Apache Gold
Copyright© 2026 by Sonarflash2026
Chapter 9
Western Sex Story: Chapter 9 - 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
After a dry, southerly gust of wind brought a hint of smoke, Louis De Champlain LaSalle reined in a tired, sweat-crusted horse. Guided by his daughter’s vision, he was alone. Southwest of him, across patches of limestone bedrock, clumps of creosote bush, sage and cacti, a distinctive section of grey granite cliff broke the monotony of desert basin and foothills.
Keen eyes detecting strangeness where dunes met foothills, the old mountain man slid from his saddle, dropping reins near a patch of bunchgrass. Drawing his Henry 55-70 from a saddle boot, he swiped a buckskin cuff down the long, octagonal barrel, shouldered the weapon and started towards the weathered grey rock.
Weaving through patches of cacti, Concho’s grandfather was still fifty or sixty paces from the cliff when he understood, realizing he was almost to the edge of an unexpected fault. Another gust swirling along the cliff brought a vagrant bit of mesquite smoke tinged with the scent of broiled antelope. He glanced up at the sun. It was shy of noon, and having skipped breakfast, he was starting to feel peckish.
With caution, he eased up to the precipitous lip of a narrow chasm, catching another whiff of smoke mingled with the sweeter, richer aroma of roasting pig fat.
Careful to avoid a fissured seam along the rim, he leaned on his rifle, gaze sweeping the length of a narrow canyon that shouldn’t be there. First he caught the glint of water, then saw a wisp of smoke behind a stand of pine and screening oaks. Sixty feet below and to his left, a fine pair of mules were grazing beside a small stream
“Concho! Yatasay!” he called loudly, his voice echoing through the ravine.
Ears twitched on the mules. Echoes of his call faded. Silence fell, nothing stirring, then a squirrel chattered. A jay scolded. After several moments, there was a shadowy movement, then a figure emerged from the cover of aspen, shielding eyes, squinting up at the canyon rim. It was not his grandson.
Speaking Ndee biyati, a wrinkled old Apache asked, “who calls?”
“Louis LaSalle! The grandfather of Concho!” Louis shouted back, puzzling, taking in the features of an ancient, wrinkled man. “Who are you? Where is my grandson?”
“One called Fox has heard of LaSalle,” the old man replied. “The young warrior you seek has gone. He is not here.”
“One smells roasting pig and venison,” LaSalle commented.
“There is enough, if you are hungry,” the elder stated. “Come, join us.”
“The way down?” LaSalle prompted. The elder swept out his arm and pointed south, then melted back into the trees.
Almost an hour later, Louis LaSalle rode up to the pair of dozing mules, reining in by the chuckling brook. The sun was directly overhead, beating down on the canyon floor. Thirsty and dusty, the mountain man slid down, leading his mount to the surprisingly chill water. After scooping up a drink, LaSalle splashed his face, then untied thongs, loosening saddle cinches, dropping the belly band, pulling off his mount’s saddle. He pulled the Henry from its scabbard, then tossed saddlebags over a shoulder and stood there, waiting.
Without a sound, The old Apache stepped into view, materializing across the stream. Whipcord lean, wrinkled and bronzed by the sun, he scrutinized LaSalle and gave a nod, saying, “Yatasay.”
When he turned away, Louis jumped the rushing stream, following him along a crooked track, up through cacti and mesquite. A rock structure roofed over with logs and thin sheets of sandstone gave Louis pause. From the look and smell, he guessed it was a fairly solid stable, not a cabin. He couldn’t imagine the old man lifting those large slabs of stone into place. Made from cross-braced split logs, the two big doors stood open.
“Bloody thing is built like a blockhouse!” he thought, noticing slit portals in each of the two walls.
Leaving behind the stable, climbing, they wove in and around trees, mounting and crossing a bench beneath a big hole in the western cliff. Abruptly, they stepped into a small clearing where meat skewers were roasting over mesquite coals. As wrinkled and seamed as the man, a grinning, toothless old woman sat beside a ring of stones that enclosed the campfire.
“Yatasay Shichu,” LaSalle said respectfully, nodding to the old woman. Bird bright, black eyes squinted up at him, then she gave a slight nod.
“This is a strange and lonely place in which to find two elders of the People,” he observed.
Fox gestured at a tanned hide. “Sit. Be welcome, grandfather of Concho. This will be a good place for us to die,” he said enigmatically. “Better than starving as prisoners of the white eyes.”
“Better than starving, and it is a good place,” LaSalle agreed, laying down the Henry, dropping saddlebags off his shoulder. Untying laces, he opened a flap, rummaged, then lifted out a stiff, lacquered hide case decorated with beadwork. “Many years ago, this gift was given me by a Cheyenne elder,” he said, opening the case, sliding out a long pipe. After fitting a soapstone bowl, he opened a soft pouch, pinched out tobacco and tamped it into the bowl. “Will you smoke?”
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