Growing up Bronson: Or Andy’S Story – a Sequel to Terror on Loco Ridge

By Della May Olson

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 29, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467059978

Della May Olson

Della May Olson grew up on a ranch in Montana schooled in the ‘code of the West’. From a two-room schoolhouse in Sun River, Montana, to graduating from Mesa Community College, in Mesa, Arizona , at the age of thirty-nine, as class Valedictorian, she never lost her love of horses, sports, poetry, drama, and writing. Her poetry, especially Christmas themed, has won her many awards. The main award being the love of family and friends as they perform her works. She has lived in Cottonwood, Arizona for the past forty-seven years. Married to her husband Merle for sixty-two years, they have four children, all living in Cottonwood, fifteen grandchildren, and forty-two great grandchildren. Humor and action are hallmarks of her stories and poetry. She believes in faith, hard work and miracles.

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Growing Up Bronson

SKU-000264969_Text.pdf

Or Andy’s Story –

A Sequel to Terror on Loco Ridge

Della May Olson

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2010 Della May Olson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 8/18/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4389-6871-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-5997-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009904861

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

PART II

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

PART III

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

About The Author

Growing Up Bronson

Thou Shalt Not Judge

I dedicate this book to Mike Jones, Ron Roberts, and Lori Olson, who have made my family complete.

Tomorrow today will be yesterday!

Today is a gift from yesterday; the present.

PART I

YESTERDAY

Yesterday Today was Tomorrow

Chapter 1

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 2

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 hides. They do not leave their feces just anywhere, like a cow does, but have a special dung heap where they do their business. They can’t help it if they smell to high heaven. I always marveled that something that smelled so bad on the outside, could taste so darned good on the inside. Bacon and pork chops are my favorite part of the pigs.

It was Jack’s idea that got us into trouble and made the pig run out of bounds for our games. He brought some fire crackers with him on a visit just before the 4th of July. We all thought it would be great fun to tie some on the tail of a pig and light them. It was hilarious. The poor old sow jumped over the moon so to speak. Pigs don’t usually get much air time, being stuck to the ground by short legs and a snout made for grubbing, but that poor old sow flew. She ended up on the opposite side of the creek and was still running when who should show up but Axel Bronson himself. Axel was my father. He was dog dirty, pig sucking mean.

What the heck do you scalawags think you are doing? he shouted while we choked on our laughter and wished a mountain would fall on us.

Jack and Judith made their get-away by running across the creek, shoes and all, following almost the same route the sow had taken. My dad hollered after them and screamed that the Newman brats were no longer welcome on Bronson property.

Matthew tried to take the blame for our stupid cruel joke on the pig, but Dad would not buy it. He knew where the firecrackers came from. But wanting us to learn a lesson, he whipped us with his leather cattle whip all the way back to the house. Matthew tried to stay behind Jeanine and Joanne as they ran, so the lashes from the whip would fall on him. Jeanine had me by the hand, pulling me along, and protecting me as best she could.

After that Sun Flower and Loco Weed, our Newman playmates, only came to play when Matthew tied a red flag on the willow tree down by the shed, letting them know that Dad had gone to town or somewhere. By then the Newman’s had been given ponies to ride and they could come and go quickly. Instead of riding pigs we now took turns riding the ponies. To drive to our house you had to turn off the main gravel road that went on down to the Newman’s, and come down a dirt road that dropped off a hill into our yard. Judith and Jack had plenty of time to high tail it down the creek once they saw Dad’s truck coming down the hill.

I don’t want my story to be about pigs, but pigs are what brought a semblance of prosperity to the Bronson’s, before they became our downfall. As long as I can remember my Dad worked nights at the gypsum mine, four miles down the road at a little settlement called Heath. Working in the mine at night gave him time to take care of the farm during the day, but it made him mean. At least that is what my mother blamed his ill temper on. Lack of sleep will do that to a person. I know that, now.

Then he decided to invest in hogs. I remember the day he put the stock rack on the big grain truck and put us kids in the back and we headed to Forest Grove, a few miles down the road past the Newman’s. A friend who worked with him in the mine had weaner pigs for sale, and when Dad bargained for twenty of them the man invited us to supper at his home. At Forest Grove we turned on to a dirt track that took us down to a deep coulee with a set of farm buildings in it that was way worse than our own. There were holes in the kitchen floor that you could look in and see the ground underneath. It looked to me like they deposited their trash in the holes and shoved it back under the floor for insulation, or some such. We had a supper of beans and corn bread, and it was good. They had three children of about our age and we had a rompin’ good time playing spin the bottle on top of the hay stack. We really laughed when the bottle pointed to Matthew and he had to kiss Susan Conner.

