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.
