Hawk Eye's Revenge - Cover

Hawk Eye's Revenge

Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson

Chapter 2

Western Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Jimmy, q boy tries to find his mother who has been missing for months in Redemption Creaks town, and he finds her trapped in a brothel. How does he find a way out to free his mother?

Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   Slavery   Fiction   Crime   Tear Jerker   Western   Orgy   Interracial   Black Male   White Female   Anal Sex   Cat-Fighting   Violence  

The first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, the sun’s gentle kiss warming her face as she cradled Jimmy’s lifeless form. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but she refused to let go. The forest, which had been a foreboding presence in the moonlit darkness, began to take on a softer edge with the coming of the day. Birds began to chirp, their morning songs a stark contrast to the silence of the night.

And then, she heard it. The soft rustle of leaves, the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps approaching. Her heart raced as she looked up, fear clutching at her chest like a vice. Out of the shadows emerged a group of figures, silhouetted by the rising sun. They were Native Americans, their faces painted with the symbols of their tribe. One of them, a man with a proud bearing and piercing eyes, stepped forward.

“Who is this?” the man, who she would later learn was Chief Teatonka, asked in a firm but gentle voice.

Mrs. Blankenship’s voice was a raw whisper when she responded, “This is my son, Jimmy. He’s all I had.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth, the truth of them a bitter pill to swallow.

Chief Teatonka’s eyes searched hers, and she could see the understanding there, the flicker of pain that told her he knew loss, knew what it was to fight and to fail. “What happened to him?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate with the grief in the clearing.

Mrs. Blankenship took a deep, shuddering breath, her chest tight with the weight of her sorrow. She began to speak, her words tumbling out like a dam bursting, the story of her kidnapping from the stagecoach, the cold, unforgiving auction house, and the brothel that had been her prison. She spoke of the bandits who had torn her from her life, of the madam who had bought her for the price of a few meager coins. She told him of the endless days and nights of despair, of the hope that had flickered and almost been extinguished. And she spoke of Jimmy, her son, her hero, who had come to save her.

Chief Teatonka listened, his gaze never leaving hers, his expression unreadable. When she had finished, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch her shoulder in a silent offer of comfort. “Your son was a brave man,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet dignity. “We will honor him in the traditional way of my people.”

The other braves nodded solemnly, their eyes reflecting a respect that cut through the grief that clung to her like a second skin. They spoke in hushed tones, their words a blend of English and their native language, discussing what must be done. Mrs. Blankenship felt a flicker of hope amidst the despair, a glimmer of light in the darkness that was threatening to consume her.

Chief Teatonka turned to her, his gaze a mix of compassion and resolve. “We will take him,” he said, gesturing to the braves who had stepped forward. “We will lay him to rest in our village. You are welcome to come and stay with us.”

The words offered a semblance of solace, a glimmer of hope in the face of unspeakable tragedy. Mrs. Blankenship nodded, too drained to speak. The braves lifted Jimmy’s body with a reverence reserved for the fallen. They disappeared into the forest, leaving her alone with Midnight, who stood nearby, her eyes filled with a knowing sadness.

The sun had fully risen now, casting its golden light upon the clearing. The stark contrast between the warmth of the new day and the coldness in her heart was almost unbearable. She mounted the horse, her body still trembling, and followed the trail the Native Americans had taken. The path grew narrower, the trees taller, until she could see the faint outline of their village in the distance.

The village was a collection of teepees, with a large central fire that sent plumes of smoke spiraling into the sky. As they approached, the villagers emerged, their faces a mix of curiosity and compassion. The braves who had taken Jimmy’s body were already there, preparing a pyre. Her legs felt like lead as she dismounted, her eyes never leaving her son’s lifeless form.

Mrs. Blankenship was guided to a teepee, its flaps open in silent invitation. Inside, warmth and the smell of herbs filled the air, a stark contrast to the chill outside. A woman, her eyes filled with a quiet sadness, handed her a cup of tea. She took it, her trembling hand barely managing to hold the warmth. The woman spoke in a language she didn’t understand, but the tone was one of comfort, of shared grief.

