Thunder Ridge

By JR Stokes

Who would shoot Hugh Nady? No town folks had knew specially Sheriff John Hardy. Why would anyone kill a likeable, gentle gun shop owner. The man extended credit to those when needed; a helping hand to a woman crossing dirt rutted Main Street or comforting a child who’d skinned their knee. That is until Hardy discovers thousands of dollars, fancy clothes and deeded ownership in western and eastern lands tucked away in the man’s garment chest and gun store safe.
To the inhabitants’ of Thunder Ridge Hugh Nady appeared to fancy a young woman rancher, Deni Butler, and Deni Butler had questioned Hugh Nady’s intent behind the man’s expression of feelings. Frank Paschal had the answers but he wasn’t talking to anyone . . . and a saloon gal who’d opened her crib and heart to the stranger wound up dead on the bank of the Little Cuchara Creek. There was more . . . a lot more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JR Stokes
• Release date: Dec 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989862158

JR Stokes

JR Stokes is a retired teacher, professor and a life-long history student of south-western culture. He and his wife live in Chandler, AZ. They have two grown daughters – one living in Seattle and one living in the San Francisco Bay Area and two grandchildren – Gianna, a recent graduate of University of Arizona and Anthony now a sophomore residing at the University of Arizona.

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Ref_Table of Contents

The Killing

Chapter 1 Hugh Nady

Chapter 2 Miss Deni Butler

Chapter 3 Finding Hugh Nady

Chapter 4 Twin Rivers

Chapter 5 Butler's Rest

Chapter 6 The Western Hotel

Chapter 7 Rachael

Chapter 8 Discovery

Chapter 9 Moving Nady's Fortune

Chapter 10 The Ride Back to Butler's Rest

Chapter 11 Nadine

Chapter 12 Thunder Ridge Trail

Chapter 13 Josie

Chapter 14 Nady’s Funeral

Chapter 15 Confronting a Killer

Chapter 16 One Step Forward, Two Back

Chapter 17 Tommy Werker

Chapter 18 Amos an’ Jeb

Chapter 19 Judge Teller

Chapter 20 Failed Revenge

Epilogue

Ref_Afterthoughts

Ref_Author

Ref_Excerpt from next Story

Ref_Connect on Line

Ref_Also By JR Stokes

Ref_End Notes

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The Killing

______________________________________________________

Southern Colorado Territory

25 September 1875

A Tuesday

The gunman waited, knelt behind a thick fallen trunk of a rotting Pine, watched as a lone trail rider drifted slowly in and out of focus some two hundred yards ahead below Thunder Ridge. He had knelt without thought in loose, splintered shale and now the sharpness had become uncomfortable. He shifted his bulky weight and within minutes, shifted again, his aging knee forcing a searching a second time for a softer patch of dirt. The sun was noon high, to his left, south, its reflection thinning shadows off a higher peaked ridge behind him highlighting the trail and lone oncoming rider. The gunman’s steel-Gray eyes pinched shut, held a half dozen heart clicks before his forty-three year old eyes snapped open, blinked quickly, searching for focus on the oncoming lone rider. "Nady", he murmured, remembering the rider’s sloped shoulders an’ how the man sat a horse.

The gunman shifted a third time, now satisfied, leaned in hard against the Pine’s knarly bark, balancing then leveling his rifle. The rider weaved between the high rock crest bordering a twist of the narrow trail, the horse following the paths weaving flow.

The trail cut below a series of the vertical rock peaks of the higher Thunder Ridge before it dropped to a low edge of Aspens blanketing the rider’s drift from view. The single high ridge trail flowed south from Twin Rivers, a small burgeoning town in southern Colorado Territory; the trail flowed southerly below Thunder Ridge ending in a small grassy valley known to town folks and surrounding ranchers as 'Butler's Rest'. It was the loan rider’s destination though he would never reach it today. The gunman’s plan: kill the rider then move on to the woman’s ranch - Butler’s Rest - and wait, believing that when the woman was told of the rider’s demise, would panic and run to where rider had hidden his money, money due the gunman for past services. Two miles from town, the kill shot would not be heard. And, to the ranch, it would sound as distant thunder along the high ridge.

With summer ending and October ready to arrive, the surrounding hills carried the hot, dry scent of Pine, of gnarled and twisted low growth juniper and of water-starved prairie sage, all blending into the sweet, dry smell of summer. The torrid months of summer’s heat had lessened some but soon would yield to winter’s cold and wet. The gunman preferred cooler weather but today there was a job that needed doing then he’d headed north.

