My family’s original ranch, which is still in the family and still a working cattle operation, was homesteaded by my great-great grandfather Bartholomew, who emigrated from Germany and sought his fortune in Montana territory. You have to be tough to survive in Montana, even now. Back then, even the strong often did not survive. In the sturdy log ranch house he’d built, Bartholomew’s wife gave birth to twin baby boys who were so tiny and still that all hope seemed lost. However, when his lifeless form was swaddled and incubated in the kitchen range’s oven, my great-grandfather David was baked back to life. His twin was not so lucky. We’re told that the loss of a twin, even at birth, can create a void in a person which can never be filled. Though I never knew my great-grandfather, I often think that thus began the tradition of a kind of congenital solitariness that seems to haunt someone in each generation of my family.
The night of Bartholomew’s death, robbers pulled off a daring train heist outside of Helena. Family legend has it that these lawless men left the train where the tracks neared Bartholomew’s property. Neither their identities or their plunder were ever recovered. Bartholomew was found dead in his stable the morning after the robbery, his skull caved in. The official cause of death was a kick to the head, though I’m told that David always suspected foul play. He swore that his father was much too savvy a horseman to meet his end in such a fashion.
There has been much discussion among my family members as to the nature of Bartholomew’s involvement in the aftermath of the train heist. One theory is that the robbers took refuge in Bartholomew’s stable, where he caught them red-handed in the cardinal sin of horse-thievery, earning himself a fractured skull. Though this is the popular belief, the word-of-mouth account passed down from generation to generation contains a glaring flaw - nowhere is there mention of any missing horses associated with Bartholomew’s death. Another less savory but more exciting theory that has been tossed around is that Bartholomew himself was complicit in the deal. Perhaps his role was to provide a means of getaway for a cut of the profit, but when the time came to pay up the crooks dealt him dirty. Lastly, and perhaps most enticingly, there is the rather far-fetched belief that savvy, ruthless Grandpa Bartholomew was more than complicit in the robbery: that the treasure remains in my family's possession, buried somewhere only Bartholomew knew, and that he mysteriously met his end before he could impart the secret of the hidden treasure on his only son.
As a fifth-generation daughter of a Montana ranching family, I enjoy the speculation surrounding the deeds of my ancestors as much, if not more, than anyone. Raised on western lore and steeped in the reality of a lifestyle and a culture that has room enough for even the most fantastic tale of adventure, I know that any of the old stories we tell to amuse ourselves could contain more than a kernel of truth. However, if life has taught me one thing, it is this: even the best horseman can be caught off guard by a well-aimed kick to the head. We all, at one time or another, relax our guard. All it takes is one moment, for everything to change.
