Posted on

Chasing Outlaws

Two men tumbled out the door of the saloon. Shots rang out in the streets of Melville, Montana. Deputy Joseph Brannin fell dead to the ground. Mel Jowell was on the run. The Sheriff formed a posse and was soon on the trail of the outlaw. Less than a year later, another posse chased Jowell after he escaped on the return trip to prison after testifying at the trial of his accomplice. A trail of crime followed Jowell to Elko, Nevada.

Joseph Brannin

We grew up hearing true life stories just like you’d see on the old TV Westerns. In fact, the last time Jowell was seen by any of our family was on a Western movie set in California. Cousin Clancy, nephew of Joseph Brannin, was a Western movie actor. When the “extras” rode onto the set on horseback, Clancy spotted Jowell. He asked, “Where’d you learn to ride?” Jowell responded, “Melville, Montana.”  They recognized each other but Jowell didn’t stick around to spin yarns about Melville days.  Through the years that followed, rumors were heard but no definite answer was given as to what had transpired in the life of Jowell. We took up the chase and uncovered interesting stories and documents. After years of prison and life on the run, Jowell returned to his home state of Texas, married, had a family and lived to a ripe old age. 

Just like another posse in pursuit of Jowell, the trail led us to Elko over 100 years later. Passing the city limit sign brought excitement as we anticipated uncovering part of the mystery that shrouded the outlaw. After a bite of breakfast at the Coffee Mug, we walked to the Elko County Court House.

Elko County Courthouse

Our search was for legal documents that hopefully would give details concerning Jowell. The clerk was amazed hearing our brief account of the events we knew. We told about the day Joseph Brannin was killed, of Jowell’s escape and capture in Arizona, of the trial and sentencing to 22 years, of the trial of Ricketts where Jowell testified, and of the return trip to Deer Lodge on the Northern Pacific #41 Train. The lady’s eyes got big when we told of Jowell’s escape from the toilet window of a moving train near Pipestone Springs while handcuffed to another prisoner just prior to his appearance in Elko. We explained that it was obvious the escape was orchestrated.  Records indicated that Harvey Whitton was one of his “friends” who aided his escape after Jowell jumped from the train. That name soon took on an even greater significance in the story.

The clerk presented a ledger that contained records for 1912, but the name of Mel Jowell was not listed under any of the various spellings of his name nor his alias, Dalton I Sparks. So, where was he? How could there be such a discrepancy from the articles we had uncovered? 

Feeling a bit dejected, we made our way to the library. There had to be something we were missing. We began searching through newspaper articles for 1912. Bingo! That’s why we didn’t find him! He had another alias of Rex Roberts. Armed with new artillery, we went back to the courthouse. Out came the ledger again, and there he was – Rex Roberts and his cohort Jim Ross. Come to find out, Jim Ross was also known as James B O’Neal and Harvey Whitton, a hardened criminal who had been with Jowell in Montana State Prison in Deer Lodge. 

The clerk asked if we knew how to run a microfilm reader. Yep! She gave us the reels and free rein to use the reader that also had the ability to save documents as PDF files. Out came a trusty Flash Drive! We were able to access the complete court case and other documents attached to that file. We hit pay dirt! 

A few days later we were on Pipestone Pass near the area where Jowell had escaped from the train. We followed back trails over the mountain into the rough and rocky wilderness expecting to see outlaws peering from behind the rocks. A few days after that we were at Sweet Grass County Courthouse photographing court documents of the trial of Mel Jowell. Driving through the little town of Melville, I could almost see Jowell and Uncle Joe tumble out the door of the saloon and hear a shot ring out. And so began the chase of an outlaw. 

 In brief, Jowell and Ross were arrested for horse stealing. Jowell served time in Nevada before being returned to Montana State Prison where he served only part of his sentence before he was pardoned by the Governor of Montana.

Posted on

Bicycle Ride

Ernie was my brother’s friend. He usually showed up at mealtime. He loved Mama’s Spanish rice. We never had to worry about leftovers if Ernie was around. He loved to pester me. When I saw him ride up on his bicycle, I would run and hide from him under the table in the bedroom I shared with my sisters and one of my other brothers. Ernie would also let my brother ride his bicycle.