He was a big man, six one and carried his two hundred pounds with a sinewy, muscular look as a man of younger years would. He was not handsome, never cared much about it, though he seemed to attract a certain type of women drawn to his hawkish stare and rugged image. He didn’t much care one way or another about women, any of them. Believed their worth was valued in pleasing him, doing his cooking and keeping his room when he had one. Other than that, there was little need to talk to them.

On his hip the weapon of choice, a Smith .38 with old wood handles; he rode it low off his right hip, tied just above the knee. His rifle used shot of a newer lead, a .44 slug, chambered, waiting, as he now waited for the trail rider. With Butler’s Rest being the rider’s destination, the rider would stay the trail through the next rise before turning downward into a lower corpse of Aspens that led to the woman’s ranch. He sighted in on the rider, watched sunlight filter through as the rider passed under a high canopy of Mountain Alder. The gunman shifted the rifle’s stock against his cheek and touched the trigger softly.

__________

Whoa boy, Hugh Nady muttered pulling back on the reins. Rest your feet a moment Gray while I cool myself in this shade and admire this magnificent view. The ‘magnificent view’ was Butler's Rest, and the stretching valley to the west, bumping up against the low Greenhorn Mountains. And behind them the distant Santa de Cristo Mountains of Southern Colorado haloed in the last of summer haze.

The gunman was patience. The rider would show once more before finally dipping down the last time. Patience Frank . . . patience. Confidence and patience was a hard requirement to learn when hired to kill another man. This time . . . different twist though. The employer had become the hunted.

A year earlier, this gun for hire did what he’d been paid to do, kill a man Nady had wanted dead. With the job done the gunman returned to Denver only to find that Hugh Nady had disappeared. For twelve months he traveled, looking for his chiseling employer and old partner, and now the bastard was finally in his sights. He’d watched Nady in Twin Rivers two days; watching the man remembering his old habits, his movements around others, even curious of the time spent in his hotel room, and even of that damn gray horse of his; the man’s habits hadn’t shifted much in the past year. There was small variation with his attention to the woman at Butler’s Rest and the gunman knew his reason. Now, with Nady in his sights, the taste of revenge would be sweet and Nady’s wealth in his grasp, revenge would taste even sweeter!

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KABOOOOMMMM!!!

Both Jeb Single and Amos Cartwright’s heads whipped up in unison at the rifle’s report. Seconds later both sixty-year-olds were head first in a cluster of scrub juniper. Behind them Single’s horse nickered, scuffing at a blanket of Pine needles beneath her, whinnied again, then settled herself down after a rump butt from her smaller mustang companion.

The day was special to the two old war pards. The last days of summer were here and their revered pastime of bird watching would soon pass quickly in another month. Their secluded old rock hideaway sat above Thunder Ridge Trail offering the best views of the Greenhorns, in their opinion. A serene view of beauty, a mid day meal of jerk, biscuits an’ whisky, then watching with delight as little birds buzzed every flower nearby. Amos motioned toward the lone rider, thinking he recognized the gray gelding, then, that rifle’s report erupted their peace. Seconds later the two old plug chewers had decorated a nearby juniper bush wanting nothing to do with what had just happened. Slow to recover from the sudden need to lie down case more lead headed in their direction. Seconds passed then . . .

KABOOOOMMMM!!!

Damn Jeb. There’s another. You see ‘m? Think he’s shoot’n at us?

I don’t know . . . mebbe . . . I guess.

You guess? Jeb, you see that shooter or not?

I was kinda busy acquaint’n myself with this here juniper bush Amos. Besides, I was save’n our whisky from spill’n and water’n these exotic plants were lay’n in. Gol ‘o mighty. Take a peek Amos. I kan’t be do’n everything for us. Amos shook his head when hearing Jeb’s words.

The shooter Jeb, the shooter . . . jeeze . . . follow me here will ya. His tone becoming a bit dispassionate and impersonal.

Yeah, sure.

Not sure sum times Jeb which way your conversations try’n to go. Jeb pulled his high brim hat off, mopping the inside with his bandana, then turned the rag toward his forehead before shifting his old leathery face and stared back at Amos.

Mebbe I seen ‘em I said. Didn’t catch a good peek ‘till I heard that report come from over there. Think he shot that Nady fella we seen rid’n a moment ago. His Gray wasn it

Takes you a lot’a words to say noth’n sometimes.

