Amos
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 8
Western Sex Story: Chapter 8 - In a lawless gold rush town, Amos McIntyre—a broken man haunted by loss—fights to reclaim justice from cheats, killers, and his own past. With nothing but grit, a revolver, and a heart scarred by tragedy, Amos navigates crooked saloons, treacherous mines, and outlaw territories in pursuit of vengeance against the ruthless bandit Amsden the Scar. In a world where gold corrupts and violence rules, Amos must decide if redemption is worth the blood it demands.
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Crime Western Violence AI Generated
As dawn crept over the horizon, the camp began to stir. The first light painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, a stark contrast to the harsh realities that awaited them. The smell of coffee and breakfast cooking filled the air, and the sounds of the town’s nocturnal revelries were slowly replaced by the cries of roosters and the clanging of metal pans.
One of the miners, a burly man named Hank, approached Amos as he sat by the smoldering fire, sipping on a cup of the strong, black brew. Hank’s eyes were bloodshot, his breath reeking of whiskey from the night before. “Hey, Amos,” he slurred, his voice a gruff whisper. “McBride’s been lookin’ for you. He’s got the payment for the whores in his cabin, he need you to give the money to the madam.”
Amos nodded, setting his cup aside. The thought of returning to that opulent bastion of depravity filled him with a mix of anger and resentment. He knew the gold they had brought was not just for protection; it was to purchase the very essence of human dignity. But he had given his word, and in this town of shifting sands, a man’s word was the only thing that held any weight. He stood and stretched, feeling the tension in his muscles from the previous night’s exertions. “I’ll go,” he said, his voice tight.
As he approached McBride’s cabin, the memories of his last visit weighed heavy on his mind. The opulent decor was a stark contrast to the harsh realities of the miners’ camp, a reminder of the deep-rooted inequalities. He rapped his knuckles against the wood, the sound echoing through the still-sleeping town.
The door creaked open, and McBride’s sleep-heavy gaze met his. “What is it, McIntyre?” he grunted, his silk nightshirt unbuttoned and revealing a chest covered in a thick mat of greying hair.
“Hank sent me, sir,” he said tersely. “You got the payment for Madam Hilda?”
McBride nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly. He reached behind him and pulled out a heavy bag of gold coins, the clink of them chiming in the early morning silence. He tossed it to Amos, who caught it with a grunt. The weight of it was a stark reminder of the commodification of the women in town.
“Take this to Madam Hilda,” McBride said, his voice a mix of boredom and authority. “And bring back Bertie and any other girl she thinks is worth keeping around. Use the carriage—Jerry can go with you.”
Amos nodded curtly and turned to leave, the bag of gold feeling like a leaden weight in his hand. The thought of bringing more women into this life of degradation made his stomach turn, but he had made a deal. As he and Jerry made their way through the dusty streets of Old West, the town was slowly waking up to the new day. The saloons were closing, the whiskey-soaked patrons staggering into the early morning light, while the shopkeepers began to unroll their awnings and sweep the sidewalks.
They arrived at Madam Hilda’s establishment, the grand façade of the brothel a stark reminder of the town’s moral decay. The carriage rolled to a stop, and Amos stepped out, his jaw clenched. The Madam greeted them with a knowing smile, her eyes glinting with the promise of a good day’s work. She took the bag of gold, her hands practiced in counting the coins without spilling a single one.
“How much of this will you give to the women?” Amos asked, his voice tight.
Madam Hilda’s smile grew broader, showing teeth stained by years of tobacco. “Half for me, half for the girls,” she said, her voice as smooth as honeyed whiskey.
Amos felt a knot form in his stomach. “Why so much for you?” he demanded, his eyes flashing.
Madam Hilda leaned against the velvet-covered counter, her expression unfazed. “The cost of doing business,” she said, her voice a purr. “You think this place runs on goodwill and spit? These girls need food, clothing, and a safe place to lay their heads. And let’s not forget the doctors.”
Amos felt a twinge of anger. “You mean the ones who patch them up after they’ve been roughed up?”
Madam Hilda’s smile didn’t waver. “Some of ‘em came to me that way, yes,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “The inmates with the scars on their faces, they’ve seen more than you can imagine. They’ve fought for their lives in places that make this town look like a Sunday school picnic.”
