Apache Gold
Copyright© 2026 by Sonarflash2026
Chapter 11
Western Sex Story: Chapter 11 - 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
Concho loosened a girth strap, dropping the belly band. He pulled the fancy Mexican saddle off the high withers of his big gelding. All about them, shadows were gathering, mountains wreathed in a sunset glow. Birds were warbling and trilling their evening songs. New silver spurs jingling, He led the tall mount to the pool of a chuckling stream. Hobbling Blaze, he removed the bridle, then slid a hand along one flank, heading back to a pair of dusty brown burros. After removing their bulky pack frames, he sat, pulling off the hand-tooled riding boots, slipping into his more comfortable moccasins. That done, he hunkered down to build a small campfire.
“I’m not looking forward to the morning,” Lily commented, matching her husband’s moves, expertly stripping her mount, dropping the saddle under a large ponderosa pine. “When we get to the ranch, Grandmother and my Duenna will not be pleased.”
““Well, you decide,” Concho replied. “I don’t particularly want to live on your ranch. Far as I’m concerned, they can have the place, or we can send them back to Spain.”
“It’s your ranch too,” Lily stated, pulling her rifle from the scabbard, laying it close. Lifting off her sombrero, shaking out unbound hair, she sank down and leaned against the saddle. “I’m not about to live on the reservation. Not after what you’ve told me about conditions there.”
“Well, eventually, I’ve got to go back and face the music ... even if just to visit my mother,” he replied. “Suppose I could handle living on a ranch. Maybe herd some good beef to the res?”
“That would be nice,” Lily said, unbuckling straps on a saddlebag, taking out folded newspapers. Opening a small Albuquerque weekly, she laid it on her lap. Abundant twilight allowed her to read headlines splashed across the front page.
“Rancher, financier and Mine Developer, Silverberg Dead.”
Thoughts drifting, she breathed in the heady, pine-scented evening air. She had expected their wedding and filing of a marriage certificate at the territorial office to be liberating. Instead, their lives just kept getting more complicated.
After a few minutes, flames were licking up inside an old circle of fire-blackened stones. A smoke-tarred enamel coffee pot clunked down. Concho adjusted lava rocks, settling a cast iron frying pan at the edge of flames. She gave a sigh, not wanting to do much more than watch as Concho started preparing a simple evening meal.
“So he’s really dead,” she murmured, going over the article about her father. “A week ago. His doctor says it was a brain aneurysm.” She squeezed her eyes shut, took a breath and blew it out. “Maybe I killed him.”
“Bullshit! You didn’t,” Concho said, not bothering to look up from the campfire. “Might well have been the news about your mother’s death.”
“I doubt that,” she replied, laying the Albuquerque paper across her lap, opening a New York daily dated two weeks earlier. There was nothing on the front page, but the society section told the tale.
“I don’t think he gave a damn about my mother,” she said, shaking her head disbelievingly. “A yachting accident, A Mediterranean squall off the south of France. All aboard the sixty foot sloop were drowned when it was driven into rocks. Susannah Maria Estanzia Silverberg, wife of Nathaniel Aaron Silverberg, financier and mining speculator. Mister. Silverberg has not been reached for comment at his ranch in the territory of New Mexico.” Eyes dry, she looked up at Concho. “All in one day. I’m an orphan.”
Concho shrugged, shaving slices of fresh bacon into the cast iron pan with the razor edge of a new Bowie knife. “The lawyer you consulted in Albuquerque said you were probably a very wealthy orphan. Heiress to a fortune, and owner of the ranch.” He looked pensive. “Your society won’t take kindly to a half-breed husband. They will look down their noses. To the whites, I’ll just be a fortune hunting savage.”
“You are my husband and my only society!” she said, slapping a hand down on the open newspaper. “I won’t have you saying such things Concho. I love you! We are properly married. I’m going to have your babies.”
There was the distinctive ‘click’ of a cocking hammer behind her.
“Wal now, there might be a problemo’ thar’ little lady,” a mocking voice drawled. Just then, another man stepped out of trees off to their right, his levelled rifle aimed at Concho.
“Nobody move and you won’t get hurt,” the small man stated with eastern accented speech. “We just have a few questions to ask you about some Apache gold. In particular, gold you gave an old padre.”