Think that rider’s Nady, Amos. That hoss stands out more ‘n the rider though. Mebbe that fella huh.

See, there you go again. You talk’n of recognizing the hoss or rider or the shooter Jeb?

I’m gona look again Amos. You sure can be infurat’n at times.

Jeez Jeb. That shooter might be shoot’n us next if he knows we is here. Besides, ain’t our fight is it? Jeb, ignoring his cautious friend’s advice, raised up on both elbows then, not being satisfied with the view, scooted onto a knee for a better look back at the ridgeline. What’a ya see Jeb? Amos whispered.

Get up here next to me Amos an’ look see. There, see that Bay head’n down off the trail. I think it’s that strange fella’s Bay . . . see? ‘Member yesterday when I mentioned that hoss? That critter belongs to that ugly cuss been drink’n at ‘Jim’s, I think so anyway. Amos pulled himself to his knees seconds before the gunman swung onto the Bay, a long rifle in his left hand as the Bay headed down hill toward a string of Mountain Alders. Amos got a knee under him, coming up alongside Jeb.

Ah crips sake Jeb . . . yor right. Its that hombre sit’n nights at Jims ain’t it . . . same one who’s been didle’n Rosie too. Pretty shor huh, right Jeb?

What ‘bout that other fella he was shoot’n at? Still think it’s that Nady fella?

Recognize the gray more ‘n him. You?

Yeah. Look . . . see . . . that Bay’s head’n down to check on that rider. No deer up here is there Amos? No need fer that kinda shoot’n huh.

Nope . . . Maybe a cat’a sum kind though. Not the two-legged kind The two old warriors from the War of Insurrection watched as the white-socked Bay dropped from sight into the shadows of the tree canopy.

So much for bird watch’n today huh Jeb. Probably scared the tar outa them little birdies huh Jeb.

Yeah . . . dagnabit! Some minutes later a pistol shot echoed through the tree canopy.

--- oo0oo ---

Return to Beginning

Hugh Nady

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Chapter One

Thunder Ridge Trail

Hugh Nady rode ramrod-straight. His saddle, Mexican-tooled leather, adorned in silver Conchos were of great pride to the man. The early heat of Indian summer seemed to push Nady along a little quicker to Butler’s Rest. Hugh was a man of middle years, less than six feet, willowy yet still muscular while remaining lean. His mustache was thin, black and well-trimmed as many men wore in warmer climates. His hazel eyes showed a welcoming interest to their viewer. The town folks knew Nady as a man of good character and gentleness, pleasant to all he met and one to help another as he could. Light filtered between the Alders, refreshing the air and cooling the lower heat rising off the desert floor. Nady paused allowing the breeze to push around him.

Nady purchased twin River’s gunsmith shop near ten months earlier from a man with nothing holding him to the town any longer. Some folks wondered how this new owner would make a living in that kind of business; ‘specially in a town like Twin Rivers where nothing bad ever happened except maybe some fist fight between two ranch boys dueling for the heart of a young maturing girl.

Hugh was a handsome figure when astride his Grulla, a gray ghost of a horse some men called the animal. Nady’s rigging displayed silver inlays of Mexican handicraft and when against the Grulla’s hide, the silver flashed bolder than other metal finery, shining deeper against the powdery gray hide of the horse. No one really knew Hugh Nady though some called him a ‘friend’. He moved further under the canopy of Alders, a wisp of breeze following his move.

He just showed up at Smilin’ Jim’s one day, having arrived on that gray horse from somewhere unknown. If you were to ask those at the time some would have said a gambling man or a drummer for some worthless snake oil one could ill afford or really need. He was neither, but no one knew that. No one knew Hugh Nady’s past history as much as the lone gunman waiting patiently behind the downed Pine.

Today, from town, Nady had headed southwest moving the Grulla up toward the high ridge trail, a slower path but one of immense beauty to him. He had a difficult mission to complete today but one he hoped would turn pleasant for he and Miss Deni Butler. He had dressed for the occasion in one of his finer suits, more than was his normal custom around town. This was clothing town folks had not seen before. A black swallowtail broadcloth, a stiff white shirt, a black string tie and a sharp, wide-flat brim black Stetson; his highly polished knee-high boots were adorned with tooled silver dollar size spurs. His pants tucked neatly into those high rise boots.

