Apache Gold
Copyright© 2026 by Sonarflash2026
Chapter 4
Western Sex Story: Chapter 4 - 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 awoke with a chill, body limp with fatigue and totally satiated. Not far away, water from the spring was splashing, chasm echoes making a magical tinkling. Above him, oak and aspen leaves rustled. Stars glittered in the velvety blackness of a night sky. Wrapped in blankets, he was still in the clearing, but now, very much alone.
He listened, hoping, even though he knew Lily was gone. She had been with him that first day and night, then all of the second. After a long moment, sight adjusting before he moved, Concho stretched out a prickling arm. His fingers explored, discovering a pillow made from a cotton shirt stuffed with moss. His moccasins were there, along with his belt, obsidian knife and breechclout. Sheathed in the saddle scabbard, Lily’s Winchester rifle lay at his side. The right-hand holster and shell belt, along with the forty-four Smith & Wesson Russian were there within reach. One box of cartridges sat next to them.
“She’s really gone!” he muttered, words coming out with a groan. “Never even heard her slip away!” he muttered, giving a sour laugh. “Some Apache! Some warrior I am.”
Sitting up, pulling a blanket around his shoulders, Concho studied the small glen and nearby trees. Portions of the cliff hollow were illuminated by slender moonbeams that penetrated the leafy canopy. Crickets chirped and brush rustled from the movement of small creatures. Below, water splashed, pulsing from the artesian spring. Of his impetuous, passionate lover, there was no sign. Getting up, shaking out his shirt, he pulled it on and fastened buttons. Forsaking the obsidian knife and belt, he buckled on the shell belt, checking a thong that held in the pistol. He tucked his breechclout into that, then glanced about, peering into shadows beyond the cover of trees and brush. Finally, he sniffed, checking the damp, pre-dawn air.
Barely visible in moonlight, jars and remnants of food were neatly stacked next to the blankets. Lily had left him the coffee pot and small frying pan. Nibbling interrupted, a fat deer mouse scurried away from the remains of a bread roll. items were heaped beside the food. A lariat was obvious, as was the hatchet, one of Lily’s large canteens, a cloth bag, a tangle of pigging strings and, sitting on a folded vulcanized poncho, a book. Atop the book was a big Bowie knife. The knife held down a folded piece of paper and a pencil. Concho unfolded the paper, angling it to catch moonlight, slowly deciphering Lily’s neat, feminine script.
“Dearest Concho, I couldn’t wake you. Shall I thank you for two glorious days and nights? Already well past midnight. I must ride home. Will likely not arrive until dawn. Grandmother will be completely distraught, the foreman will be upset and everyone asking too many questions. I left what things I could, and some things for when I return. Consider them a promise. I will try to get back in four or five days. If you are gone, I shall understand, but I will cry. If you stay in our sacred grove and I do not come in four days, take heart, as I will do all in my power to find you again.”
With Love and much Joy, Lillianna”
“Love?” he thought, then grinned. “Well, definitely much joy.”
Puzzling, he opened the bag, smelled perfume and remembered. She had changed underwear, leaving behind the rose embroidered pantalets and camisole.
The canvas bag still held her new denim jeans, flannel shirt and a clean pair of cotton stockings. At the bottom was a tin cookie box that held fish hooks, coils of line, shiny needles, a thimble, buttons and a few spools of thread. She even left him a box of her wax-dipped kitchen matches.
A” Clever trick,” he said, examining a waterproofed match. “A clever woman.” Arching brows, he was somewhat pleased that she had left her range clothing along with the written promise. “At least she didn’t say goodbye,” he mused, warmth flooding his heart. “Love and great joy?” He grinned. “Classy girl, poor Apache thief? Not a good match. Wouldn’t please an aristocratic Spanish mother, or the rich Jewish father.”
Leaning against one of the larger oaks, he sorted through her offerings, trying to gather thoughts and consider options.
Been three nights, but Agency police won’t quit until I’m arrested,” he thought. “There will still be the risk of discovery by a scout, reservation police or a cavalry patrol. Might be days or weeks before they quit.” He stretched, moving around the sheltered clearing. “At least I can’t be seen down here, unless I make too much smoke. Got to be careful with any cooking fire. At night, somebody might spot the glow of a fire from the rim.”