Lily saw Concho tense, his eyes snapping from a position over her right shoulder, back to the rifleman. He looked at her, eyes intense, then they flicked down and back to the rifleman. Lily saw that the big Bowie knife had vanished.
“Oh Concho!” she said, feigning a squeak of fright, twisting to look over her right shoulder. Unnoticed, her right hand shifted newspapers, covering her left side. Fingers of her left hand slipped the holster thong and she eased out her forty-four Russian, thumb firm on the hammer, finger on the trigger. She silently cocked the pistol. Concho’s eyes snapped back to her, then over her right shoulder. She read his intent, eyes flicking down towards her left hand, giving him a sharp nod. Booted feet crunching twigs, the unseen man moved up, circling the pine on her right. Lily timed the moment, watching as the small man moved in towards the fire, keeping a little behind Concho and four paces off to the right.
“Concho!” she cried out. “Do something!” Moving deliberately, her right hand shot out for the exposed Winchester.
“None of that!” A boot came down hard, pinning her wrist. The pain was shocking. She let out a scream, distracting the smaller man. She was already lifting the 44 in her left hand, the revolver still hidden under newspaper. Both men were momentarily off-balance. Focused on the small man opposite, she fired, then fired twice more, twisting despite the pain in her wrist. The boot suddenly lifted. Ears deafened, Lily hadn’t heard the man grunt, but as she turned and fired, he was already stumbling backwards, a large knife buried in the right side of his chest. Her shot took him below the gun belt. Eyes bulging, mouth agape, he screamed, folding double, dropping his revolver, slamming into the ground.
Lily bounded up, cocking her pistol again. The tall man was scrabbling for his dropped pistol, left hand tugging at the hilt of Concho’s knife. She fired again, catching him above the sternum. Slammed back, he coughed a gout of blood and toppled onto his back, fingers still clutching the Bowie knife, breath rattling through blood in his throat.
“Jenkins ... was right. Apache ... gold ... and two rattlers—” he croaked. Coughing more blood, shuddering. Eyes going wide, he convulsed and died.
Pistol drawn and cocked, Concho strolled over to the other man. He kicked away the rifle. The man was still breathing. He bent down, flicking out a revolver, tossing it aside. Flipping the man over revealed three bright blotches of blood, one just above the buckle of his shell belt, two more gut shots higher on his left side.
“Darlin’, you didn’t quite kill this skunk, but I’m thinkin’, bein’ gut shot, real soon he’s gonna wish you did.”
“Did you hear what the tall one said?” she asked, right hand cradled against her belly.
“Jenkins was right? Two rattlers? Apache gold?” Stepping up beside Concho, she handed him her revolver. “All five shots. Reload for me?”
“What? Why?”
“My wrist feels broken,” she answered.
Concho took her Russian, dumping spent cartridges, constantly shifting his eyes, checking shadows while loading all six chambers.
“Your wrist hurt bad?” he asked, snapping the pistol closed, handing it back to her.
“Bad enough,” Lily said, grimacing.
Satisfied there were no immediate threats, Concho examined red welts on her wrist, not daring touch the injury. “Doesn’t look broke. Go soak it in the creek. Cold will help keep down any swelling.”
Lily shook her head. “This first.” She kicked the small man’s leg. “This one isn’t dead. I have questions. Besides, there might be others.”
“My dream vision,” he said. “Appears they knew about the gold I gave the padre. They’ve been tracking us.”
Auburn eyelashes fluttered, then hazel eyes registered pain. “Oh god!”
“If the Christian one doesn’t answer, you might try praying to Yusen,” Concho suggested. “You’re a dead man. Pretty thoroughly gut-shot.”
“I was aiming for his chest,” Lily said through tight lips, “but maybe this is better.”
Concho glanced up. “Damn woman, didn’t realize you had such a mean streak.”
“Bushwackers make me feel downright nasty,” she replied, letting her hand dangle limp. “Bloody hell, Concho, I thought you were an Apache? How did they managed to sneak up on us?”
He looked chagrined and shrugged. “I’m human too. Was thinkin’ ‘bout you and me, And about tonight after we bed down.”
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