Sons of Thunder

By James Rollo

SONS OF THUNDER

Killing was nothing new for the Thunders'. They'd lived by the gun since the day they were old enough to pull the trigger...

A SIMPLER TIME WHEN FAMILY MEANT EVERYTHING

Pop Thunder had brought his boys up to know that nothing was free and that anything they wanted would have to be taken, one way or the other and consequences be damned. When that motto eventually gets Pop lynched for cattle rustling his boys' destinies are sealed, their path of revenge chosen for them as they take justice into their own hands to even the score the only way they knew how.

WHEN BLOOD WAS THICKER THAN WATER

Of course, there's always a price to be paid when vigilantes act above the law, and right or wrong, the Sons of Thunder will have to muster their diabolical wits to stay one step ahead of the law, and a trio of dangerous men determined to see them die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashbury Creek Media
• Release date: Nov 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540127341

Book preview

Sons of Thunder

James Rollo

Published by Ashbury Creek Media, 2016.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

About the Author

Also by James Rollo

Sons of Thunder

The Franciscan

Copyright © 2016 by James Rollo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.

Published by Ashbury Creek Media

Fonthill, ON

Book Design by Adam Geen

www.adamgeen.com

Cowboy Image from Bigstock

www.bigstockphoto.com

To my father,

whose only resemblance to a cowpoke,

was probably in his bow-legged gait.

1

Killing was nothing new for the Thunders’. They had lived by the gun since the day they were old enough to pull the trigger. Old man Thunder must shoulder the blame for his sons taking that long road to nowhere.

Boys, he would say, if you want anythin’ in this life, you gotta take it. Pop Thunder did, for more than thirty years then his luck ran out.

A cattle-drive made camp for the night, not ten miles from Thud ridge. Pop and the boys watched it pass through, and had been doggedly tailing it ever since. Patiently, they waited for the sun to slide out of sight.

The drovers had eaten a hearty meal before settling down to what they thought was a quiet, routine evening. Some gathered round a warm inviting fire, slurping on a hot brew and recollecting inconsequential tales of past cattle drives. Others lay stretched out on the hard open ground beneath a cloudless sky, resting from a hard day’s drive and not saying a word. Apart from the amiable cook cleaning up his field kitchen and a faint rustling of leaves fanned by a slight breeze, the quietness of night ruled the roost.

The first watch was already mounted and guarding the perimeter, comforted by a forgiving sky and little chance of rain. They looked forward to an uneventful watch and hopefully the opportunity of some shut-eye. If indeed that were their thoughts, they were about to be shattered.

For some unknown reason the horses began to fidget. Thunder poured himself a coffee and strolled over to calm the nervous mounts, an unexpected shiver ran down his spine; slurping the steamy brew he eyed his sons meticulously cleaning their hardware. Shrugging off a premonition of impending doom he glanced towards the ridge, contemplating the job at hand.

Pop Thunder was never an overpowering figure, lacking in stature, he more than made up for in sheer bravado. Three years short of sixty, he was now somewhat bent, perhaps a bit over the hill. His gun belt hung low, giving an outward impression that he was not one to be messed with, when in fact, his grease lightning draw had long deserted him.

The veteran renegade liked to feel he could still control any situation. His appearance reinforced an unenviable disposition. Overstretched suspenders draped a grubby shirt, supporting a faded, floppy pair of britches. A dust laden Stetson sat half-cocked on his almost bald brain box. Uncut bushy eyebrows and an unkempt facial growth seemed to age him considerably.

Sauntering over to confront the boys, his aching feet yearned to burst free from well-worn, tight fitting boots. Boots he had stolen years ago but couldn’t remember where.

It’s time I did some shopping, he jokingly mused.

Kneeling down beside his wayward off-springs, he went over what he thought was a well devised plan; the penalty for failure was unthinkable, having no desire to wear a vigilante’s necktie.

All seemed quiet when they moved in to take out some of the steers. Unknown to them, they had been seen tailing the herd; two of the cowhands bringing up the rear had stopped to pull a steer out of a sloppy mud hole and purely by chance saw the approach of riders dotting the horizon and kicking up a dust trail as they tracked the herd’s progress.

Luke Maynard was not enthused by the news; the thought of chasing down another stampede was something he would rather avoid. He had difficulty understanding his pursuers, with only a few riders, they couldn’t possibly be rustlers. What were they after? His tormented mind pondered.

The clear sky began to herald the shades of night but there would be no sleep for Maynard and his weary cowpokes. Instead of sitting idly by and giving the intruders an edge, maybe it would be better if we rode out to face them, thought a pensive Maynard. The high ground about a mile back seemed to offer an ideal spot for an ambush; leaving a few good men to guard the herd, he rode out with his reception committee kicking up his rear.

An hour later, Maynard began to doubt his wisdom. There was no sign of the strangers and his body began to stiffen from lack of movement. He was all for returning to camp when he heard the unmistakable sound of approaching riders. Patiently they waited for them to emerge from the gathering gloom before letting loose a volley of gunfire that shattered the still night air. A flash of gunfire lit the night sky, raking the bobbing shadows. The fledging wastrels managed to run the curtain of fire, but Pop Thunder was not so fortunate. A stray bullet brought his horse down, tossing him awkwardly to the ground. Kickin’ an’ cussin’ he was quickly overpowered and unceremoniously dragged toward the close lit camp.

