Split Trails Ranch

We wanted her to attend college, but she asked us to let her wait two more years, so she and Sabrina could go together. They were closer than any blood sisters I'd ever met. They were a hit when they went back East. Then one dandy got a little too fresh and found a derringer shoved into his ribs with a really angry young woman asking if he still thought touching her inappropriately was a good idea. He was crying before Jess let him go.

Our gold mine finally stopped being viable to operate, but we'd taken out enough ore that my share came to almost a million dollars. I was incredibly wealthy for the time. No one ever knew, though, because I never flashed it. I did use part of the money to buy as much land as I could get my hands on. I had four girls and three boys by then, and I wanted them all to have a legacy and a good sized ranch if they chose that for their life work.

Yes, Claire gave me three boys before she stopped, her body saying 'Enough!'

By then, the twins were old enough to be riding the offspring of Sweetie and Sugar, Sabrina's mare. They each carried a pistol, though they were .22's. Jess used to laugh at their 'toy' guns, but the land was much more settled by then, and both carried shotguns. Jess and Sabrina made them practice until they were above average.

We had a writer come through about six years after the fighting, and he listened spellbound to the hands that had been there tell of the fights for the house, the bathhouse, and the box canyon. The next year there was a series of dime novels featuring the 'Steele' women and girls, as well as two that featured the 'Man Of Steel", who singlehandedly defeated a horde of desperados, saving his daughter and fifty hostages from the dastardly bandits. The ladies bought them all, laughing hysterically at some of the descriptions. A journalist came out once, in 1901, and interviewed all of us. We showed him the old bathhouse, even though it wasn't the original, while Sabrina and Jess told him the story. Claire and Paris talked about the defense of the house, showing him bulletholes that were still in some of the trunks and wardrobes they had used a shielding. Three of the hands and the now retired Colonel who had been a lieutenant at the time showed him the box canyon, with the ruins of the wall and the partially caved in tunnel. He nearly jumped out of his skin when they took him down the trail we had followed to finish the gang and came onto a skull. Then one of them took him a few miles down the road, to the "Outlaw Graveyard."

He wrote a series of articles about it, syndicated throughout the country. We had so many visitors we had to put a gate up and warning signs.

...

I sighed when we stopped, relaxing my white knuckled grip from the seat. It was 1917, and I was 58 years old. If I lived to be a thousand, I'd never get used to motorized vehicles. We were in a brand new Model TT truck, this century's equivalent of a buckboard, I guess. We ordered it with the cab, and the bed was manufactured locally. It could literally haul a ton, which made it much more efficient than any wagon we owned. My grandson was driving, the oldest child of my middle son. We had stopped so he could check the radiator, concerned that we were losing water. Satisfied we were still good, he dropped back into the seat, enjoying the shade. Suddenly he became aware of where he was. The state had come out and put up a marker, much to my disgust.

THIS MARKER IS PLACED ON THE SITE OF THE 'OUTLAW'S GRAVEYARD'. FIFTEEN MEN WHO DIED AT THE HANDS OF WOMEN AND CHILDREN LIE HERE, INCUDING EIGHT WHO WERE KILLED BY TWO GIRLS AGED 13 AND 11.

It went on to give the six known names, marking the rest as 'unknown'. It pissed me off every time I went by and I'd lobbied the state to take it down and lost. They didn't even have the number right. There were eighteen in that mass grave. Claire and the girls still purse their lips when we go past and I'd developed a habit of getting out and taking a piss when I was by myself. Barry spoke, bringing me back to the present.

"It seems so strange when I visit my aunts that they could do this. I understand it, it's just hard to connect it to such sweet old women. Pops, I need to tell you something. I've joined the Army, going overseas to fight the Huns. I have to wonder if I'll be brave enough."

I snorted. "If your aunts can hold out for three days against a group of determined bandits, you got no worry. If things get hard, think of your aunts as children, or your Grandmother and great aunts, holding those lever action Winchesters and shotguns, fighting for their lives in the old house. If you got the tiniest bit of their grit, you'll be fine. Just keep your head down and stay aware of your surroundings. Make sure you visit your Grandma before you leave."

He came home three years later to a hero's welcome and a chest full of medals. Most wondered where he had gotten the pair of sixshooters he'd used to save his platoon.

...

The curator was almost beside himself with excitement, looking at the exhibit. The chronicles of the Walters family, starting with stories of how Zeke Walters came to own the biggest ranch in the state, the history of the battles he'd fought with outlaws to hold on to it, the story of the box canyon, the house, and the bathhouse. There was a mention of the Outlaw Graveyard, and photos of the family graveyard featuring those that had died saving the ranch. There was a picture of the box canyon, the only reminder of the fight a photo of the tunnel mouth, mostly caved in. They had gotten lucky when the Army let them go through the local archives, finding pictures of the Lieutenant and his troopers, standing in front of two wagonloads of bodies, the Howitzer prominent in the foreground. They had even let them take the howitzer out of storage and place it in a display case. It was rumored to be the only piece of that size known to exist.

He moved to the crown jewel of the exhibit. It held Zeke's pistols, in their holsters, as well as the weapons the women had used, including three shotguns and the nickel plated Remington that had belonged to Claire. The family of Zeke's brother had allowed their most treasured heirloom, the Colt revolving shotgun that figured so prominently in the saga, to be displayed. In a separate case were the pistols of Jessica and Sabrina, along with Jessica's rifle and Sabrina's shotgun, with an enlarged picture of them from a few years after the fight, astride Sweetie and Sugar, holding their long guns while the pistols were visible in their holsters. The curator wondered how many had met death from the weapons assembled.

A woman cleared her throat, and the curator quickly handed her some tissue. She wiped her eyes before she spoke. "I remember seeing Grandma's weapons, and I remember seeing my Greataunt's scar once. We know all the girls were adopted, but it was pounded in our heads from the time we were born, just like it was our mothers and fathers before us that we were Walters. An accident of blood meant nothing to greatgrandpa Zeke. We had a legacy to uphold, and by God, we never forgot it! We do the same with our children and our children's children. We tell the stories, show the photographs, and make sure they know what they have to live up to."

The curator looked at the family tree that sprawled along one whole wall and realized the lesson was well learned. Doctors, professors, state and national politicians, lawyers, law enforcement officers ranging from County Sheriffs to Federal Marshalls, state and federal agents including six FBI agents, one Pulitzer Prize winning author, and just plain folks, but every one left a mark. There were warriors from WW1, WW2, Korea, Vietnam, Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan, male and female. Forty purple hearts, thirty silver stars, a hundred and twenty bronze stars, three Distinguished Service Crosses, four Medals of Honor, as well as the list of the fallen. The last of the fallen was his grandson. He managed to take out three suicide bombers before the fourth got through. The troops had time to prepare, thanks to him, and were ready.

Live or dead, he mused, you messed with a Walters and you remembered it. He took his wife's hand and gently lead her to the door. Glancing up, he looked at the brand painted on the wall. It was three different lines merging into one with a circle around it. It stood for the three trails that diverged at the edge of the ranch. He knew some people still called it the Turkey Track, but it looked kind of peaceful to him. On the opposite wall was a lifesize picture of Zeke and Claire in their late eighties, taken a year before they died, surrounded by their children, grandchildren, and a few greatgrandchildren. You could see the sparkle in his eyes and Claires' quiet dignity as they looked at the lens. Zeke passed first and Claire followed ten days later, of a broken heart, according to family legend.

He hugged his wife after locking the doors, anxious to get to bed. The exhibit opened tomorrow, and record crowds were expected.

The End