Bull Clayton: Blood and Dust
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 7: The Bounty
Western Sex Story: Chapter 7: The Bounty - 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
The sheriff’s office was a squat, unassuming building, the paint peeling and the wood warped from years of neglect. The shingles on the roof looked as if they might fly off in the next strong gust of wind, but the sign above the door still hung proudly, the letters ‘SHERIFF’ carved deep into the wood. Bull pushed open the door, the hinges groaning in protest.
Inside, the office was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of cigar smoke and stale whiskey. Sheriff Tompkins looked up from his desk, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the newcomer. He was a tall, lanky man with a handlebar mustache that drooped over his mouth like a sad caterpillar. His badge glinted in the weak light, and the butt of a pistol poked out from the holster at his waist.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Best?” he drawled, his voice a lazy rumble.
Bull stepped further into the room, his hand resting casually on the butt of his Colt. “I’m looking for some work,” he said, his eyes scanning the cluttered desk. “Thought maybe you had a few folks around here that needed bringing in.”
Sheriff Tompkins leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Bull’s face. “Bounty work, is it?” he asked, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “You any good at it?”
Bull’s hand remained still on his Colt, his gaze unwavering. “I’ve got a knack for it,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ve brought in my fair share of troublem over the years.”
The sheriff steepled his fingers, his expression thoughtful. “Well,” he drawled, “we do have a couple of names on the board, but nothing too pressing. Most of ‘em are just petty thieves or robbery.” He leaned forward, his eyes boring into Bull’s. “But, there’s one name that’s been causing a bit of a stir. A man named Cristóbal Manzanedo, we wanted him live or die for one thousand bucks.”
Bull’s hand tightened around the paper, the name resonating with him. “What’s he done?”
Sheriff Tompkins leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “Manzanedo’s got a taste for trouble,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “He’s been rustling cattle, robbing stages, and causing a ruckus all over the territories. Last we heard, he was seen heading west, but that was weeks ago.”
Bull took the offered pamphlet, his eyes scanning the page. The sketch of Manzanedo was crude but recognizable, the reward for his capture substantial. “What’s his MO?” he asked, his voice tight with anticipation.
The sheriff leaned back in his chair, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “Manzanedo’s a slippery one,” he said. “He works fast, hits hard, and leaves no witnesses. The last time he was seen was on the outskirts of town, heading west on the stagecoach trail.”
Bull nodded, his eyes scanning the pamphlet. “I’ll need to speak to the stagecoach drivers,” he said, his voice firm. “They might have seen something.”
The sheriff nodded, pointing a finger stained with ink towards the door. “Abraham Hurtado runs the stage out of here,” he said. “You’ll find him down at the station, getting ready for the morning run.”
Bull thanked him with a curt nod and left the office, the paper with Manzanedo’s sketch crumpled in his hand. The sun was higher in the sky now, casting harsh shadows across the dirt road. The stagecoach station was a bustle of activity, with horses being hitched and luggage being loaded. The smell of leather and sweat hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint scent of gunpowder and fear.
He spotted Abraham Hurtado easily enough, a burly man with a face that looked like it had been carved from the same gnarled wood as the coaches he drove. His eyes were sharp, darting around the station, assessing the passengers and the crew with the ease of a seasoned survivor.
“Mr. Hurtado,” Bull called out, his voice carrying over the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harnesses.
Abraham Hurtado turned, his eyes scanning the crowd before settling on the man with the Colt at his side. He was a burly man with a face that spoke of years spent battling the elements and the dangers of the trail. His gaze was sharp, his eyes narrowing as he took in the crumpled paper in Bull’s hand. “You lookin’ for a ride or a story, stranger?”
Bull stepped closer, the dust from the street swirling around his boots. “I’m looking for information,” he said, his voice low and serious. “On a man named Cristóbal Manzanedo.”
Abraham’s eyes narrowed, his hand resting on the butt of his own gun. “What’s your business with him?” he asked, his voice wary.
Bull met the driver’s gaze without flinching. “I’ve got a bounty on my mind,” he said, the words clipped and to the point. “Manzanedo’s been causing trouble, and I aim to bring him in.”
Abraham’s expression softened slightly, his eyes flicking to the badge on Bull’s chest. “A thousand bucks, you say?” He spat a wad of tobacco juice into the dirt. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him, but I can tell you this: he’s got connections in high places. If you’re looking to collect on that bounty, you’ll have to be smarter than a coyote and quicker than a rattlesnake.”
Bull nodded, his gaze never leaving the driver’s face. “When was the last time you had a run-in with him?”
Abraham’s hand hovered over his gun, but he didn’t draw. “Two weeks ago,” he said slowly, his eyes calculating. “He took the stage west, bound for Tombstone. But he didn’t stay long. Heard he was looking for a fast horse and a quiet exit.”