  • This Boy Scout didn’t keep his promise

One day my brother said he’d take me for a ride. I climbed into the basket on the front of Ernie’s bicycle.  “I’ll ride with you as long as you don’t go through the ditch,” I said. He promised. Boy Scout’s honor! As soon as he started pedaling, he headed right for the ditch. He hit the ditch and I went flying through the air. Sometime later, I woke up, arm held tightly in place. When I landed, it had broken my collar bone. I didn’t ride with him again!

Posted on

Mighty Steeds

Upon the back of mighty steeds
from the crest of the waves,
hooves thundering on the sands
echoed from the caves.

  • Ruby Beach

Caught up on wings of flight
cast into a realm of black
to join Pegasus in the sky,
with thunderbolts on his back.

  • Carpenteria Beach

Orion, the hunter, stalked his prey
As the seven sisters sparkled bright.
Cassiopeia on her throne,
goddess of the night.

  • night sky seen from Tonasket

Flying on with billowed sails
on currents of the breeze
to secret gardens and hidden treasures
beneath the ancient trees.

  • Ancient Bristlecone Pines

Resting under a canopy of stars,
Soaring over canyons deep,
Boughs whisper eternal secrets
as mossy willows weep.

  • Grand Canyon

Mountains rise to touch the clouds,
Streams gurgle from endless springs,
Birds sing their vibrant songs,
Eagles spread their wings.

Shadows dance on the hills,
shrouded by clouds of night.
On the canvas dark and bare
darkness gives way to light.

  • Crazy Mountain morning
Posted on

Camping in the High Desert

We left the lingering ghosts in the hot Nevada desert and headed toward Inyo National Forest in Northern California. The road climbed into the high desert wilderness. Sandstone formations looked like giant rock men ready to hurl huge boulders on any who dared enter their domain. Mountains appeared in the distance even though we were already at the top of the world. A dirt road leading deeper into the mountains and forests beckoned us to follow.

As the golden hour approached, we were anxious to find a camping spot. We turned down another road and a large alpine meadow dissected by a small lazy stream came into view. Bordering the meadow was a perfect campsite tucked among a stand of tall evergreens. 

The air was pure, clean, cool and clear. At 9500 feet, we could touch the sky. Stars lit up the black expanse. It looked as if we could have walked across the Milky Way along the celestial road into another galaxy. The Inyo Forest was aptly named, meaning “dwelling place of the great spirit.” 

Night turned to day. The cold was quickly burned off by the morning sun. I took a deep breath and let it fill my senses – the sight of this wondrous creation, the sound of the forest, the smell of the evergreens, the taste of the morning air, the touch of the warming sun. 

We reluctantly left the high desert sanctuary. The descent into the desert displayed a beauty all its own as mountains cascaded into valleys. With the vow to return one day and walk across the Milky Way once again, the sun set on another day.

  • Descending into the valley
  • Mono Lake
  • Mono Lake
Posted on

At the Bend in the River

The only sounds were from the soft ripples of the Maris River that flowed lazily at the foot of the steep bank carved by the years. An occasional rustle of grass added harmony to the river’s song. Prickly pear in full bloom dotted the countryside adding a splash of color to the dry prairie grass. 

The land across the river was a sacred place, at one time home to a band of Piegan Indians. Bluffs rose high above the broken prairie behind where the Indian Village once stood. The winding river offered protection on all other sides. A few trees stood as quiet sentries, the leaves shimmering and stirring occasionally as they were caught in a warm breeze blowing across the parched land. 

  • Prickly Pear

I stood in reverent silence so as not to disturb the memories of slaughtered innocence. I was an intruder, an outsider, looking through the glass of time, observing from a distance, unwilling to encroach upon the reverence that demanded silence. No sound was needed, for silent cries from the ground resounded and echoed from the bluffs beyond – sounds of sick women, elderly men and children stricken with small pox, cries of babies stripped from their mothers’ arms, cries of disbelief as Heavy Runner waved the paper of safe conduct from the Indian Bureau just as bullets struck his chest. Among the resounding silence were also cries of, “This is the wrong camp!” as the drunken Major led the attack on that cold snowy winter day. 