Her eyes slid to the bag of gold. “Some of them come in looking to change their fortunes. A new nose, bigger tits, a tighter cunt. It’s the price they pay for the finer things in life, like not getting their throats slit in some alley.” She tapped a finger against the polished wood. “Plastic surgery isn’t just for the rich folks back East, my dear. Out here, it’s the difference between surviving and thriving.”
Amos felt a cold knot in his gut. “You’re telling me you can get them ... fixed up?”
Madam Hilda’s smile grew thinner, her eyes narrowing. “Survival is an art form here,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Some learn to shoot straight, others learn to read the cards right. These girls ... they learn to make the best of what the world has given them.”
“How does it work?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Madam Hilda’s smile remained, but it was now edged with something akin to pride. “Some of the gold goes to the doctor, the rest we split between the girls. They can buy themselves out of this life if they save enough. Or if they’re lucky, find a man like you to take them away from it all.”
Her gaze flicked to a young woman with a delicate, unblemished face, serving drinks to a table of rowdy patrons. “Take Janie, for example,” she said, gesturing with a manicured nail. “Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, don’t she?”
Amos followed her gesture, his eyes landing on Janine. She was indeed a picture of innocence amidst the brothel’s shadows, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of curiosity, and perhaps a touch of pity.
“Janine used to have a scar across her face,” Madam Hilda continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It was from a knife fight she got into before she came to me. She was in the clink, you see, and she had the misfortune of crossing the wrong man.”
Amos took a closer look at Janine as she moved through the saloon, her graceful movements belying the horrors she had endured. Her skin was indeed smooth, unmarred by the violence that had once been etched upon it. It was as if she had been born anew in this place of shadows and whispers.
“You’ve got a good doctor,” he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of admiration and revulsion.
Madam Hilda’s eyes lit up, her smile growing even more knowing. “The best,” she said, her voice a silken purr. “The medical knowledge has grown quite ... extensive over the years. There’s not much he can’t fix.”
Her words hung in the air, a tantalizing promise of a future that seemed almost too good to be true. The Old West was notorious for its lack of medical advancements, yet here in this cesspool of greed and vice, there existed a beacon of hope for these desperate souls. The very thought of it was almost blasphemous, a defiance of the harsh realities that had forged them all into the hardened characters they had become.
“You mean to say that even the most ... disfigured can be made whole?” Amos asked, his voice thick with skepticism.
Madam Hilda nodded, her expression shrewd. “The doctor I work with has seen it all,” she said. “The kind of injuries that would’ve had a man or woman begging for death back East, he’s patched up like it was nothing more than a papercut.” She leaned closer, her breath a faint hint of mint beneath the pervasive scent of opium. “These days, there’s not much that can’t be fixed if you’ve got the gold.”
Amos felt the weight of his own scar, a jagged line that slashed from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. It was a constant reminder of a past he’d rather forget, a past filled with blood and bullets. “Who and where is he?” he asked, his voice gruff with hope.
Madam Hilda’s smile grew sly. “He’s not just anyone, Mr. McIntyre. He’s a man who values his privacy. But for the right reason, I might be able to arrange a meeting.”
Amos felt his heart race at the prospect of fixing his own marred visage. “What’s the right reason?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Madam Hilda leaned in closer, her breath a warm whisper against his cheek. “Protection,” she said. “Keep the law out of my business, and I’ll tell you where to find him. So what is your reason?”
Amos glanced over his shoulder at Bertie, who was waiting outside the saloon, her eyes searching the dusty street for any sign of trouble. She looked so small and vulnerable in the harsh morning light, a stark contrast to the fiery passion that burned within her. He knew that look; it was the same one he’d seen in his own eyes every morning when he’d stared into the mirror, the same one that had driven him to leave his own past behind and seek refuge in the lawlessness of Old West.
“What’s the right reason?” Madam Hilda’s question hung in the air, a challenge that resonated deep within his chest. Without hesitation, he gestured to the door. “Her,” he said, his voice firm. “I want Bertie to have a chance at a better life. I want her to be whole, not just ... patched up.”
The Madam’s gaze sharpened as she took in the seriousness of his words. She nodded slowly. “You’ve got the gold for it, Mr. McIntyre?”
Amos’s hand moved to the pocket where he kept his coin purse, feeling the reassuring weight of the gold within. “Yes,” he said simply. “I have the money.”
