Apache Gold
Copyright© 2026 by Sonarflash2026
Chapter 3
Western Sex Story: Chapter 3 - 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
The chuckling stream was close, the temptation painful. Concho needed a drink, but ignored parched throat and a swollen tongue, hiding all his gear among slabs of fallen rock. Moving with hunter’s stealth, he slithered along behind a verge of mountain aspen, birch and willow saplings that bordered grass and the flowing stream. Silent and patient, he crept towards the dozing horse. Heading into a damp breeze that was sliding towards him from the spring, his movements painfully slow, he eased from boulder to brush, crawling within a few steps of the big, somnolent gelding. Swiftly rising up, he firmly snatched the bridle. Drowsy from noon heat, the horse barely shied. He snorted once and tugged. Concho rubbed his nostrils. He spoke softly, quieting the gelding. A light twitch on the bridle worked. Whispering, clucking softly, the young Apache stood still until the gelding relaxed, realizing there was no threat. Finally, the big horse accepted Concho’s dusty, desert scent.
Fist tight on the bridle, Concho leaned close, rubbing his face against a cheek. Hand petting, he let the gelding absorb his scent. Ears twitching, nostrils snuffling, the horse accepted his attentions.
Though he smelled wrong, gentle mutterings and clucking whispers helped. Concho lifted reins off the cantle, loosening the knot before lashing both reins to the trunk of a stubby, tough little desert oak.
Hand upon the saddle boot, he carefully slid out the rifle. Quietly moving the lever-action, he checked, finding the weapon loaded. Immaculate and oiled, the rifle was a brand-new, custom engraved 44/40 Winchester. Elated, rifle in hand, he experienced a surge of confidence, certain of liberty, certain now that he would remain free.
A pair of large, circular canteens hung from either side of the saddle. Concho opened one, sniffed and sipped. Though a bit warm, the water was fresh, recently filled from the creek. He rinsed his mouth, spitting, taking little sips. He drank slowly, quenching thirst, all the while darting glances up and around, alert for the faintest sounds, careful to mark the slightest movement.
There were innumerable birds, chipmunks and a few squirrels. Small rodents rustled in grass. Somewhere, a naked hoof clacked against dry wood. Concho spotted the shape of a whitetail deer, smiled and relaxed.
The young renegade turned to a pair of bulging saddlebags. Untying thongs, he pulled them over the horse’s rump. Settling in the shade of a huge block of fallen limestone and rustling aspen, he laid the rifle across his lap. Relaxing a little, he opened flaps. The first saddlebag held a cloth sack, contents giving him another surprise. Inside were new denim jeans, a fragrant, frilly white lace blouse, stockings and undergarments. Like their floral scent, they were unmistakeably feminine. Grinning, Concho lifted out a fetching pair of white pantalets with dangling pink ribbons at waist and thigh cuffs.
The undergarments were of silk, trimmed with lace, embroidered with small pink hearts. Just as pretty, there was a white camisole with matching embroidery and hearts. He stifled a chuckle, finding it hard to believe that a white woman could be out in this wilderness alone. Experiencing a moment of nostalgia, he buried his nose in the silken camisole, inhaling her fragrance.
The perfume and delicate, silken underwear brought back haunting memories. Only seven when taken away by the white missionaries, he remembered their protestations and promised good. The devout but fanatic Christians were ‘rescuing’ the scrawny little breed from reservation squalor and a destitute Apache mother. Uprooted and thrust into eastern society, he had endured strict, Calvinist discipline for almost a year. His savage resistance finally had a consequence. After an incident, the missionaries had relegated the rebellious child to the torment of a boarding school. When spring came, the nine-year-old Apache ran away, jumping a freight train heading south. Before he turned ten, Concho experienced more than he could have imagined. There was almost a year of being passed from one sympathetic home to another, from one black or coloured family to another. Then, he had been welcomed into an upper class family in Baltimore. Three sons and four daughters had tried to act like siblings, but after Concho and the middle girl turned thirteen, her friendship started developing romantic overtones. Within another year, blossoming, youthful puppy love led to intimacy. After a few more years, there were serious consequences. his involvement with Annabelle Worthington had made him privy to similar, frilly undergarments and much, much more.