Events from two years earlier caused a domino effect that led to the massacre. An article by Dave Walter in the Montana Magazine (March‑April, 1987) tells that “horse stealing at the Clarke ranch set off a chain of events which led to the Baker Massacre.  A relative of Malcolm Clarke’s wife, Owl Child, was at the Clarke ranch in ‘67 when someone made off with his horses.  Owl Child got even by stealing some of Clarke’s horse. Clarke then followed Owl Child to his lodge and brought the horses back. Ill feeling continued.  Two years later Owl Child shot Horace in the face and his cohorts murdered Malcolm Clarke.  The army then swung into action.  Colonel Baker led a detachment from Fort Ellis (at Bozeman) and attacked the Indians in the winter quarters on the Marias River. A Pikuni (Piegan) village of mostly women and children was complete destroyed.” 

  • Marias River

There is a twist to this story that has been passed down through our family history. Henry and Andrew Gibson married Brannin sisters. They operated the toll road at “Gateway to the Mountains” in Prickly Pear Valley. Malcolm Clarke’s ranch was near the Gibson ranch.  Stanton Brannin spent some time with the Clarkes. It is said that he was one of the men with Horace Clarke when Owl Child’s horses were taken. 

More and more people were sucked into the vortex, not even knowing they were pawns in a game that would turn into a battle, slaughter, that would take the very breath of life – there at the bend in the river.

You can read more about the Baker Massacre, aka Marias Massacre, at historynet.com.

Posted on

Surprise Visitor

I sat at the feet of my Granddad with wide-eyed wonder and hung on every word. As he recounted his tale, the Montana prairies came to life. The northern winds blew snow and whistled through the stubbles of dry grass. I imagined every scene as he told his story.  

By 1915, there were many homesteaders staking claims in Montana. By that time, the amount of land deeded had been increased to 320 acres per homesteader. The allotted time to “prove” their homestead was decreased to three years. A homesteader would file a claim, build a cabin and live there. Witnesses gave written documentation as to the validity of the homesteader’s claim.

One homesteader from the East staked his claim and built his house on the Montana prairie. He wasn’t too anxious to spend winter on the open prairie so left to go to the city or back East to spend the winter. This left his cabin empty all winter. Like other cabins in homesteading country, this one was left unlocked. According to the code of the west, one’s home, no matter how humble, was open to others. The drawstring was left on the outside of the door to welcome passing travelers.  Whatever meager supplies were in the cabin could be used.  A passerby could stay and leave whatever he could for others and replenish the woodpile.  

A family with a little boy moved into the community. The boy was sick with “consumption” and the doctor thought the cool Montana air would help him. It did for a while, but when the flu made its rounds, the boy’s life was taken from him. It was a bitter cold winter and the ground was frozen solid. The undertaker sent his crew to the community cemetery on the hill. Without the cover of snow, the ground was frozen hard and deep. The grave diggers couldn’t even dig a posthole, much less a grave. On a frigid January day, they placed the boy’s casket in the empty homesteader’s cabin. Flu claimed the life of another and soon a second casket was added.

Winter continued to be bitter cold. Along in February as the evening shadows lengthened, a traveler turned into the homesteader’s cabin. It was a welcome sight as the day was ending and the cold wind whipped down his neck.  He pulled the string and entered the cabin.  He got a fire going, melted some snow for a pot of coffee, got a pan of beans on the stove and then lit a lamp and set it on the table.  Upon a further survey of the contents of the cabin, he noticed a wooden box that looked suspiciously like a casket.  There was another beside it.  He found a hammer, pried off the lid and dropped it back down quickly.  He left the drawstring hanging as the door hit his heels on the way out.

Unbeknown to him, postholes weren’t the only thing that couldn’t be dug that winter.