It was dark when we started for home. It was in June, but the nights in Montana are never warm enough to go without a jacket. Of course we had not brought any with us. Dad loaded the weaner pigs in the back of the truck and then he loaded us back there with the pigs. Mama protested that we would freeze to death riding back there without any coats, but Dad insisted it would make us tough. We were huddled together just behind the cab of the truck trying to keep warm out of the wind, but it was impossible. The twins were crying and carrying on. The little pigs were squealing and making an awful row. It was a terrible ride. Mama kept looking out the back window to see how we were doing. Finally she convinced Dad to stop and we all jumped into the cab of the truck. We four children piled on top of each other, but at least we were warm.

Instead of selling the barley that he raised on the flats above our hollow, he ground the grain for hog feed. In the fall when the pigs weighed close to two hundred pounds, Dad and Matthew loaded them up and took them to the stockyards in Lewistown to sell. Except for the four female pigs that he saved for breeding purposes, that is. That gave him six sows, but he still needed a boar.

With money in hand from the sale of the pigs, he quit his job in the mine. The family was overjoyed. Perhaps Dad would get enough sleep and not be so mean any more. We had all survived thrashings that were never earned. He had worn out several paddles and two of Mama’s pancake turners on our behinds. Once in awhile the pancake turner was used with the sharp edge doing the inflicting. That hurt. But not as much as being whacked on the head with the back edge of a table knife if we had to be disciplined during mealtime. One such whack was all it took to keep us in remembrance of our sins and turn us toward more righteous pursuits. We walked as though we were walking on eggs around our father. Unfortunately for us, meanness was too engrained in our father to be overcome by a normal quota of sleep. Meanness clung to him like a rain soaked garment. He could not shed it.

Once after Mama begged Dad for money to buy us new jackets to wear to school, she turned up with a black eye and a swollen jaw. She said she had run into the bedroom door, but not to worry, she would patch up our old jackets. I could not equate the bedroom door and patched jackets. I thought maybe she had broken the door when she ran into it and the money would have to go for a new door. I even sneaked into her bedroom, which was forbidden territory, to examine the door. It seemed to be none the worse for wear. I loved my mother very much and was gladly willing to wear a patched jacket if it would make her eye better. I was going to be in the first grade and was very naïve. I did not know the demons that drove my father.

Chapter 3

My mother’s name was Sylvia Steparonich before she married Dad. Her parents had both come from Poland and they had a small farm out by Danvers on the other side of Lewistown. She was an only child. She and Dad met at a dance in the community hall at Brooks.

The way she told the story; she had made a new skirt to wear to the dance, but did not have time to sew a button on it and make a buttonhole, so she used a safety pin to hold the skirt together. My pa, a tall, handsome, blonde man with blue eyes, and a cheerful smile asked her to be his partner in a square dance. She was so excited to be asked to dance that she readily accepted, forgetting that the only thing between her and disaster was a safety pin. It did not matter that they had never met. The two man band began playing ‘Turkey in the Straw’, and the caller began calling the ‘Texas Star’. In the middle of the square dance the four couples join together in the center of the square. The girls put their arms across the men’s shoulders and the men hold the girls by the waist. The men swing the girls off their feet as they stomp around together in the circle. While Mom was high in the air the safety pin holding her skirt snapped undone and the skirt slid off and flew into the next square. The whole room roared with laughter. There was nothing Mom could do but run outside and hide.

Dad picked up the skirt and went outside to find her. He finally discovered her in the outhouse and said he would not leave until she came out and got dressed. She finally came out and Dad grabbed her and kissed her. They decided right then and there that losing the skirt was a sign they should get married. Why else would she undress before him and a room full of people? You figure.

When they were married Dad continued to work at the Farmers Elevator in Lewistown, loading and unloading trucks full of wheat and barley, along with being the chief cleanup man. It was here that Cloud Newman found him and offered to sell him the place in the hollow of Loco Ridge, where we lived until that infamous day known as the Terror on Loco Ridge. Mr. Newman explained there were too many acres being cultivated on that old homestead place, and he and his son John Newman preferred raising cattle to being dirt farmers. The Newman’s had bought the place dirt cheap from a family who had gone under in the first great depression. Cloud made the terms so agreeable that Axel Bronson, my dad, could not refuse.

Cloud Newman wanted no down payment and gave us thirty years to pay off the property. His wife Gertrude, who everyone knew held the purse strings to the Newman fortune, insisted, however, that the land came with ten per cent interest attached to the deal. There was never a stingier, meaner woman than Gertrude Newman. Or at least that is what I heard my dad say more than once. I wondered if their meanness was contagious and it rubbed off on each other.

Children are always placed in a position to believe and follow the lead of their parents. It is a fact of life. They are prisoners of their parent’s idiosyncrasies and prejudices, and they do not know it. Sometimes it takes a lifetime to visualize the faults of the parents in themselves. Sometimes never. One thing I have learned is that I cannot excuse myself because of them.

When my Grandma Steparonich saw the condition of the run down buildings where her daughter and grandchildren were to live, she told Axel he could not take her daughter to such a place. Axel just laughed. They argued for an hour, but Grandma lost. Her final answer to him was that she would buy some paint with which to paint the house, inside and