Today, he had a single purpose for this ride to Butler’s Rest. Today he carried an upbeat tune in his heart. Today he had planned to tell Deni Butler the story of who he was. Deni, young, attractive, an’ available for some young man’s dreams. He wanted to be there for her when the time came for choosing her man. She would rely on his judgment, of course, when offered. He had hoped she would.

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The mid-day seemed hotter than usual for the end of September and more than Nady had expected. The low murmuring breeze from the moment before suddenly turned gusty, lifting the Alder’s yellowing leaves into a swirling dance, then, just as quickly, the gust died allowing the color of fall to drift slowly earthward. Nady raised his head, looked toward the ridge then through the corpse of fall colors showing across the lower valley. The Fall season was officially four days old but summer still gripped the waning week of September.

Nady favored this time of year. The days different than some east coast states or Nevada or Arizona Territory. Here were comfortably warm days and cool nights crisp enough for a comforter’s warmth or that of a well-proportioned woman . . . like Deni would be for some deserving young man. I’ll feel better once she’s been told, nodding soberly to his own thoughts. He would offer her a better, gentler life than had been possible during her growing years. He owed it to her. Had owed her for the past twenty years.

It was a short ride to the small ranch; just under an hour from town; an easy, comfortable ride, filled with changing landscape attractive for this part of rock country. High rock-crested ridges of the westerly Sangre de Cristo Mountains, ridges high as ten thousand feet or more and covered with scattered Piñon, Ridge Pine, Aspens and majestic Oak sitting some distance west.

The Greenhorn Mountains framed the northwesterly backdrop of Butler's Rest and Nady sat, looking across the valley at those Greenhorns from under the canopy of Alder, admiring the panorama surrounding him. He’d been there, through those high gaps in the Greenhorns and beyond. He’d known of the Butler ranch years before . . . been to this very spot before too . . . across the merciless sandy land to the northerly border fence of scrub juniper. Nearer the ranch, were scattered creosote and rabbit brush, attractive if you took the time to observe each but between here and there were only the empty spaces of desert.

Nady enjoyed the higher ridgeline of Thunder Ridge trail, its dips and turns before dropping a rider toward the flowing waters of the Huerfano Riveri and its twin the Cucharas River, both flowing southwest from the town of Twin Rivers. It was a ride Nady often took for its beauty and solitude. Sometimes, he took target practice to keep his hand active and his weapons’ honed should the need arise. Above the Alders, the sun was near its zenith but sat lower in autumn’s southern blue sky. He gave the gray his feet once again, his thoughts wandering ahead to seeing Deni and sharing his story.

He could picture her face as he opened the little box holding the emerald band . . . confident she would understand, accept his story and his generous offer. She had hinted since August she might favor him but his story would change her thinking. After accepting his gift, perhaps she would join him in celebration with a spirited touch of whisky, maybe even a gentle hug. Later, he hoped to leave the ranch, return to town and open his doors for business at the usual hour of three-thirty, a happy man for lightening his burden of the past . . . somewhat.

Sliding from under the tree’s coolness, the day’s warmth crossed his face again. He’d noticed the chips of granite on previous trips through this pass. Thought of all those riders coming before him, and those that would come after. Thoughts of earlier travelers, of natives using the granite chips for arrowheads or tomahawks, of them using the cold winter months to sharpen them into weapons for protection or their hunt. So many came before him . . . so many would come afterwards, neither knowing the other but all enjoying this magnificent mountain view.

Hugh felt a pinch in his shoulder, just below the collarbone. His hand slid quickly under the lapel of his coat rubbing the sting, wondering what its cause. He felt a warming crawl rise upwards through his neck. Held his fingers against the sting, rubbing more, trying to rid the uncomfortable feeling away. Lifting his hand from inside his coat, he looked at the red, sticky wetness of blood on his fingertips. He then heard the rifle’s report.

Involuntarily, he pulled hard on the gray’s reins. The warmth now reaching higher on his neck, up his left side nearing his ear. In that brief second of feeling the warmth climb, he knew he was shot. He leaned forward near the right side of the gray’s thick neck to avoid; then heard the whistle of lead rustle overhead through the Alders, then the second report. The horse remained calm, not alarmed by the sudden hard pull of metal against its teeth, or his rider’s quick movement downward alongside its neck.

Hugh dropped his right hand down, tight to the pommel, the reins lightly in his left. He stayed with the horse’s swinging movement to the right, holding pommel and rein, not wanting to fall, but knowing he might at any moment. He pulled hard again at the reins, hard right,