Concho sighed, pushing away the painful memories of heartache, hurt and loss. He carefully folded and placed the scented underwear back in the garment bag. He quenched tender feelings, steeling himself, reminded that he was now a man, a broncho warrior, and that reservation police would be on his trail. He couldn’t afford a nostalgic drift into romantic memories of lost love. He had to forget about the baby Annabelle had been carrying, the child he would never get to know.
The clothing bag covered a gleaming new pistol. The Smith and Wesson forty-four forty was a treasure, but food in the other saddlebag presented a more immediate attraction.
Concho took out a plum, hungrily biting into juicy tartness. Swallowing, spitting out the pit, he ate another, then unwrapped one of four waxed paper packages. Within was a sandwich. He took a bite, savouring slices of rare roast beef and cheese, pickles, sweet Spanish onions and mustard. Slabs of white bread were fresh baked. There were three more, a substantial block of orange cheese, several ripe plums, a half dozen green apples, a ring of garlic sausage, strips of beef jerky and a dozen fresh bread rolls stuffed in a paper bag. Provisions even included a small crockery jar of butter, a glass sealer of strawberry jam and a quart jar of dill pickles. Concho wanted to sample everything. Instead, he settled on finishing the sandwich and sipping water.
A lot of food,” Concho mused, glancing at the saddle. There was more tied behind the cantle. Wrapped in an oilskin ground sheet, there was a thick roll of blankets. Tied on that was a coffee pot and small frying pan. “A lot for just a picnic. Maybe she’s running away? An overnight excursion?” Hair prickled up his neck. Another possibility occurred. Concho settled his thumb on the rifle hammer, quickly searching rimrock and surrounding brush. The canyon rim and empty sky revealed nothing. “A secret rendezvous with a lover? She just come here for a swim? Or, waiting for a lover? Does she have guards?”
He cradled the rifle, searching, but nothing unusual showed. There were no other horses. The click of shod hooves would be unmistakeable, but he might not hear that over the rushing water. Concho shook his head, wondering, gulping down another bite of the sandwich, chewing and swallowing distractedly.
“Coffee pot and frying pan?” he murmured, still puzzled. “Not enough for more than a few days. She crazy? A woman out here alone, like this? Crazy or careless.” His fingertips explored tooled leather on the saddlebags. He glanced at the new, oiled Winchester, thinking, “Crazy, but very wealthy. Perhaps spoiled and willful. Not seriously running away, just angry?”
Once again he searched the canyon rim. There were no signs of watchers. The only movement was that of flitting birds. “She can’t be alone. Not a girl this wealthy. There’s got to be a bodyguard, or at least a couple of capable ranch hands hiding somewhere? Unless...”
His thoughts cast back, seeing her swimming naked in the artesian pool. “Not the behaviour of a proper young lady,” he mused, “and if there was a sentry, she wouldn’t risk being seen naked.” Grinning, he slowly accepted that she really was alone, certainly not expecting discovery
..*
Concho finished the sandwich. He took his time, taking sips from the canteen, watchful glances continually sliding along rimrock and downstream, into the brush. He found nothing wrong- no sight or sound out of place.
Birds trilled in brush without concern. Crickets and grasshoppers sawed. Concho slid a forty-four Russian out of a shell belt holster. “This a spare?” Loops were filled with ammunition. He worked the top-break latch. The cylinder was loaded with five rounds. He closed the breech. Smiling now, he draped the shell belt over a shoulder, returning the heavy revolver to the holster. He smiled, feeling a surge of confidence. The weapons were more than familiar.
While living in Baltimore, the Judge and two oldest sons often took Concho to shooting galleries. There, he honed skills. First, there had been twenty-two calibre target pistols and rifles, then larger weapons, like the forty-five Colt revolver. Quite often, they had gone to a country club rifle range and skeet shoot. Each autumn they had gone hunting in New York Adirondacks and Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. At the age of thirteen, he shot his first buck. Each fall, he bagged his share of ducks, Canada geese, quail, pheasants and grouse. Twice, he had taken down large whitetail with an expensive laminate re-curve bow. Much to his adopted families astonishment, he insisted on using obsidian tipped arrows crafted and fletched by his own hands.
