Apache Gold
Copyright© 2026 by Sonarflash2026
Chapter 1
Western Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A half-blood Apache, Concho is tossed between two worlds. As a child of seven, he is kidnapped by missionary zealots, taken to the cruelty of a residential school. He escapes, is given refuge by a wealthy Baltimore family, but ultimately, as a teen, gets sent back to the hardship of reservation life. He raids the agency store, taking food for his mother. On a stolen horse, he flees into the White Sands desert, where he discovers a mystery, a woman, and gold.
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Paranormal Sharing First Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Violence
Morning sunlight blazed across unforgiving whiteness. Gypsum dunes of the Tularosa Basin had become an oven. Concho was parched, his mind hazy. Ahead of the half-blood Apache youth, heat waves and dust rippled over an ocean of bleached dunes. Cliffs of the western uplift reflected sunlight, swiftly baking a dehydrated, fatigued body.
Concho’s mind began to drift, thoughts drawn east, to that time after missionaries had taken him from the reservation. Despite that ordeal, he smiled. He had escaped from Boston, finding his way south to Baltimore. There, he had been given sanctuary with a wealthy, influential and caring family. Now, an image of their youngest daughter was foremost in Concho’s mind.
He was no longer thinking of the desert, of searching reservation scouts, or of his parched tongue. He had stopped puzzling over a dry wash cut into the desert floor where there shouldn’t have been any. He was simply glad that it kept him off the horizon ... The toe of one moccasin came down on empty space. Images of his teenage sweetheart fractured. The young renegade swayed. Concho wrenched his body. Spine arching, he flung himself backwards. His other foot slipped on loose grit and he felt a heel slip off the edge of a drop. Arms windmilling, he landed hard, wincing, buttocks slapping down on scorched bedrock. Both feet were left dangling over empty space. He pushed back, palms complaining as heat bit. He scrambled backwards. Concho pushed up, staring blankly past knee-high moccasins.
Impossible, completely unexpected, a canyon yawned before him. He had almost pitched over a precipitous drop. Where there should have been sand and creosote bush, a narrow cleft split desert bedrock. He slowly collected muddled thoughts, shaking off disbelief and fright. He could hear Loosened pebbles tinkling far below. A sound like running water echoed up from shadowy depths. Concho blinked, certain his mind and hearing had become addled.
“This shouldn’t be here,” he said, shaking his head. “Can’t be. My ears playing tricks? Running water? In the basin?”
Heart pounding, the Apache youth edged back and rose to a crouch. Despite sights and sounds, Concho remained wary. After stabbing the res trader, he was in serious trouble. Pursuit was likely. For some time, the improbable gully afforded concealment. He checked his back trail, then lifted a bit higher, peering out of the wash. Heat waves were distorting everything, but the serpentine cleft remained. It was quite real. While morning sunlight pulsed off rock, scorching his body, the young fugitive couldn’t help but think the splashing of water improbable, if not a delusion brought on by sunstroke.
Concho found the region devoid of movement. Taught by elders and his grandfather, he had worked hard to conceal tracks. The shimmering expanse of dunes looked empty. No riders crested dunes. Despite that, Concho didn’t relax. He might be a very long way from the reservation post, but any trackers or native police would be mounted. That morning, his stolen horse had pulled up lame. Continuing on foot, he had dared his crossing of the White Sands.
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