The shaman’s chant grew louder, the rhythm of his words punctuating the stillness of the village. The warriors had placed Jimmy’s body on a carefully constructed pyre of firewood, its edges reaching towards the sky like the arms of a giant cradle. As the shaman approached, his eyes never leaving hers, she felt a strange sense of peace, a knowing that her son was being treated with respect, that he would be sent to the spirit world in the right way.

The shaman, an old man with a face like a worn leather map of the mountains, began to cover the body with leaves, each one placed with a gentle touch that seemed to whisper of reverence. His eyes remained closed, his voice a low, guttural murmur that grew in intensity as the leaves formed a green shroud around Jimmy. The scent of sage and sweetgrass filled the air, a sacred incense that mingled with the smoke from the distant fires.

Mrs. Blankenship watched, her eyes dry and empty, as the shaman’s chant grew louder. The words were foreign to her, but she felt the power in them, the ancient wisdom that had guided his people through countless generations. The shaman’s hands moved in a slow, deliberate dance, tracing symbols in the air that left trails of shimmering light. His eyes snapped open, and she felt the weight of his gaze, the depth of his understanding.

The warriors began to dance, their steps precise and powerful. Each movement told a story, each beat of the drum a heartbeat of the earth itself. The rhythm grew, the drum’s call echoing through the village, reaching into her very soul. The flames of the pyre reflected in their eyes, turning them into fiery orbs that danced in time with the flickering shadows. The dance grew more intense, their bodies a blur of color and motion as they circled the fire, their movements a tribute to the spirit of her son.

The heat of the flames grew, reaching out to warm the coldness that had settled in her heart. The dance was mesmerizing, a hypnotic spiral of life and death, a celebration of the cycle that bound them all. The shaman’s chant grew louder, the words now a crescendo that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. She watched, transfixed, as the warriors danced closer, their steps in perfect harmony with the crackling of the fire.

The flames grew higher, licking at the night sky, a fiery beacon that pierced the veil between worlds. Mrs. Blankenship could feel the power of the ceremony, the ancient rhythms that called to something deep within her soul. The shaman’s eyes never left hers, holding her in a gaze that was both comforting and unsettling. The warriors’ dance grew faster, their bodies a blur of motion as they danced around the pyre.

The fire grew, a ravenous beast that devoured the wooden cradle beneath Jimmy’s body. She watched, her heart in her throat, as the flames consumed the leaves and the fabric of his clothes, reaching for him with a hunger that mirrored her own. The heat grew intense, a tangible force that seemed to push her away from the fire, yet she remained rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the fiery transformation.

The warriors danced closer, their bodies painted with the glow of the inferno. Each step was a silent promise, a declaration of unity with the spirits they sought to honor. Mrs. Blankenship’s eyes remained locked on the pyre, her mind racing with thoughts of the life they had shared, the moments of joy and pain that had brought them to this fateful night. The dance grew frenetic, the drumbeats pounding like the racing pulse of the world itself.

The fire burned higher, the heat searing her face as she watched, the flames devouring the wood and the fabric that had held Jimmy. She saw the light in the flames, the essence of her son’s spirit rising to the heavens. It was a beautiful, terrible sight, one that she knew she would carry with her forever. The fire grew brighter, the colors shifting from orange to yellow, to white, a blinding radiance that seemed to fill the very air around her.

The dance grew wilder, the warriors’ movements a blur of color and shadow. The shaman’s chant grew to a crescendo, his voice a thunderous roar that seemed to shake the very earth. And then, with a final, desperate effort, the fire reached its peak, a towering pillar of light that pierced the darkness like a beacon. For a moment, she thought she saw Jimmy’s form within it, whole and unblemished, reaching out to her. It was a mirage, a trick of the light, but it gave her the strength to stand, to face the world without him.

As the flames began to die down, Mrs. Blankenship felt a warmth spread through her, a comforting embrace that seemed to come from within. She closed her eyes, and in the silence that followed the shaman’s chant, she heard the echoes of a time when Jimmy had first called her “Mama.” She remembered the tiny, squalling infant, red-faced and clutching her finger with surprising strength. She had been so young herself, so scared, but in that moment she had known that she would do anything to protect him, to give him the love and care he deserved.