Concho dug under folded towels in the first saddlebag, finding two fifty round cartons of forty-four forty ammunition. “Better and better!” he mused, “Enough to hold off Apache raiders ... or some Mexican bandits.” Glad that the Winchester and Russian used the same ammunition, he replaced the towel and bag of clothing. Pausing, he considered. Concho realized that he could just lead the horse away, following its tracks back through the maze of cacti, escaping the chasm and vanishing into the mountains ... A flicker of conscience checked him. Concho pictured the young woman and thought of Annabelle Worthington, of how the girl would feel upon discovering herself stranded, the horse and supplies gone. He winced. She would be frightened, even terrified, and, without horse and a rifle, quite likely condemned to death. Any attempt to walk out of the White Sands would prove fatal. Even with one of the canteens, he knew she would be too vulnerable.
“Some bronco warrior you are!” he thought, grimacing, condemning the weakness borne of an eastern white girl. Unfortunately, memories of Annabelle Worthington still plucked at Concho’s heart.
Finding a concealed rock shelf, he cached the ammunition, canteens and saddlebags, then removed the saddle and bridle, leaving the gelding hobbled, free to graze and drink.
“What now? Take her as a hostage? Frighten her half to death? Ask if she minds lending you her horse and rifle?”
Turning north, he began a quiet stalk towards the spring and grove of trees. Following the chuckling creek, he inched towards the rushing outflow channel. Where granite had sheared away, the intrusion of brownish-black rock was almost out of sight. The wall of trees was thick. Verdant leaves of willow and aspen screened him from the pool. A few stubby desert oaks and a mix of tall, slender evergreens had taken root, growing out of bedrock fractures. With the morning advancing, reflected sunlight was brightening the canyon, creeping down the western cliff. A sharp contrast to the intrusion of black rock, the low grotto of crystalline rose quartz sparkled with pretty shades of pink and deeper purple. Pulsing surges of clear water gushed from depths of the cavern, spilling out into the roiling pool.
Though most sounds were masked by noise of the gushing water, Concho still moved with stealth. Alert for snakes, scorpions and cacti, he darted glances into shadowy hollows, careful with the placement of each step. Keeping screened behind foliage, he caught snatches of a singing female voice. Blending with the rush of water, melodious sounds were resonating and echoing back from the grotto.
He dropped flat, sliding forward, crawling up a tilted slab of grey limestone. Fingers in the rifle’s action, he pushed the muzzle forward, parting a curtain of rustling aspen. There, where gnarled tree roots of a cottonwood were anchored in cracked limestone, he saw a pile of folded clothing, boots, and a tooled, black leather holster with a shell belt. A second, left-hand shell belt and holster. was heavy with ammunition in shell loops. Concho paused, listening with disbelief. The girl was Singing in Spanish, then French and finally unaccented English. Her voice came from just beyond a curtain of aspen saplings, willows and grassy reeds.
He slithered closer, scowling, angry that anybody could be so careless. Concho removed a thong, sliding the pistol from a left-hand holster. Obviously new, the weapon was clean, oiled and loaded. He broke open the action, removing six cartridges, tucking all of them into his breechclout. Even if the girl managed to recover her pistol, he was safe.
“Left-handed? A southpaw? Sinister?” he thought, recalling the expression and lessons from back east...
A frilly, white lace blouse and silken, lace-trimmed undergarments with ribbon ties lay atop a divided riding skirt and folded jacket. Two large towels were folded along with washcloths and soap. Concho fingered and examined everything. Like those items in the saddlebag, her silken undergarments were of the highest quality. Her vest and divided riding skirt were made of soft, beautifully tailored doeskin. Tall and high-heeled, her pointed riding boots were Mexican. One glance told that her feet were small. There was a large sombrero and functional cotton stockings.
Inching forward, lying there, Concho opened a shoulder bag. Inside was a doeskin pouch stuffed with small change, dozens of silver dollars and even more gold double eagles. There were feminine fripperies, a leather folder with various papers and hundreds of dollars in banknotes.
A small bottle of cut crystal held some exotic fragrance. There was a silver hairbrush and hand mirror. Along with a clasp knife, there was a dangerous looking, unadorned, slender dagger. He grinned and closed the purse.
His quarry was naked, unarmed, oblivious to danger. She presented no threat. Still, Concho was cautious. He moved back into the open, searching rimrock, gaze following the creek, studying every shadowy glade or fold of rock. Moving off to the right, he slid up another of the big, tilted slabs of limestone. Edging beneath leafy cover, he kept listening and watching shadowy movement across the pool. He laid aside the Winchester and rose to his knees, carefully spreading a screen of rustling willow leaves.