Madam Hilda’s smile grew wider, revealing a set of teeth that gleamed in the dim light. “Very well,” she said, pulling out a small, embossed card from a drawer beneath the counter. “Take this to Doc Russell ‘Knife’ Lloyd in Sneaksprings. Tell him I sent you. But don’t take my Bertie for too long. I need her to earn money, yu got it?”
Amos nodded curtly, his grip tightening on the card. “Thank you,” he murmured, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and revulsion. He turned and strode out of the saloon, the door swinging shut behind him with a thud that seemed to echo through the early morning quiet. Bertie looked up at him, her eyes questioning, but he merely offered her his hand, pulling her into the carriage with a gentle urgency.
Jerry, ever loyal, was already waiting, the horses’ reins in his hand. “You want me to come with you, boss?” he asked, his gaze flickering between Amos and the card in his hand.
Amos nodded, his thoughts racing. “We’re going to Sneaksprings,” he said, his voice low and determined. “I need to find Doc Russell ‘Knife’ Lloyd.” He handed Jerry the card with the doctor’s name and location, the edges already smudged with the grime of the Old West. “I want you to ride ahead and get him here as soon as possible.”
Jerry’s eyes widened in surprise but he said nothing, taking the card and tucking it into his pocket. He knew better than to question his employer’s decisions. With a quick nod, he swung up into the saddle of his horse, the leather creaking under his weight. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, before spurring the animal into a gallop down the dusty street.
Inside the carriage, Bertie’s gaze searched Amos’s face, her own expression a swirl of emotions. Bertie took a deep breath, the scent of the leather seats mingling with the lingering perfume from the brothel. She placed a soft hand on his arm, her touch a gentle whisper of comfort. “Amos,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hand. “I don’t need plastic surgery to feel whole. I’ve got you, and that’s all I need.”
Amos looked down at her, the gold coin-studded bag heavy on his lap. “It’s not about you,” he said, his voice gruff. “It’s all about me.” He took a moment to collect his thoughts, the cobblestone streets of the Old West blurring into a haze outside the carriage window. “You’re just a reason for your madam give me the name and I’ve got a question for Doc Lloyd,” he continued. “It’s ... it’s personal.”
The carriage jolted along the uneven road, the sound of hooves echoing in the early morning quiet. Bertie searched his face, her eyes wide with curiosity. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Amos sighed heavily, the weight of his thoughts pressing down upon him. “It’s about me, Bertie,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “This whole thing, it’s not just about fixing you up. It’s about ... finding myself a clue, I guess.”
Her eyes searched his, and she could see the turmoil churning within him. “A clue?” she echoed, her voice soft.
Amos looked into Bertie’s eyes, the depth of his own filled with a steely resolve. “I need you to trust me, Bertie,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t ask questions right now. Just ... watch.”
Her gaze searched his, the uncertainty warring with the trust she had placed in him. With a small nod, she settled back into the carriage, her hand still resting lightly on his arm. The journey to Sneaksprings was long and silent, the only sounds the creak of the carriage and the steady beat of the horses’ hooves. The landscape outside the window was a blur of dust and sagebrush, a canvas of brown and gray that stretched on for miles.
As the carriage climbed the final hill into Sneaksprings, a town that had seen better days, a figure emerged from the shadows. A grizzled man with a pipe clenched between yellowed teeth pointed up the hill, his voice a gravelly drawl that carried over the cobblestone streets. “You’re looking for the Doc, ain’t ya?” he said, his eyes squinting as he took in the gold coins.
Amos nodded curtly, his hand resting on the grip of his Colt. “Doc Russell ‘Knife’ Lloyd,” he said, his voice firm.
The man’s eyes lit up with greed at the mention of the name. “Ah, you’re in luck,” he cackled. “The Doc’s place is up yonder, on the hill.” He leaned closer, the smell of stale tobacco wafting from his mouth. “But don’t say I sent ya. The Doc don’t take kindly to folks poking around his business.”
Amos nodded curtly and handed the man a gold coin, watching as it disappeared into his grimy palm with a flash of yellow. The old-timer tipped his hat and disappeared into the alley, leaving them to follow his directions. The carriage climbed the hill, the horses’ breaths coming in heavy puffs in the chilly air. Sneaksprings was a town that had seen better days, its once-white buildings now stained with the grime of time and neglect. The saloons looked like they were held together by hope and whiskey, and the few people they passed eyed them with suspicion and hostility.