Bull Clayton: Blood and Dust
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 9: The Journey
Western Sex Story: Chapter 9: The Journey - Some men run from violence. Others wear it like a second skin. Clayton “Bull” Best never went looking for blood. But it always seemed to find him—splattered across dusty barroom floors, burning in gunpowder air, or smeared on the knuckles of desperate men.
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fiction Crime Western Cat-Fighting
Days turned into nights, the canopy of leaves above them giving way to a sky painted with a thousand stars. They camped under the tent, the fire casting flickering shadows on their faces as they ate in companionable silence. Mrs. Church’s injuries from the fight had begun to heal, the bruises fading to a dull purple that spoke of the strength she had found within herself. Bull’s eyes never strayed far from her, a silent vigilant protector in the face of the unknown.
The desert sun rose upon them like a fiery dragon, its heat a stark contrast to the coolness of the forest they had left behind. The carriage rattled over the rocky terrain, the horses’ hooves kicking up clouds of dust that danced in the early light. Jimmy sat in the back, his eyes wide as he took in the vastness of the landscape. It was nothing like the claustrophobic streets of Ell Paso, and he felt a thrill of excitement that was tinged with a hint of fear.
Mrs. Church looked at Bull, her eyes filled with a silent plea. She knew that the journey was fraught with danger, that the road ahead was long and filled with bandits and desperadoes. But she also knew that with Bull by their side, they had a fighting chance. His arms were strong, his aim true, and his heart even stronger.
The sun beat down on them, a merciless hammer that forged their determination into something unbreakable. They stopped at a small lake to water the horses, the cool liquid a stark contrast to the heat that had settled into their bones. Bull dismounted, his eyes scanning the horizon as if he could see the dangers lurking just beyond their view. He had been a bounty hunter for years, had seen the worst that the Old West had to offer, and had survived.
But as he watched Mrs. Church and Jimmy play by the water’s edge, something in him softened. The sight of them laughing, the way the light danced across their skin, made him realize that this was what it felt like to have something to live for, something more than the next bounty or the next fight.
“Mom,” Jimmy called out, his voice filled with the excitement of a new adventure. “Can we go swimming?”
Mrs. Church looked over at the boy, her eyes sparkling with the same excitement that filled him. The lake before them was an oasis in the desert, a shimmering jewel that promised relief from the relentless heat. She knew that the water was calling to them, whispering sweet nothings of coolness and reprieve. With a mischievous smile, she turned to Bull. “What do you say?”
Bull looked at the lake, then at Mrs. Church. He knew that the water would be refreshing, but the thought of the two of them frolicking in the lake naked was something else entirely. It was a moment of pure, innocent joy, and he wasn’t about to rob them of that. He nodded. “Just be careful,” he said, his voice gruff.
With a laugh, Mrs. Church shed her clothes, revealing the lithe, muscular body that had served her so well in the ring. The water was cool against her skin, sending goosebumps rippling across her flesh. Jimmy didn’t even bother with his clothes, running and cannonballing into the lake with all the abandon of a child who had never known fear.
The water was cool and inviting, and Mrs. Church waded in, her eyes never leaving her son’s. When she reached him, she scooped him up in her arms, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the chill of the water. They both laughed as they splashed each other, the sound of their mirth carrying across the stillness of the lake. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated happiness, a brief respite from the hardships they had faced in Ell Paso.
Bull watched them from the shore, his heart swelling with love and admiration. He had seen Mrs. Church fight like a demon, had seen the fire in her eyes when she was in the throes of battle. But here, with her son, she was something else entirely: a mother, a caretaker, a source of love and comfort in a world that offered so little of either.
The water was up to their necks when Mrs. Church stopped, her breath catching in her chest. “Jimmy,” she said, her voice low and serious. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?”
The boy nodded, his eyes wide with understanding. “We have to leave it all behind,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The fighting, the chickens, all of it.”
“That’s right,” she said, her voice filled with a quiet strength. “We’re going to start over. We’re going to build a new life, together.”
They stood there for a moment, the water lapping gently at their skin, the promise of a brighter future shimmering before them like the sun’s reflection on the lake’s surface. Then, with a nod, Mrs. Church turned and swam back to shore, her movements sure and steady.
Bull helped them out, wrapping a blanket around Mrs. Church and watching as she dried off. The sight of her bare skin was almost too much for him to bear, but he knew that this was not the time for such thoughts. Instead, he focused on the task at hand: making sure they had everything they needed for the journey ahead.
As they climbed back into the carriage, the air was thick with anticipation. The gold was still there, a reminder of the price they had paid for their freedom. But now, with the coolness of the lake still clinging to their skin, they were ready to face whatever lay ahead.
The wheels began to turn once more, the horses’ hooves striking a rhythm that matched the beating of their hearts. They were leaving their past behind, racing towards a future filled with hope and promise. And as they disappeared into the horizon, the dust settling in their wake, they knew that Ell Paso would never be the same without them.
That night, under a canopy of stars, they built their campfire. The flames licked at the darkness, casting shadows that danced around the tent like restless spirits. Mrs. Church had bought supplies with the gold from her fights, and now she set to work, her movements efficient and precise. Bull watched her, the firelight playing over her bruised and bandaged hands as she worked the dough for their supper.
