Rocky Raccoon

Fair warning, this is probably going to be a very long story. It may take a year for me to finish it. I want to do it justice, so I'm not going to rush. For the impatient ones out there, you may want to pass it by until I have a few more chapters posted. Apologies to Randi, she was supposed to edit this but I ran out of time. All mistakes, misspellings, etc., are all on me.

This particular story had been bouncing around in my head for quite a while, and yes, it is partially based on the Beatles song. You'll probably notice references to their songs, names from their lyrics, as the tale winds along. For those of you who choose to read, enjoy. Comments are always welcome, and votes are appreciated.

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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.