On the instant, Concho froze, Sucking in a breath. Seeing her from the canyon rim had not prepared him for the sight.
Astonished, Concho tried to process the image. Across the pool, not more than ten steps away, the young woman lay on a slab of rock. her back. Her left leg dangled and kicked in water. Her right heel was on the shelf, knee elevated. Morning sunlight hadn’t reached the canyon bottom, but light reflecting off the cliffs was enough to show everything. Her body was slender, with long, lean legs. Eyes closed, she pursed mobile lips. Her right hand was stroking small, conical breasts, idly plucking at rigid nipples. The prominent mound at the juncture of thighs repeatedly showed pink as fingers of her left hand spread a tangled wedge of darker blonde curls.
Captivated, Concho gaped, drinking in the spectacle. The girl looked young, perhaps no more than his own nineteen years. Aside from her singing, Spanish blood seemed apparent in unusual, aristocratic features; yet her unbound hair and eyebrows were a honey blonde, tanned cheeks lightly freckled. Her hands had been darkened by desert sunlight. The skin of her torso was tanned a creamy gold, apparently having been exposed this way often, something Concho knew to be completely out of character for any proper white woman. He realized that sunbathing nude was something that her society would condemn as worse than indecent. That she was pleasuring herself was equally astonishing, adding the discomfort of arousal to his shock. He shifted. The stirring of an erection soon became uncomfortable.
Oblivious to danger, the girl languidly stroked a thumb around erect, dark rose nipples of each pointed breast. Even white teeth worried a pouting, lower lip. A pink tongue flicked out, wetting those lips. She squirmed a little. Concho guessed she was picturing herself being kissed and caressed by an imaginary lover. He had gleaned that aspect of romantic female imaginings from intimate talks with Annabelle Worthington.
Her fingers kept stroking, dipping into those glistening pink folds. Small but full, her breasts were crowned by swollen, pale rose aureoles. Certain her eyes would open at any moment, Concho told himself he had to leave, had to stop looking. He couldn’t. Almost paralysed, he crouched, still and silent, fascinated. Hips moved against the unyielding rock slab. Painfully aroused, he wondered why such an attractive girl was out here alone, naked, pleasuring herself.
Unavoidably, Concho began to imagine himself kissing that beautiful mouth, his hands squeezing those shapely, pert breasts. He imagined his hands caressing their peaks. He envisioned his mouth dipping to suckle each rigid nipple. He licked lips going dry. Overcome by a growing arousal, he drank in her naked symmetry. There were immediate consequences. Cramped within his tight doeskin breechclout, an aching erection started hurting. Concho absently reached down, tugging loose the softened hide. Pistol cartridges spilled out, clattering down the sloping rock. He caught them, carefully laying them in a hollow. The girl never heard. He drew a shuddering breath, then freed a swelling, lengthening erection, he grasped his shaft, squeezing and stroking the hard curve. He rocked back onto heels, watching the girl, fantasizing, hand starting a rhythmic movement. Scrotum tightening, he lost himself in delicious, familiar sensations as they built in his groin.
Willow leaves rustled from a swirling breeze, branches swaying across his face, blocking the view. Raising his left hand, Concho started to push the branches aside. Abruptly, a hot gust of desert wind laid back covering foliage. He started to duck, elbow smacking into the Winchester. Sliding out of reach, the rifle skittered down the incline, clattering noisily at the bottom.
The girl sucked a breath, jerked upright and saw him. She let out a startled cry. Concho found himself caught by wide, frightened eyes of brilliant azure blue.
Fleet as a deer, the girl scrambled to escape. Concho shot to his feet and muttered an oath. He burst through leaves, jumping down onto a wet sandstone ledge.
“Stop!” he snarled, fumbling, jerking the pistol from his belt. The girl was desperately trying to find a way up. Concho saw and relaxed. She was trapped. The fault above her was plugged by a huge boulder of smooth limestone. Above the rock was a nasty tangle of cholla and other cacti. Above that, loose scree and forty or fifty feet of vertical cliff offered no escape.
“Stop!” he snarled, careful to keep the weapon pointed down at the pool.
Back to him, she faltered. The girl sobbed, glancing up and around, finally realizing her predicament. She let go and slid back, giving up a futile attempt at climbing. Sinking down to the flat rock, she curled into a tight ball, hiding her breasts, arms wrapped about her knees. She bit at her lower lip and whimpered, looking from his face to the big pistol.