Maynard was convinced that his troubles were not over; a quick search revealed the others had dodged the deathly hail. Maybe the old gunslinger might throw some light on this unusual situation. At any rate, he would ensure his captive was made secure; in due time he would turn him in to the sheriff at Copper Creek.

His men had other ideas, ignoring his vehement protest they tossed a rope over an overhanging bough and with little effort manhandled the struggling stranger into a crudely formed noose. In normal circumstances, Maynard’s orders would be followed without question. This occasion was different; his men had lost all sense of reason and were hell-bent on taking that vigilante road.

Maynard could see the folly of their intentions, their minds oblivious to the consequence of such a reckless, irreversible course of action, might suffice for the moment, but later would come the reckoning.

Losing control of the situation, he drew his gun and fired a single shot into the night air. This action momentarily stopped them until their misdirected reasoning again prevailed, despite his vocal protestations he was quickly overpowered and disarmed.

On picking himself up from the damp grass, he heard the distinctive slap followed by the neighing of a startled horse. The stranger’s mount leapt forward leaving the unfortunate raider dangling and writhing beneath a bending bough. Only when the twitching ceased did the rowdy bunch appear to lose their exuberance as the reality of their foul deed struck home.

Maynard walked away in disgust but not before disassociating himself from such an irresponsible act. The gravity of their lawlessness this night would surely return to haunt them.

With no one in pursuit, the Thunders’ decided to double back and find out what happened to the old man. They had been too busy fleeing the deadly hail to notice he was not with them, although quite anxious, they had not seen him fall, with that crumb of comfort they nosed once more toward dangerous ground.

Knowing the camp lay on the other side, the trio stopped short of the ridge. Quietly dismounting, they stealthily crept to the top of the rise. Unexpectedly, a new moon displayed its virgin glow, illuminating the tranquil scene. Their eyes rested on the limp, unmistakable figure of Pop, his still form swaying gently in the evening breeze. Tears trickled down the cracks of parched skins, revealing a moment of frailty that quickly faded. Sorrowful hardened faces turned to hatred, a hatred that would soon explode in revengeful fury.

They awoke to the sound of cattle on the move. Jake waited impatiently till the threat had passed before riding out and pulling up beneath the overhanging bough. He looked up at lifeless, colorless eyes, that wizened contorted face with its protruding tongue would haunt him for the rest of his days. In a moment of rage, they’d strung him up like a trophy hunter would do with his kill.

Silently vowing revenge, he drew his knife and cut him down. With pa lying prostrate across his mount, he grasped the reins and walked slowly over the ridge to join Lew and Chuck.

What now? asked Lew, sighing.

Jake looked at his brothers for a moment. Let’s go home, he choked.

Old man Thunder was laid to rest on a shady slope, overlooking what had once been a fine homestead. After his wife died, Pop seemed to lose interest in the place. He and the boys would ravage the countryside, sometimes staying away for days on end. Using the homestead as a refuge between jobs, they relished their respite and squandered their lucre on much revelry.

Jake pondered the past, wondering what it would have been like if ma had still been with them, perhaps they might have become respectable farmers. Shrugging off such inconsequential thoughts, he quickly focused on the reality of their situation.

Now that the old man was gone, Jake would lead his brothers. There was an account to settle and he would have his revenge. They had wasted much time, yet it was necessary to give Pop a proper send-off.

Mount up, he growled. We’re headin’ south.

Without saying a word, the younger Thunders looked at each other, there was no need to ask what big brother had in mind.

The sun hung low in a darkening sky, a slight breeze making a refreshing change from the earlier heat of the day. Jake figured they’d ride throughout the night and rest up part of the day. He wasn’t about to take a chance of being spotted a second time.

They sighted the herd the following afternoon, a cloud of dust swirled momentarily before dissipating in the hot stifling air. Cattle and riders had ceased their drive for the day. These last two days had seen them cover many uneventful miles and his outriders had not reported any sightings, the jaded ramrod hoped he’d seen the last of the raiders.

They made camp near a well-fed watering hole, a few trees and overhanging rocks offered some protection from a hot and dying sun. Jake took one last lingering look, before backing off.

We wait till nightfall, he whispered.

As if by providence, the moon slipped behind some overhanging clouds, giving them the cover they needed. Other than the occasional snort from a sleeping cowhand, all was quiet.

Six outriders were guarding the herd, three flanking each side. Whether they were actually keeping watch, or sleeping on the job, only they would know.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by rifle fire. With deadly accuracy, hot lead strafed the night air. Three outriders toppled to the ground, and were lost under a stampeding herd.

It took the better part of an hour to round up the herd. By then, the Thunders had vanished in the gathering gloom.