The warmth grew, becoming a fierce flame that burned away the shackles of her grief. When she opened her eyes, she knew what she had to do. Jimmy could not rest in peace until the monsters who had taken him from her had paid for their crimes. She would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

Mrs. Blankenship stood, her eyes ablaze with a newfound resolve. The shaman stepped forward, sensing the shift within her. His voice was calm, his eyes knowing. “Your son’s spirit is strong,” he said in his broken English. “He will guide you on the path of vengeance.”

The women of the tribe, who had been watching from the shadows, approached her, their faces a tableau of compassion. One by one, they knelt beside the pyre, their gentle hands sifting through the ashen remains. They gathered a pinch of the sacred dust that had once been Jimmy, each grain a silent promise of his enduring spirit. They placed the dust in a small, intricately carved jar, its surface glinting with the firelight. The jar was passed from hand to hand, each woman whispering a prayer as they did so.

When it reached Chief Teatonka, he took it with a solemn nod, then turned to Mrs. Blankenship. “This is a sacred gift,” he said, his voice grave. “It holds the essence of your son’s spirit. When the time is right, you must take it to the river and let it flow with the water.”

Mrs. Blankenship took the jar with trembling hands, her eyes brimming with tears of gratitude. She knew that this was not just a keepsake but a part of her son, a piece of his soul that she could carry with her. She cradled it to her chest, the warmth of the jar a stark contrast to the cold emptiness that had settled within her. “Thank you,” she murmured, the words thick with emotion. “Thank you for everything.”

The shaman nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “You are welcome in our village,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble. “Rest now. The spirits will guide you when the time is right.” With a final nod, he turned away, leaving her to face the daunting reality of what lay ahead. The dance had ended, the warriors had dispersed, and the only sound was the crackling of the dying pyre.

Chief Teatonka stepped forward, his face etched with lines of wisdom and sorrow. “Come,” he said, his hand outstretched. “We have a place for you to rest.” He led her to a tent at the edge of the village, its flaps open to reveal a warm, inviting space filled with animal skins and the faint scent of smoldering embers. The tent was small, but it was more than she had expected. It was a sanctuary, a place to hide from the world that had taken so much from her.

Inside, the women of the tribe had laid out a simple feast of roasted meats and steaming vegetables, their eyes filled with compassion. They had also placed a beautifully beaded and fringed dress on a deerskin, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the dirt and grime that still clung to her torn and bloodstained clothes. One of the women, her face lined with the years of hardship but her eyes kind, stepped forward and offered the dress to Mrs. Blankenship. “For you,” she said, her voice a soft melody that seemed to carry the echo of a thousand whispers. “To honor your son and to remind you that you are not alone.”

Mrs. Blankenship took the dress, feeling the weight of its significance. She knew that in this moment, she was being accepted into their fold, being offered a place among them. She slipped it over her head, feeling the softness of the material against her skin, the warmth of the fire that had been stoked to drive the chill of the night away. The dress clung to her, a second skin that seemed to whisper of strength and resilience.

The women hovered around her, their gentle hands guiding her to a pile of furs and blankets. They laid her down, the warmth enveloping her like a warm embrace, and she realized that she had not slept in days. Her eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, the weight of her sorrow dragging her into the abyss of slumber.

The shaman’s words echoed through her mind as she drifted off: “Your son’s spirit will guide you on the path of vengeance.” The promise of justice burned in her heart, a flame that could not be extinguished by tears or the embrace of sleep.

When she awoke, it was to the sound of children’s laughter outside the tent. The sun had risen high in the sky, casting warm rays of light through the canvas. Mrs. Blankenship sat up, the jar with Jimmy’s ashes still clutched to her chest. She felt a strange sense of belonging amidst the foreignness of the Native American camp, as if the very earth beneath her had recognized her pain and offered its support.

Chief Teatonka entered the tent, his gaze soft and understanding. “The spirits have guided you through the night,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “You are one of us now, Mrs. Blankenship. You and your son.”

Mrs. Blankenship looked up, the weight of his words sinking into her soul. The gravity of his statement was not lost on her. To be accepted into this tight-knit community, especially under such dire circumstances, was an honor she had never dared to hope for. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from the previous night’s sobs.

“We understand your pain,” Chief Teatonka continued, his eyes filled with the solemnity of a man who had seen too much suffering. “But you must learn to protect yourself. The world is a dangerous place, and it will not cease to be so simply because you wish it. Our warriors will teach you.”

 
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