“Please, don’t hurt me!” she pleaded, quavering voice almost lost in the surge of rushing water. “Please? You can speak English?”
“I do, and I won’t harm you,” he answered, raising the pistol muzzle to his shoulder. “If you try something stupid, I might have to burn one of those pretty legs, but I have no desire to harm you.”
Wide, azure blue eyes blinked, going quite large as they shifted from the pistol to his groin. The colour of those eyes changed, going from aquamarine to azure, then to an intense, cobalt blue. Concho felt his cheeks burn, only then remembering his bobbing erection, that he was swollen hard and completely exposed, breechclout still loose and pushed to one side.
“You ... you were watching me!” she accused, voice almost lost in the noise of splashing water. Her eyes remained fixed on his erection, then her lips twitched, expression shifting into a smirk. “I know what you were doing!”
Embarrassed that he had been caught out, Concho felt his cheeks burn ... The young renegade scowled down at himself, confounded by the turn of events, wondering what to do now that he had a prisoner. Some old warriors boasted of having raped captive women.
Much as he had enjoyed making love with Annabelle Worthington, he had no thought of forcing himself on this young woman. He had loved Annabelle, and wasn’t about to get brutal. Lusty thoughts completely evaporated. He wouldn’t inflict that kind of suffering on her, but, he did want to escape. Already outlaw, Concho knew he wouldn’t add rape to his crimes.
“And I saw what you were doing,” he said, blushing, furious with himself. Using his left hand awkwardly, he tucked scrotum and rapidly shrinking penis back inside the cotton breechclout, all too aware that the girl was closely watching. More, she actually grinned. There was no mistaking her fascination. Rather than fear, her big eyes were interested.
“Look, I ... I didn’t mean to scare you, and I promise I won’t hurt you,” he said lamely, tucking her pistol back into his knife belt. “but I need your horse, weapons and food.”
“What?” she gasped, lifting her head, chin jutting as she said belligerently, “you wouldn’t dare!” Her eyes narrowed, sparking with anger. “Who do you think you are? A boy playing wild Indian?”
“What?” Concho stammered, blinking, taken aback by her sudden flare of anger and the abrupt question. Before he could choke back the protest, he blurted, “I’m no boy! I’m nineteen, and a warrior!”
Chin lifting a little more, eyes glittering, she said, “Hardly more than a boy. You don’t frighten me.”
“No?”?” he said, trying for a fearsome grimace, hoping it didn’t look like a foolish grin. He thumped his chest, saying, “I am Apache, and two years ago I passed through the trials of manhood! I am also an outlaw renegade, not one of your tame Indios girl, so mind your manners!” He sneered, waggling a finger. “I have your weapons and a horse. I will leave you the clothing and the other handgun.”
“You wouldn’t dare hurt me!” she said belligerently, eyes flaring bright, once again changing colour. “I don’t think you could shoot me. If I do not return, my father will send men to search for me. If you did hurt me, he will pay to have you hunted down and killed like a rabid dog.”
His brows lifted. “Perhaps then I shall take you as my hostage? Then, if cornered, I would have to kill you. We would both be dead,” Concho teased. Drawing on his imagination, becoming inventive, he said, “then your ghost would ever be mine. You would become my spirit slave, forced to give me pleasure in the after-life.”
Her eyes went wide again, then she recovered, giving a derisive sniff. Tossing her wet hair, she looked away. “Superstitious nonsense! Never! Not in any afterlife or ever!”
He shrugged. Recovering some equanimity, Concho grinned, puzzling over this curious, almost white girl and the odd twist of events which had brought them together.
She remained curled against her legs. He absently recalled her earlier appearance, then found himself hoping she would uncoil and stand up.
“Perhaps not,” he said agreeably. “As I said, I have no interest in harming you, though that beautiful hair would make an interesting trophy.” He shrugged. “But, I’m already in too much trouble with the authorities. As for a hostage, well, an angry, frivolous, spoiled little rich girl would only slow me down.”
“Frivolous! Little Rich girl!” Once again, her eyes flared with anger, glaring at him. “I am not frivolous. I’m a woman,. And twenty-two!”
