“I Haven’t H@d $3x in Six Months” — Giant Apache Sister Told Virgin Rancher

In the year 1887, under a sun that burned like melted lead over the plains of Sonora, the young rancher Salas McCallas rode alone to his lost hacienda. He was 24 years old, with the pale face of someone who has barely seen the world beyond his father’s pens and a virginity that he carried like a heavy secret on his chest.

6 months without touching a woman, months since his fiancée abandoned him for a cavalry captain in Chihuahua. I’m not a man to wait,” she had told him before leaving. From then on, Silas swore that none would make him falter again. But the desert does not respect oaths. That afternoon, as he crossed the dry stream of the souls, he saw the smoke.

A black column rising from his stable. He spurred the horse, his heart beating like a war drum. When he arrived, he found the barn door wide open. and on the threshold a figure that did not belong to this world. She was an Apache woman, but not like the ones I had seen in the markets of Hermosillo.

He was more than six feet tall, his shoulders broad like those of a weathered cowboy, his arms tattooed with snakes and suns that seemed to move under his brown skin. She wore a deerskin waistcoat adorned with eagle bones and a short skirt that revealed thighs like mesquite trunks. On his head he wore a single crow’s feather and in his eyes a fire that made the sun pale.

Sulla stopped 10 paces away, his hand trembling on the butt of his revolver. She looked at him without blinking. “What the hell are you?” he asked in awkward Spanish, learned from the peons. The woman stepped forward. His voice was deep, like the murmur of an underground river. I am Nisoni, sister of Tazunka, chief of the Northern M.

And you, he swept over it with his eyes, stopping at his waist, at his clean hands, at the blush that rose to his neck. You are the little virgin who has not dipped in six moons. Sulla felt the air escape him. How did you know? No one on the ranch talked about it, not even his foreman, old Chencho, who had seen him grow up.

What do you want? He managed to say the broken voice. Nisson smiled. A smile that showed white and sharp teeth. My brother says that your land has water. water that has belonged to us since before your grandparents crossed the brave. But I came closer until Silas could smell the smoke in his hair, the dirt on his skin. I come for something else.

The young man backed away until he hit the barn door. The apche was one head taller. His shadow covered him entirely. I have no gold, said Silas. Nor will there be any cattle left. I don’t want your cattle. Nissoni raised her hand and touched Silas’s chest, right where the aunt was racing her heart. I want to know if what the old people say is true, that a man who has not been in a few months burns like a dry occote. Silas swallowed.

The woman’s finger burned through her shirt. My brother and his warriors come at dawn. Nisoni continued. They will burn everything. Unless unless what. She bowed. His breath was warm against Silas’s ear. Unless you spend the night with me. One night and at dawn I’ll leave. Your cows will live. Your life too.

The young man felt the world tilt. He remembered his fiancée’s face, the emptiness of his bed, the nights when he had touched himself thinking about what he never had. He looked at Nisoni, his eyes black as obsidian pits, his lips full, his body that seemed to have been carved by the gods of the desert. Why me?, he asked.

Because you are pure, she answered. And purity is a luxury that my people can no longer afford. Sulla closed his eyes. He thought of his father who had died defending this land. He thought of the laborers who depended on him. He thought of the fire that was already licking the beams of the stable. One night he said at last, but on one condition. Nissoni raised an eyebrow.

He speaks that it should be in the big house, not in the barn like animals. The Apache let out a laugh that made the windows shake. Done, virginito. Night fell like a black velvet blanket. Silas prepared the house with trembling hands, lit bait candles, took out the wine he kept for weddings that never came, spread out the woolen quilt that his mother had woven.

Nisson watched him from the doorway, arms folded, crow feather swaying in the breeze. When everything was ready, she entered, closed the door with her foot. The lock sounded like a sentence. Take off your clothes, he ordered. Silas obeyed. Every garment that fell was a year of solitude.

