Finding himself the sole survivor of the Bronson family after the night of terror on Loco Ridge, Andy Bronson must face the demons that plague his life. Trying to prove his love for Rose Dander, he alienates himself from the very people who would claim him as their son. The modern West, complete with cattle rustlers, heroes, and murderers, fills this fast moving story with suspense, love, intrigue, and humor. A compelling must read sequel to TERROR ON LOCO RIDGE.

Growing Up Bronson

Or Andy's Story - A Sequel to Terror on Loco RidgeBy Della May Olson

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Della May Olson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-6871-1

Chapter One

I was going on fourteen years old the year my sister Jeanine was murdered, taking innocence with her, back in the early fifties in Central Montana. The newspapers called it the day of terror on Loco Ridge, but to them terror was only a descriptive noun used to name murder and mayhem. Terror cannot be confined to the front page of a newspaper, or to a day. Its voracious tentacles can choke and strangle its victims for weeks, months, even years.

Most of the my terror occurs in my dreams in the middle of the night when I am too afraid to scream for fear of waking my adoptive parents, and being sent to Idaho with my sister Joanne. Joanne and Jeanine were identical twins. We were Bronson's. There were four of us; Matthew, Joanne, Jeanine, and myself, Andrew Michael Bronson. Our parents were Axel Bronson, and Sylvia Bronson. Axel got his name from his mother's side of the family. They were the Axelrod's and no one wanted to be an Axelrod. They were a pox on the wealthy ranchers of the Snowy Mountains. My father wanted to be a Newman. The Newman's had it all; prestige, wealth, security.

In the mornings, after one of my nightmares, my bed is wet from the sweat that pours from the faucets of fear in my body, while I lay trembling like the leaves on a quaking aspen tree when there is no wind. It is not my bed, but Jack's bed. Jack was killed at the same time as my sister Jeanine. Murdered is a better word for it. Shot point blank in the chest with a shot gun. Opening my eyes in the night is paramount to seeing Jack, or the ghost of Jack, standing at the foot of the bed pointing his finger at me. Surrounding Jack are the pigs, their eyes shining fiery red, with saliva dripping from their bloody snouts. So I keep my eyes shut until I feel the morning sun warm on my face and I have to face another day.

My daytime nightmares are not much better. I have to deal with a father who is not my father, but a man who grudgingly took me in at the insistence of his wife. John and Abigail Newman are their names. Their daughter, Judith, has already written a story about what happened on that terrible night, but she is a Newman. She has no idea what it is like to be a Bronson.

I am the only Bronson left. It would be better if I had died, too.

After one of my nightmares, my new mother tells my new father that the bed is wet because I am a boy and didn't he remember that boys had wet dreams. I guess it satisfied him for he never said anything more about it. But she knew. She would take me in her arms and stroke my hair and call me her dear boy until I could force myself to smile and get on with the day.

Have you ever tried to function after a sleepless night? It is like the demons have conspired to drag you down with them, especially in school. My mind was so numb I could not think. Socially, I was a dud. No wonder my friends quit being my friends. I didn't blame them. I did not like me either. I flunked the eighth grade.

I thought my teacher would be more understanding. Teachers are supposed to be like that, but I think she freaked out every time she looked at me, and only thought about all those dead bodies. Stories in a small community seem to stick to the participants like toilet paper stuck in the seat of your pants and the further you go, the longer and better the tale gets. At least that's how it goes in the foothills of the Snowy Mountains. The Snowies are southeast of Lewistown, Montana. They are gorgeous and beautiful and once you have lived close to them, you would not want to live anywhere else. At least that is what I was told growing up.

It was not easy growing up Bronson.

Chapter Two

Probably the most exciting thing my sisters, Matthew and I did as children was to sail our hand carved boats down Crazy Creek, from Bronsonland to Newmanville. Crazy Creek had its birth high up on the mountain called Loco Ridge. It danced its way down off the mountain, over boulders and under green bowers of hawthorn, willows, and chokecherry bushes, making a secret habitat for the creatures that called it home. Crazy Creek bisected the bridgeless road into our yard. When there was heavy spring run off or torrential rains, the creek would be too deep to ford and we were trapped at home. But we didn't mind. We never went anywhere anyhow.

After Crazy Creek crossed the road and went by our garden it meandered down to the Newman ranch. My dad, Axel Bronson fenced off that section of the creek with heavy woven hog wire, making an elongated pig run with a creek running through it that reached the boundary of the Newman's magnificent domain. A domain that my father claimed was stolen from him. Pa got the wire from a neighbor just north of us who once ran sheep, and was tearing down his old woven wire fence to put up barbed wire. Pa helped tear down the old fence, and Mr. Kittridge gave him the hog wire for pay. It was the beginning of the end for us, but we did not know it.

The difference between the Newman's place and our place was like night and day, even though they were only a half mile a way if you followed the pig run. It was hard to explain. We lived on the same mountain, with the same soil, water, and sky overhead, but not the same when it came to wealth and social standing. My dad hated all the Newman's except their grandpa, Cloud Newman. Pa acted like Mr. Cloud was either God, or at least his own father. Mr. Cloud Newman always carried Tootsie Rolls or lollypops in his pocket for us kids when he stopped by. When Christmas came he brought us a whole box of Hershey Bars. We had to hide them so Pa wouldn't find them and keep them all for himself. We liked Grandpa Cloud. I would have been glad to have him for my real grandpa, but that meant he would have to be Pa's real father. Mama said that wasn't so. Mama knew the most, but Pa hit the hardest, so we usually did not argue with him.

As I was saying, it was kind of a contest to see who could make the best boat and race it down the creek through the pig run. Judith Newman, her brother, Jack, and my siblings, namely, Matthew, Jeanine and Joanne were the contestants. I was the youngest of the lot and sometimes they would not let me play, which made me mad and I howled at the top of my lungs until they relented. Judith and Matthew were twelve years old. Jack was two years younger. My twin sisters were nine and I was only four, going on five.

Judith got it in her head to give us all Indian names. You see, her great grandmother was pure blood Blackfoot Indian. Judith called herself Sun Flower and Jack was Loco Weed. Jeanine and Joanne were Moonbeam and Star Child. Matthew was a poor sport and wouldn't be anything less than Chief Sitting Cow. I was Poco, whatever that meant.

One day I heard Sun Flower and Chief Sitting Cow giggling together. Apparently Matthew was sending secret notes to Judith on his boat and she picked them up at her end of the pig run where the fence halted their progress. She returned Matthew's boat when she came to visit. I think they were love notes. It made me sick just thinking about it.

The pig run was our favorite place to play. Besides the boats, we would lasso the pigs and ride them. Back then we only had two old sows and they were pretty tame. They liked to wallow in the mud along the creek. Most people think pigs are dirty, but they are not. The mud keeps them cool and helps keep the ticks and flies off their...