Grinning broadly, Concho relaxed, starting to enjoy himself. Nodding slightly, he drawled, “yes, it is very obvious that you are a woman, and quite lovely.! Twenty-two? Goodness, so much older, and so much wiser than this stupid Apache boy.” He slowly shook his head. “Though I must point out that you have not received a very comprehensive education.” Concho shook his head again. He forced a sad expression. “Leaving your horse hobbled and wandering along the stream with a Winchester in the saddle boot, a spare pistol in the saddlebag? A proper desert education would not allow such folly.” He grinned. “You must have attended interesting schools? Perhaps in Europe? They have classes in nude swimming?” At her abrupt, shocked blush, he smiled. “And why is a young lady of wealth and society out alone in a desert wilderness where white criminals hide from the law, where Mexican bandits raid across the border, and where renegade Apache still hide from the cavalry?”
After a moment, her big blue eyes blinked, her mouth dropping open, a blush creeping up her throat, darkening tanned cheeks. “I ... I’m not alone!” she said, cheeks darkening even more. “There are two ranch hands keeping watch outside the canyon!”
Concho studied her. “You are very pretty, but a terrible liar.” Concho shook his head slowly and waggled his forefinger at her again. He gave her a sad look. “Lovely senorita. I checked. There are no ranch hands. No sentry. Not even a secret lover coming to ravish your loveliness while you swim naked in this hidden canyon.”
“How would you know that?” She blinked, eyes starting to glisten, a tear escaping, trickling down one satin cheek.
“I am Apache,” he said quietly. “You would not be swimming naked with randy cowhands nearby.” He paused, sighing dramatically, glancing away, saying, “a senorita waiting for her lover would not need to pleasure herself in solitude, as I witnessed.”
“Oh shit!” She said, startling him, blowing out an exasperated breath. “I guess I was careless ... stupid even. But ... what are you going to do with me? You can’t take my horse. I could never get out of the White Sands on foot!”
Concho absorbed and considered her words. “Ah, but there, lovely one, you are incorrect,” he answered. “I made it this far on foot. Now, I have captured your horse, food, weapons and you. Such a fine mount will make my escape so much easier. You need not abandon this spring. There is abundant water and food. Eventually your rich father would send out trackers and find you.”
“please, don’t?” she begged, voice betraying a slight quaver. She started trembling. “I’d likely starve and none of the ranch hands know where I am. Besides, I’d be in serious trouble. My father is back in New York. Away on business. He has silver mines. Railroad investments. You could get a ransom? He would pay you a lot of money.”
He didn’t have to force a sneer. “What good is money to an Apache renegade? Where would I spend money? Besides, even if your father paid an enormous ransom, he would have me hunted down and shot ... remember? Like a rabid dog.”
She flinched. “I ... I’m sorry I said that,” she murmured, blushing, Eyes becoming downcast, her features looking worried. “I could be a willing hostage?”
He shook his head. “If they caught me now, I might go to prison for a few years because of robbing the reservation trading post. Kidnapping you would result in a hanging. Where I am going, one needs only a good horse, a little food, a rifle and ammunition. One does not need the encumbrance of a lovely female hostage.” He grinned, sweeping out an expansive arm, saying, “as I said, you will be safe here. There is water and plenty of food. Probably antelope and deer, certainly squirrels and birds. Just camp and wait for your father’s people to rescue you.”
“But, they would never find me,” she pleaded, wet eyes dejected and downcast, her sweet voice breaking in a way he couldn’t ignore.
“You are obviously too emotional.” he said.
More glittering tears started dripping from wide, frightened eyes. “I ... I always hide my trail. Nobody knows where I’ve gone. Taking my horse would be the same as killing me.” Please?” Biting her lower lip again, she hesitated, tears still flowing down her cheeks. “I could bring you back a horse? Supplies? If you let me go?” Finally sagging, hanging her head, she gestured at herself, saying, I’ll ... I’ll give you anything ... if you take me with you? Or let me keep my horse?”? Please don’t steal Chieko? He’s my special favorite. Anything.”
Concho hadn’t felt compassion manifest often, not at all during his time with the accursed white missionaries in Boston, or in the harsh environment of a residential school that was only a prison for native children. Now, his conscience was pricked by her tears. He couldn’t help but remember Annabelle, and the judges magnanimity. The recent privations and injustices of reservation life had toughened him anew; but memory of Annabelle’s sweetness, and her family’s remarkable compassion kept him from becoming totally hardened.