Bull’s mind raced. Tombstone was a lawless place, a town even Ell Paso looked down upon. It was the perfect place for a man like Manzanedo to hide. “Is there a cave nearby?” he asked, his voice low and urgent. “Or maybe an abandoned building?”
Abraham studied him for a moment before spitting another wad of tobacco into the dust. “There’s a place,” he said, his voice a gruff whisper. “The old silver mine, west of town. It’s been abandoned for years, ever since the vein ran dry. Some say it’s haunted, but that’s just superstition. Could be a good place for a man like him to lie low.”
Bull nodded.
The stagecoach driver’s expression grew serious. “You’re going after Manzanedo, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Bull said, his voice firm. “And I’m going to bring him in.”
Abraham took a step closer, his hand outstretched. “Good luck to you, then,” he said, his grip firm. “And watch your back. That silver mine’s a treacherous place, filled with more than just ghosts.”
“More than ready,” Bull said, his eyes on Thunder. The horse snorted, as if sensing the urgency of their mission.
With a curt nod of thanks, Bull turned and headed back towards the livery stable, his thoughts racing. The silver mine could be a perfect hiding spot for a man like Manzanedo, and it would explain why the bounty had gone unclaimed for so long.
“Thank you for your help, Abraham,” he called over his shoulder, the stagecoach driver watching him with a knowing look.
He rode west, following the trail that led to Tombstone. The landscape grew more barren, the cacti and mesquite trees standing tall like sentinels guarding the secrets of the desert. The sun was a merciless hammer, beating down on their heads and shoulders, but they pushed on, driven by the promise of justice and a better life.
As he approached the silver mine, the air grew cooler, the shadows deeper. The mine’s gaping mouth looked like a wound in the earth, the wooden supports holding up the entrance blackened with age and decay. Not far from the entrance, there is a closed wooden building. Bull dismounted, his Colt at the ready, and cautiously approached the opening. The sound of his footsteps echoed, bouncing back to them like ghosts of the miners who had once toiled there.
Peering through a crack in the wall, he saw three horses inside, their forms illuminated by slivers of light that pierced the gloom. His heart rate quickened; this was more than just a hiding place. It was a temporary camp. The smell of fresh manure and the faint scent of campfire smoke confirmed it. He stepped back, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of movement.
The inside of the mine was eerily quiet, the only sounds the occasional drip of water and the distant call of a coyote. His eyes wide with fear and determination. He moved through the tunnels, the air growing thicker with each step, the smell of damp earth and decay filling his nostrils.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the sound of a gunshot, the echo reverberating through the mine like a scream. Bull’s heart leapt into his throat, and he pushed himself behind a pile of rocks, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.
Bull crept forward, the Colt in his hand feeling like an extension of his arm. The darkness closed in around him, the only light the flickering beam of the torch. He could feel the weight of the gold coins in his pocket, the symbol of their hope for a better life, and the knowledge that Manzanedo could be anywhere, waiting for them.
The tension grew with each step, the anticipation of a confrontation palpable. And as he turned a corner, the light from the torch fell upon a figure huddled in the shadows.
“Hold it right there, mister,” a tremulous voice called out.
Bull’s hand tightened around the Colt as he raised it, the torchlight revealing a young man with a shaky hand holding a shotgun. His clothes were tattered, and his eyes were wild with fear. “Who are you?” Bull asked, his voice steady.
The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the badge. “I’m Billy,” he stuttered. “Billy McAllister. I-I’m just passing through, looking for work.”
Bull studied him for a moment, his instincts telling him that the man was not a threat. “What brings you to an abandoned mine, Billy?”
Billy’s eyes darted around the space, as if searching for a way out. “I-I heard about the gold,” he stammered. “Thought I might find some leftover.”
Bull took a step closer, keeping his Colt trained on the trembling man. “How many people are with you, Billy?” he asked, his voice calm but firm.
“Just me,” Billy replied, his eyes darting to the side. “I-I swear, I’m not with anyone.”
Bull stepped closer, the light from his torch throwing Billy’s shadow on the mine wall, making him look even more terrified. “That’s a mighty fine shotgun you’ve got there,” he said, his voice low and even. “But it’s not going to do you much good against a Colt.”
Billy’s hand holding the shotgun wavered, his eyes locked on the unwavering barrel of Bull’s weapon. “I-I don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice shaking.
“Good,” Bull said, his voice calm. “Because I’ve got enough for the both of us. Now, I’m going to ask you to throw that shotgun aside and count to three.”
Billy’s eyes flicked to the side again, his hand tightening on the shotgun. In that split second, Bull saw his intent. The young man’s finger curled around the trigger, and Bull knew he had to act fast. He took aim and fired, the Colt bucking in his hand. The bullet slammed into Billy’s leg, sending him sprawling onto the ground with a scream of pain.
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