He guessed that the spring and stream attracted a lot of game, and there were abundant plants, so he wouldn’t go hungry. He looked up at surrounding trees, glad for the cover. Even better, Lily had mentioned that the canyon wasn’t on her father’s mineral surveys. One hope was that Indian trackers wouldn’t stumble across it before he had a chance to melt into highlands of the San Andreas or the Oscura Mountains.
“Now, let Yusen bring winds or rain to cover my tracks!” he breathed, wondering if he even dared make such a prayer, let alone hope. Deciding it was best to follow old teachings, he lifted hands, saying, “Yusen, guide me, Yusen reveal your path. If you will, hide my trail from those who seek me. Hear my thanks for this refuge, and my praise for your many wonders.”
More closely examining the small clearing, he circled, slipping into a murmuring chant, deliberately rejecting Christian dogma and teachings beaten into him by the missionaries. Reaching out to canyon diyí, he sought direction, realizing he felt a special harmony with this place. Recalling the instruction of his mother, of elders and sometimes drunken, dissolute shaman, he sang out, calling to the spirits, something he had neglected all through the previous day. Touching branches, noting certain outcrops of rock, he began sensing differences. The canyon did have a mystical, brooding air. Slowly becoming attuned, he felt more than one shifting presence. Though vague at first, he began to glimpse patterns in everything about him.
Still praying, fighting an inner conflict over the proscriptions of Christian zealots, he was drawn back into the cavernous hollow. Four aspen saplings were growing apart, forming a nearly perfect square at least seven feet on a side. As he paused, rotating, Concho saw that one side of the square was facing east. Within the square was a thick carpet of moss and in one corner, a flat slab of rock. Stroking each aspen, he asked forgiveness and permission, telling the spirit he wished to use each sapling as a corner for a wickiup. Once the inner certainty came over him, he lassoed the top of each with the rope, pulling them towards the centre, lashing all four together with pigging string to make a dome frame. The result was just over shoulder height. The hatchet was used to advantage, cleaning off limbs, weaving them together with willow branches, working around the arched saplings, fashioning an oval portal on the east.
about one hour before dawn, Concho noticed that stars kept vanishing, dark streamers of cloud sweeping across a waning, sickle moon. Wind started whistling against the cliff. Gradually, starlight faded. He started working faster. A storm was gathering and his efforts to layer branches about the shelter took on an earnest quality.
As he worked, Concho gathered bundles of dead branches and twigs, stuffing them beneath tilted slabs of rock, beneath pines and dense, small spruce. Before the moon slipped halfway across the sky, he had the wikiup dome woven with thin, springy branches, layered with spruce boughs. Finally, he tied down the oilskin canvas, covering more than half of the dome.
Soft, almost inaudible, a moaning wind began to resonate through the canyon. Stars vanished for longer and longer periods. Concho redoubled efforts, gathering in more firewood and tinder while finishing his wikiup.
““Gonna be a nasty storm,” he thought, Using sheets of moss and more spruce boughs to arrange a comfortable mattress, covering it with the ground sheet, arranging blankets into a springy bed. Spreading Lily’s rubberized poncho over the oilskin, he completed the shelter. Two poles lashed into an inverted V lifted an end of the poncho, tenting it over the doorway.
When more dead wood had been stacked inside the wikiup, Concho lifted hands to the overcast sky. He sang, giving quiet thanks while moving his gear, Lily’s supplies and more dry twigs into the wikiup.
Picking over the remaining food, he chewed on the last half of a roast beef sandwich, savouring each small bite. Studying what little he could see of the canyon rim, Concho drew within, hoping to find a deeper connection and communion with diyí of the desert, grotto and spring. Mostly listening, he found sounds helping him get familiar with the pulse of canyon life.
When the last crumb of bread had been licked off waxed paper, he ate a slice of garlic sausage, a hunk of cheese and two salty pickles. Finishing with an apple, he sipped water from the canteen. Placing the rifle and pistol close to hand, he stripped, wrapping himself in the blankets, settling, letting energy of the mystical chasm enfold him.
Concho dozed and dreamed. The earlier stillness was gone. Wind was howling through foothills, gusting into the canyon, making some branches creak together. Spirit questing, he felt himself merge with the night, becoming one with the chuckle of water, the squeak of bats, scurrying of mice, the clink of contracting rock faces, then the rasp of blown sand hissing over the cliffs.
As though separating from his body, he floated, wrapped in peaceful blackness, gradually drifting back into sleep.