The smell of roasting meat filled the air, making their stomachs growl with anticipation. Jimmy had caught a couple of rabbits earlier in the day, their tender flesh now skewered and sizzling over the open flame. The boy’s eyes gleamed with pride as he turned the spit, the flames reflecting in his eyes like a burgeoning fire within.
Mrs. Church had set up the tent with surprising ease, the canvas snapping into place with a resounding pop that sent a shiver of excitement through Jimmy. It was a thing of beauty, a fortress of fabric that promised warmth and protection from the unforgiving desert night. Inside, she had laid out their bedrolls, the soft fur a stark contrast to the hard ground beneath.
The campfire crackled and spat, casting a warm glow over the campsite. It was a beacon in the darkness, a symbol of their unity and resilience. Bull had gathered firewood with a focused intensity, his muscles rippling with every movement. Now, as he sat beside the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes, he looked every inch the part of the stoic hero, a silent sentinel watching over them.
“Jimmy,” Bull said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet night. “What do you dream of?”
The boy looked up from his rabbit, his eyes thoughtful. “I dream of having a real home, with a garden and animals. And I want to go to school, learn to read and write like Miss Duncan.”
Bull’s gaze flickered to Mrs. Church, the question hanging in the air. “Miss Duncan?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. “Who’s she?”
Mrs. Church paused in her cooking, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Miss Duncan is the schoolmarm,” she said, her voice tinged with a hint of affection. “She’s the one who’s been helping Jimmy with his letters.”
Bull’s gaze sharpened, his eyes boring into Jimmy’s. “Why don’t you want to be a doctor, son?” he asked, his voice gentle despite the challenge in his words. “Or a soldier, fighting for what’s right?”
Jimmy looked up from his task, his young face scrunching in thought. “I don’t know,” he murmured, his eyes flickering to the horizon. “Those things ... they just don’t feel like me.”
Mrs. Church paused, setting the dough aside. She wiped her hands on her apron and moved to sit beside him. “Whatever you choose, Jimmy,” she said, her voice steady and strong, “I’ll support you. I’ll always be there for you.”
Her words were a balm to the boy’s soul. He looked up at her, his eyes shimmering with hope and love. “Even if I don’t want to fight?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mrs. Church took a deep breath, her heart swelling with pride. “Especially if you don’t want to fight,” she said, her voice firm. “You don’t have to follow in anyone’s footsteps, Jimmy. You get to choose your own path.”
Bull nodded solemnly, his eyes never leaving the boy. “Your mom’s right,” he said, his voice gruff. “The most important thing is that you stay away from the crime. It’s a hard life, one that takes more than it gives.” His eyes darkened as he remembered his own past, the bounties and battles that had shaped him into the man he was today. “But it’s not the only way. You can be anything you set your mind to, son.”
As the fire burned low, Mrs. Church and Jimmy retreated into the tent, the canvas whispering secrets of comfort and shelter. Bull sat outside, his back against the carriage wheel, his Colt within reach. The night was vast and filled with the whispers of the desert: the hoot of an owl, the rustle of a coyote, the distant howl of a wolf.
Inside the tent, the air was thick with the scent of warm fur and the promise of rest. Mrs. Church tucked Jimmy into his bedroll, her eyes lingering on his sleeping form. He was her world, the reason she had fought so fiercely in the ring, the reason she had endured so much. She kissed his forehead gently, whispering a prayer that he would find peace and happiness in the life that lay ahead of them.
Bull sat in the carriage, the gold satchel a heavy weight beside him. He had fought for this, had bled for it, and now it was his to guard. His eyes scanned the perimeter, his hand resting lightly on the grip of his Colt. He knew that the night was not safe, that danger could come from any direction. But with Mrs. Church and Jimmy sleeping just a few feet away, he felt a sense of responsibility that was new to him.
The canvas of the tent was a soft whisper against the desert night, a gentle reminder of the life they were building together. The sound of their quiet breathing was a symphony to his ears, a testament to their survival. They had come so far, faced so much, and yet here they were, on the cusp of something better.
As dawn broke over the horizon, the sky a canvas of fiery reds and oranges, Bull stirred from his vigil. He had barely slept, his mind racing with the possibilities that lay ahead. He checked the horses, making sure they were secure and had enough water. They had to keep moving, had to stay ahead of any trouble that might be following them.
Mrs. Church emerged from the tent, her hair a wild halo around her face. She looked at him, the question in her eyes unspoken. He nodded, and she offered him a small, grateful smile. “Let’s get going,” she said, her voice still thick with sleep.
The morning was a crisp, golden affair, the light kissing their skin and painting the landscape in a soft, buttery glow. They packed up the camp with the ease of a well-oiled machine, each movement a dance of efficiency and purpose. The air was cool, the desert’s way of saying goodbye, and as they climbed into the carriage, the dust of Ell Paso was already a distant memory.
Bull took the reins, his eyes on the horizon, the muscles in his arms flexing as he guided the horses through the waking world. Mrs. Church sat beside him, her hand resting gently on his leg, a silent reminder of their shared burden and their unshakeable bond. Jimmy was nestled in the back, clutching his wooden horse, the last vestige of his old life.
The carriage rolled over the desert sands, the wheels whispering secrets of the journey ahead. The air was cool and fresh, the scent of sagebrush and the promise of a new day filling their lungs. They had left Ell Paso in the dust, the town’s shadow shrinking in the distance like a defeated foe. They had faced the darkness and emerged into the light, their hearts beating in time with the hoofbeats of the horses.