Rocky Raccoon

They dragged him and his clothes out of the room, down the hall, and threw him into a tub of hot water. They threw a bar of soap in, and when he started to say something it was silenced by the hammers going back on the shotguns. They made him stay in the tub until it was cool, then dragged him out and doused him with buckets of cold water.

He let out a yell that would wake the dead, that was choked off by the barrel of one of the shotguns being shoved into his mouth. He was given new long johns, and marched back into the barbershop, where the barber trimmed his hair and gave him a shave. A bundle was thrust into his hands and he opened, seeing a new suit and a derby. He looked mighty spiffy he thought, admiring himself in the mirror when he 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."