A screeching whistle of wind crept into awareness. Clinging to fragments of a dream vision, slowly coming awake, Concho blinked, puzzling that the air felt so heavy. Inky darkness blotted out sight. The rush of wind high up on rim rock stirred anxiety. At last fully alert, he sniffed, detecting the bite of alkali. Picking at nostrils, he found them clotted with dust.
“Damn! A real bad storm!” he muttered, rolling out of blankets. He buckled on the pistol belt, tucking in his breechclout. Opening the poncho flap by lifting the poles into place, he stepped outside.
Glancing around, peering through a tangle of brush and swaying trees, he could feel the changing air pressure and sensed the stickiness of rising humidity. Wind was starting to whip branches. Gusts from the east were blowing stinging grit in from the dunes. Sand sifted down from rim rock. Little was visible. Black clouds were racing in the opposite direction, heading eastward, blotting out most of the stars.
Concho rotated slowly, looking up, watching the turmoil of gathering clouds abruptly illuminated by flashes of lightning. Crackling thunder echoed off cliffs. Hot desert updrafts were clashing with a potent north-westerly flow. Oak, cottonwood and aspen leaves had all turned up, a clear sign of impending rain. Thunder grumbled, then boomed. Feeling drawn towards the spring, he left the clearing on a narrow animal track, stepping out to where a tongue of the granite bench dropped off sharply above the creek.
All seemed wrapped in gloom and shifting shadows. Showing in flickers of blue and white lightning, a thick, churning blackness tumbled over the foothills, sheets of rain approaching the desert basin. Not one star showed.
“Yusen, forgive my unbelief,” Concho said, lifting hands to the clouds, recalling his wish that his trail be hidden.
Suddenly, his scalp prickled, flesh tingling. He hunkered down when his hair began to stand out and crackle with static. Concho moved back from the stream, dropping flat, barely lifting his face to the ominous weather.
“Yusen is storm and rain. Yusen is the great power and life. Thunderbird, spare me from your wrath. Yusen, have mercy on your child.”
As if in answer, an incandescent pillar of blue white fury erupted from the clouds. Not jagged like ordinary lightning, a smooth, yard thick vortex curved, striking well down the granite cliff, splitting rock, slithering down the western face. It was a snake that split into forks, sizzling and crackling, illuminating the quartz grotto. Ground shook. The blazing, blinding image registered an instant before a deafening, shocking sound slammed Concho’s chest and ears. Dazzled, he blinked, catching the after-image, recalling an aura of violet whiteness that had danced about the cave mouth. A sharp odour bit at nostrils. Lightning flashed again. This time, a jagged fork struck rim rock to the southeast, More crackling thunderclaps reverberating as chunks of limestone broke free, clattering down into the canyon.
That first bolt of lightning stirred a memory. Though he still couldn’t recall details, Concho knew he had been given a potent dream, his hesitant prayer answered.
Large drops of rain began splattering off the canopy of trees. Concho ran back to his wickiup as wind rose in pitch, lashing and howling out of the east. They tore across dunes, sweeping in low below the storm. As the intensity built, sand and grit began sifting into the clearing, mixing with rain, coating everything with muddy gypsum dust.
Concho ducked back into his shelter. He wrapped one of the wool blankets about head and shoulders, breathing slowly, filtering out grit and dust swept in off the dunes.
Almost as quickly as it began, the lashing sandstorm ended. Beneath the tented flap, Concho settled, watching the heavens. Within moments, clouds opened with a deluge, rain swelling to a roar that rivalled echoing claps of thunder. Around edges of the wikiup, water started dripping through spruce boughs not quite covered by the canvas tarpaulin or poncho. Puddles formed in mossy depressions. Soon, the canyon was resonating with the steady roar of pounding rain.
Slowly at first, a distant clatter and rattle built, then hail swept through the clearing. Air turned frigid. The hissing became loud. Lightning flashes shimmered off sheets of hail. Soon, a white carpet was accumulating outside the shelter. A few hailstones the size of eggs clattered off rock, some bouncing into the wickiup. Concho grinned, picking them up, sucking ice before tossing them back outside. In only moments, the rushing hiss swept out over dunes, leaving a frosty coating nearly two inches deep across the glen.
More rain followed, more lightning cracking the sky, blazing blue-white reflecting off the blanket of hailstones. For moments there were periods of silence and blackness, then another bolt of lightning, another crash of thunder, another squall of sheeting rain.
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