When he was naked, Nissoni scanned it with his eyes like a wolf to its prey. Come. He took one step, then another. His knees were shaking. The Apache stripped off her vest. Underneath it was wearing nothing. Her breasts were firm, her nipples dark like juniper fences. Sulla felt the blood leave his brain. “Don’t touch me yet,” she said.

“Look at me first.” And Silas looked. He looked at the tattoo of the snake that coiled from his navel to his thigh. He looked at the scar across his side. I remember a battle. He looked at the strength of his arms capable of breaking a bull’s neck. Nissoni approached. His hands were rough, calloused from handling the bow and spear.

He touched Silas’ chest, went down his belly, stopped just before reaching where the most was burning. Six months, he whispered. It feels, right? Silas nodded. I couldn’t speak. She pushed him onto the bed. They fell together, the feather mattress sinking under their weight. Nissoni stood on top of him, his knees on either side of Silas’s hips.

He could feel the warmth of her sex, barely separated by a thin layer of air. “Tell me your full name,” she asked. “Silas, Silas Macalister. Silas,” Nissony repeated, savoring the word. “In my language it would be Sulla. The one who waits appropriate. She lowered her head and kissed him. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a bite, an invasion. Silas groaned against his mouth.

His hands, without permission, went up to touch the Apach’s back, the muscles that moved like wires under the skin. Nissoni stepped aside for a moment. Don’t worry, Sila, the night is long. and it was. First he explored it with his hands, every inch of his virgin body, every place where he had never been touched.

Sulla writhed under his fingers, pleasure mingled with shame. When she lowered her head and took his member in her mouth, he thought she was going to die. He shouted his name, clung to the sheets, felt the world dissolve into white sparks. But Nissony wouldn’t let it end. she got up, took off her skirt and sat on it.

His eyes shone in the gloom. Now he said, look me in the eyes. Silas obeyed. He saw in them the desert, the moon, death, and life. It gave its own reflection, small and trembling. Nissoni slowly sank. Sulla felt that he was being torn in two, that he was filled with liquid fire. She began to move first slowly, then with the strength of a runaway horse.

The bed creaked, the candles flickered, the world was reduced to that point of union where two bodies became one. Hours later, when the moon was high, Nissoni stepped aside. Silas lay exhausted, his chest rising and falling like bellows. She dressed in silence, picked up her raven feather. “He already asked the hoarse voice.

One night,” she replied, “I kept my word.” Sulla sat up. Something in his chest was twisting. “And your brother will come at dawn?” Nisson stopped at the door. My brother died three moons ago. He was killed by the rural Enjanos. I came alone. Sulla felt the ground open up beneath him. So all this he wanted to know, she said, if this land was worth saving, if the man who worked it was worthy of it.

He approached, touched her cheek with a tenderness that contrasted with everything that had gone before. You are, Sulla, but the earth belongs to no one, we only take care of it while we live. Silas wanted to say something, but she was already on the threshold. Keep this, Nison said, dropping something on the bed. It was the crow’s feather.

When Sulla went out into the courtyard, the sky was beginning to lighten. There was no smoke, no warriors, just the desert wind, which carried away the smell of sex and smoke from unlit candles. In the distance, a tall figure was walking towards the horizon. Not even Sony looked back. Silas pressed the pen to his chest. For the first time in 6 months he didn’t feel empty.

At the ranch, the laborers found the boss sitting on the porch with a smile they didn’t understand. The stable was intact. The cows were mooing calmly. Chencho, the foreman, approached. All right, boss. Silas looked out over the desert, where Nisson’s figure was now only a black dot. All right, Chencho, better than ever.

And in his pocket, the crow’s feather seemed to weigh more than all the gold in the world, because a few nights, just one, can change the course of a life. And Salas McAllister, the little virgin of the Las Animas ranch, was no longer the same man who had ridden to his ranch the day before. Now it was Sulla, the one who had waited and been found.