Luke Maynard, a slightly bent, rugged man, with aging features, his once comely visage had seen better days. Ravaged by time and exposure to the elements, his former chiseled countenance now transformed into a rotund pock-marked mush, sunken beady eyes had lost their luster. In other words, he was about as attractive as a skunk at a perfumery. A dust-laden Stetson covered a sparse head of hair. His portly exterior seemed to disguise his ability and aptitude for the job.

A ramrod for over fifteen years, he always thought himself capable of handling any situation. The incidents of the last few days, and their tragic results, however, began to instill a measure of doubt, perhaps he was getting too old for the job. Maybe it was time to hand the reins over to someone else, could he be losing his enthusiasm for the job?

Shrugging off such distracting thoughts, Luke ambled over to join the other hands. Crouching before the warmth of a blazing fire, he pondered over a mug of steaming black coffee.

Why would they gun down his men, stampede the herd, then vanish into the night without accomplishing anything? he asked.

If Maynard was expecting to hear a few choice words of wisdom, he was disappointed. His question was marked by an ominous silence. He suspected they were still mulling over their foul deed so he didn’t pursue it.

Luke had taken no part in the lynching of the old rustler, and had tried desperately to stop it. The awful reality of not being able to prevent his men taking the law into their own hands began to weigh heavily on his conscience. He was convinced that such lawlessness would not go unpunished.

Luke lay down on his bedroll, his head resting on his worn but rugged saddle. Although he had doubled the night watch, he reckoned they wouldn’t get much sleep. He placed his hardware beneath the blanket and felt a shade more secure.

2

The Thunders made camp about ten miles to the North. Jake sat alone, contemplating his next move. He had noticed the herd was Texas Longhorns. They obviously had been fattened on the rich northern prairies and were now being driven to the stockyard at Billings for shipment to the southern markets. If that were the case, there would be plenty of time to quench their thirst for revenge.

During the next few days, the Thunders carried out sporadic raids. The occasional stampede and a gradual thinning out of outriders began to tax the drovers. The phantom riders of the night seemed to have a free rein. Other than to stay alert, there was little that could be done to thwart the surprise onslaughts by the dauntless ghost riders.

Luke Maynard was worried, he could see his men were getting edgy; they could no longer control and effectively move the herd. If the situation remained unchecked, they would not be able to deliver on time. The concerned ramrod decided it was time he did something about it.

Copper Creek was about twenty miles to the East. If he was to succeed in getting the herd to Billings, it was necessary he ride there and hire some extra hands. Some of the drovers voiced their concerns at losing their ramrod at such a trying time; their immediate thought being the absence of Maynard would weaken their resolve.

Convinced he was doing the right thing, he rode off into the night, leaving the herd in the charge of Tex Forsythe, an able and experienced drover. Luke was confident that Tex would handle the job. All being well, they should meet up with them near Painted Rock.

The drive slowly inched on. Soon they would reach sight of the imposing stone mounds of Painted Rock. Tex was hopeful that Luke would bring much needed help.

Jake figured to hit them before they got that far.

The Horton’s had now joined Jake and his brothers. Ben and Will had lost a posse about three days back, accidentally stumbled on the Thunder camp during the night. The Horton brothers’ legacy was not a proud one, part of a lawless breed that cared only for their own well-being. Their disdain for the law and those who lived by it was evidenced by their refusal to conform to all that is good and morally right.

Jake had no trouble persuading the Hortons to join him. Notorious for taking what was not theirs, the prospect of sharing five hundred head of Longhorns whetted their appetite.

The next day brought the herd nearer to Kootenai canyon. They should reach it before nightfall, thought Tex. It was there they would wait for Luke.

The previous night had been a quiet one, giving rise to the hope that the gunmen had fled the scene for easier pickings along the trail.

Jake and his fellow scum watched the approach of a billowing dust cloud. They had circled the herd during the night, before heading south towards the canyon.

Now they lay in ambush near the entrance to the pass. Soon it would be time to strike.

Jake backed out of sight before lying down on a blanket. Yawning profusely, he stretched out his arms and lazily murmured. We take ‘em tonight.

A minute later, he was snoring like a hog.

He awoke to a cool, moonless night. Shivering slightly, he looked at Lew.

What’s up? he asked.

You were right, Lew replied. They’ve made camp ‘bout two miles north of the pass.

Good, beamed Jake. Here’s what we do.

Ben and Will, I need you to circle the herd and stampede them towards the pass. When the herd is safely through, we’ll move in and hit ‘em from both sides.

What about later? Ben queried.

Later, replied Jake, we pick up the herd, ride to Harding for more hands, then head across to Billings and split the dough.

Sounds fair enough, said Ben.

Yeah, added Will. I’ll go along with that.

Good, rasped Jake. Git goin’.

Jake watched them disappear from view. When the Horton brothers were out of sight, he knelt down beside his kin and said. Here’s how we really do it...

Ben and Will circled the herd unnoticed. The constant hoot from a watchful owl disturbed the still night air.

A warm glow from a crackling fire partially lit the camp, its dancing flame reflecting ghostly silhouettes on a nearby canvas shroud. A more relaxed atmosphere seemed to permeate the camp. Apart the usual