Apache Gold
Copyright© 2026 by Sonarflash2026
Chapter 7
Western Sex Story: Chapter 7 - 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
Fred Bixby eased out of a porch chair, stepped to a rail and peered northeast, puzzling at Dust curling up from the agency road. Head turning towards the open office door, he called, “Willcox,”
Papers shuffled, a chair scraped, then flooring creaked under booted heels. Looking dusty, his uniform faded, a U.S. Cavalry lieutenant stepped onto the reservation agency porch. After four gruelling years in New Mexico Territory, Brad Willcox was no longer West Point fresh, nor was he lacking experience, or western savvy. He despised the Apache, but wasn’t far from hating the Indian agent more. He knew Bixby was cheating on government beef contracts, and doing what most Indian agents did best — as little as possible.
“What?” the Lieutenant said, immediately spotting the plume of dust.
“Thet’s a crowd comin’.” Bixby nervously chewed one end of a tobacco stained moustache. “You expecting more troopers?”
Lieutenant Willcox studied the dust before giving the agent an indifferent look. “Nope. Maybe some broncho warriors angry because they got shorted on their beef ration.”
Bixby flushed, squirting a stream of tobacco juice into dirt beyond the porch. “You know that ain’t true. All my records are in order.”
Willcox shrugged, desert seared eyes squinting, already picking out the tiny, square shape of a team-drawn buggy and flanking riders. He grinned, turning to the agent, saying, “might be some renegades looking for scalps.”
“You only got seven troopers here with you!” the agent blurted.
“They’re still a ways off,” Brad said, smiling to himself. “You could mount up and get away clean if you hurry.”
Bixby spat again, hand shading eyes against morning sunlight. “Them’s not Apache’s.”
“Not unless they’ve taken to riding buggies,” the Lieutenant agreed laconically.
The agent growled an oath, pulled out a plug of tobacco and bit off a fresh chew. The tension between officer and agent was palpable. They watched, waiting in unfriendly silence. One by one, dusty cavalry troopers ambled across from the trading post. Three Apache boys and an old, tired looking warrior edged up to the porch. Dust expanded,, trotting horses, riders and buggy gradually resolving. A few more shabby warriors appeared, staring at the buggy and riders.
Bixby spat a squirt from his fresh chew and straightened. “I’ll be. That’s a woman.”
“Fancy eastern lady,” Willcox stated, turning away, hurrying back into the office, stepping into Bixby’s living quarters. Pouring a jug of water into a washstand, he quickly dampened hair and rinsed his face, glad he’d taken the time that morning to shave. He ran a comb through unruly hair, then beat dust off his campaign hat. Using a damp rag, he swiped at his lieutenant bars, brushed off his uniform, then buffed up what remained of a sorry polish on his boots. Checking a mirror, he was glad to see he didn’t look half bad. Compared to Bixby, he looked dapper, and almost felt civilized.
As the riders and buggy slowed, Lieutenant Brad Willcox was relieved that prevailing winds blew in from the west, carrying away the fine, bitter dust. He stepped outside, strode down porch steps and drew himself to attention. The four out-riders pulled back, swinging off to a hitch rail by the trading post-agency store, dust settling as the buggy wheeled in towards the agency building. A tall eastern man dressed in new western apparel and a large sombrero eased back reins, stopping the team. He set a brake and tied reins, swinging over the side. The woman swept her veil back from a fashionable bonnet. Lieutenant Willcox restrained the urge to whistle. Extremely attractive and surprisingly young, the woman graced him with a nod and pretty smile. Shrugging off a riding cloak, she revealed a trim, slender figure that was accentuated by a tailored suit of light grey, clinging fabric. Wavy curls of reddish auburn hair were streaming down her back.
The driver stepped around the buggy, giving her a hand down. She murmured her thanks, waving the man back. Catching up skirts, swinging a foot onto the step, she lightly dropped to the ground.
