My honorary grandmother, Florence Heritage Wiley, grew up just outside of Coffeyville, Kansas, on a family farm.
One day, a barrage of gunshots ripped through the quiet countryside.
Since the shots came from the direction of town, Gramma’s father, Mr. Heritage, either rode or drove a wagon toward Coffeyville to find out what happened. I’m pretty sure this was a day or two after the incident.
In any case, when Mr. Heritage returned to the farm, he had some gruesome news to share.
An outlaw gang called the Dalton Brothers had tried to rob the bank.
Alas, the townspeople had known they were coming ahead of time, and they were prepared. There were riflemen stationed on roofs up and down the main street, between buildings, behind windows.
The outlaws were told to drop their guns and get down off their horses, or there would be trouble.
Instead of cooperating, the brothers fired back.
They were all killed in what can only be described, cliches aside, as a hail of bullets.
When the dust settled, all the Daltons and at least one of their cronies were dead on the ground.
They were soon strapped to doors, removed from their hinges for the purpose, and propped up in a row along the wooden sidewalk as a message, most likely, to anyone who might be considering a life of crime.
People even brought their children to see the bodies.
Not so Mr. Heritage. He was a wise, kindly man.
Gramma and her siblings remained on the farm. No way their folks were going to parade them past a line of dead, bloody outlaws.
Time passed.
Gramma grew up, married Grandpa, Guy Wiley, and moved to a homestead outside my hometown of Northport, Washington.
She never forgot that terrifying day, or the sound of gunfire coming from town.
