Chapter 1

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.”