Brad Willcox flushed, glimpsing a considerable portion of sheer silk stocking above one trim ankle and tiny shoe. Only as she turned her back to him did he notice the child. Not much more than a toddler, a small, bonneted girl reached out her arms, was scooped up by the woman and lifted to the ground.
“Ma’am,” he said, clicking boot heels, feeling his cheeks go hot. “Lieutenant Brad Willcox, at your service.”
“Lieutenant Willcox,” she replied, giving him a polite smile, bending to the child, brushing off the girl’s clothing, examining her face. “Colonel Dandy told us we might find you here, and he sends his regards.”
Brad’s eyebrows lifted at her casual mention of the Colonel’s name. Dusting a large sombrero, the well dressed man approached, extending a hand. “Lieutenant, I’m doctor Thomas Worthington. My sister and I have come out west to locate a friend and visit.”
Brad was startled again. Shaking his hand, sizing up the easterner, he asked, “a medical doctor?”
Thomas grinned and gave a nod. “Medical. I Recently completed an extended internship at Mercy Hospital in Baltimore.”
Wiping the back of one hand over his moustache, Bixby stepped down off the porch, his bulging, greedy eyes drinking in the young woman. “Not many white folk around these parts. Least wise, not on reservation land. Who’s your friend?”
After giving the agent a scathing glance, Thomas nodded to the lieutenant, saying, “his name is Estevan. Estavan Sibilia Louis De Champlain LaSalle.”
Lieutenant Willcox sucked a breath. “That Estavan? Concho? Concho is your friend?”
“Yes, Concho. Very much so,” the young woman stated, lifting her chin, boosting the little girl to her hip. “He lived six years with our family in Baltimore.”
Bixby chortled. “Twenty years among whites wouldn’t civilize that piece of trash. Any visit might be a bit difficult ... until the lieutenant here finds him and hauls his ass back to stand trial.”
Annabelle Worthington glanced through the agent as though he was a noxious vapour, wrinkled her nose with obvious distaste, then stepped towards the lieutenant. “Has there been some trouble?”
Brad gave her a wan smile, then jerked his head towards the agent. “Seems the Apache believed they were getting shorted on their beef allotments and rations. Concho decided to take food for his mother and relatives. Broke into the trading post-”
Bixby interrupted, his face going red. “That’s slander! You can’t accuse me of stealin’ or defraudin’ these filthy savages!”
Lieutenant Willcox laid a hand on his holster flap and glared at the agent. “I said it seems like. When I have the evidence, I’ll bring charges in court. Now, Bixby, why don’t you go write up some of your bogus reports? I don’t like rude interruptions.” He gave his sergeant a significant look, then glanced around at six other troopers who had gathered in a semicircle near the porch, all of them gawking, drinking in the sight of a proper eastern lady. Turning to Annabelle, he said, “Concho was stealing food from the trading post.” He gestured across at the ramshackle building. “The trader, Jones, tried to stop Concho and got a knife through his wrist. Concho knocked him out. Left him tied and gagged, stole a couple sacks of supplies and a horse. That was several weeks ago.” He covered his mouth to hide a smile, adding, “agency police and scouts lost his trail west of here more than two weeks past. We will soon be riding out to look for him, though it likely won’t do any good. A White Mountain tracker found the trader’s horse along a fringe of the dunes. Any trail was washed out by a big storm.”
I do believe we should send father a telegraph about this,” Thomas Worthington said to his sister. She jerked her chin in an abrupt nod. He gave the lieutenant a grim smile.
“Our father was recently appointed a federal court justice. This might interest him. He has friends in Washington, and considerable sympathy towards the plight of native Americans, like those on this so-called reservation.”
Bixby let out a harsh laugh. “More red nigger lovers! Only good Indian is a dead one.”
“That so?” a quiet, thickly accented voice asked. “That your reason for starvin’ these har’ Apache’s?”
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