered. He shook his head and she surprised him by grabbing his long hair and pulling his head back. He opened his mouth to protest and she immediately poured the contents of the bowl down his throat. It came down to drink or drown, so Rocky swallowed. It was without a doubt the vilest stuff he’d ever tasted, and he gagged while his stomach rebelled. Eventually it settled down, especially after Doe Eyes gave him a hot tea, sweet and strong. Then she handed him a bowl of stew, and Rocky ate, surprised at how good it felt.

The food and the medicine made him doze off, and he woke later, disoriented, wondering why he felt so good. He heard a small moan, and realized with a start he had one hand locked onto a firm breast with a nice erect nipple. His nose was buried in long hair that smelled of sage and flowers, and he realized the woman was pumping back into him, his cock sheathed snugly in a very warm, very wet pussy.

It all came back to him, the fight, the village, DOE EYES! It had to be her he was coupled to. His small head overruled his big head, felling himself getting ready to come. He thrust harder, making her cry out in pleasure or pain, and she shrieked suddenly, her body clamping down, gripping him tightly. That pushed Rocky over the edge, and he groaned as a month’s worth of cum burst from him. He stopped, savoring the moment, but Doe Eyes kept rocking, cooing softly. Rocky was young, and it had been a while, so he never went soft. She suddenly dragged him up, getting on her hands and knees, wriggling her shapely bottom. He took the invitation, mounting her like a mare in heat, and rutted on her like until it was more like two animals than humans mating. Doe Eyes cried out softly, then screamed again at the finish, as Rocky yelled, erupting into her once again. They collapsed, and Doe Eyes settled into his arms, nuzzling his neck before she drifted off. Rocky lay awake for a bit, wondering what the night meant.

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