Month: January 2021

The young boy turned the page. He gave rapt attention to each word. The exploits of Buffalo Bill and other Western legends seemed to leap right off the pages from the dime novels he read. “One day,” he thought, “I will go west.” The lure of the Western Cowboy culture drew him from the city streets of Washington, DC, where he had grown up. Maybe one day he would be famous.

Harvey Whitton was an intelligent young man, having been educated in the schools of the nation’s capital. He was of mixed race, described as being hot tempered, 5’10”, had a flat nose, dark eyes, thick lips, round face, heavy jaws, a frowning expression and walked slightly bow-legged. In 1893, seventeen-year-old Whitton embarked on his journey, finding work in St. Joseph, Missouri and Greenleaf, Kansas, before arriving in Bozeman Montana in 1894. The summer of 1895, he became acquainted with Frank Morgan, an alias of Frank Straiter (or variant spelling). In the fall of 1896, the two went to work for a ranch outside of Bozeman. After a petty quarrel, Morgan pistol whipped the rancher. A warrant was issued for his arrest. Afraid he would be charged with something worse, he escaped to Madison County. When Whitton got word that Sheriff Fransham and his deputy, Jack Allen knew of their whereabouts, he warned Morgan. Here is the account as noted in the Gallatin History Museum:

“For a number of months, two young toughs had terrorized the Belgrade and Manhattan areas with vicious beatings, saloon robberies, and roadside holdups. Sheriff Fransham learned that the two men might be hiding at Carpenter’s Ranch, twenty-five miles west of Bozeman. When they arrived at the horse ranch, gunfire ensued; Deputy Allen’s gun misfired and, unprotected, he was shot in the head. After further exchanges of gunfire with the sheriff, the gunmen rode off. Dr. Chambliss rode out from Bozeman to attend Allen, bringing him back by horse-drawn ambulance. After many days of agonizing pain and convulsions, Jack Allen died on February 2, 1897.”

Whitton, under the alias of James Hall, made his way to Elko, Nevada where he was apprehended and returned to Montana to serve a sentence of 89 years for the murder of Deputy Sheriff Allen of Bozeman, Montana. While in Montana State Prison at Deer Lodge, he was not idle. He was the mastermind behind heinous schemes he directed from his prison cell. He was instrumental in the orchestration of the Dodson murder, and took part in the Gravelle dynamiting outrages that was part of an extortion attempt to line their pockets with $50,000 from the Northern Pacific Railroad. Whitton claimed that Gravelle had created the plot in 1903 while his cellmate though Whitton himself was actually one of the composers of the extortion letters. 

In 1906, Mel Jowell was sentenced to Montana State Prison. He was a horse thief, cattle rustler, altered brands, and was believed to have murdered a sheriff in Arizona. Paroled in the spring of 1909, he was back in prison by fall. His discharge for that stint came in May of 1911. While in prison, Whitton and Jowell formed a dangerous alliance. Upon Jowell’s release, he stole the life of young Deputy Sheriff Joseph Brannin, his life snuffed out at the age of twenty-eight. Jowell escaped to Phoenix, Arizona under the name of Dalton Sparks, and was arrested on Christmas Eve and returned to Deer Lodge to finish out his prison term.

In the meantime, in 1910, a letter was penned to beg the release of Harvey Whitton. The letter was written and sent on behalf of Dolly, a blind sister of Whitton, who was living at the Young Woman’s Christian Home on C street in Washington, DC. Dolly had only learned of her brother’s whereabouts on her mother’s deathbed when Nellie Whitton revealed to her daughters the events concerning their brother Harvey. Mrs. Whitton was informed about her son after reading an article in the paper in January of 1897 and began the inquiry of her son’s well-being by correspondence with W. C. Latta in Bozeman, Montana. Dolly called upon Grace Thomas, a young business woman, who penned her appeal for the release of her brother. The letter pricked the heart of Montana’s Governor Norris who was in Washington DC for a Governor’s conference. He promised to speak on her behalf. Dotty believed her beloved brother would be released, magically transformed and come to her aid to care for her in her time of need. The Governor’s attempt failed for Whitton’s premature release. However, not long after, he was released for “good behavior.” There was little or no regard given to the fact that during those years he directed brutal crimes from his prison cell. 

Whitton’s release came September 9, 1911, just two months before his former prison mate, Mel Jowell, shot down Joseph Brannin on the streets of Melville, Montana. It is recorded that Whitton went to Butte and lived an “honest life”, at least until the summer of 1912 when once again, he found himself on the wrong side of the law. He did not travel to Washington DC to care for his sister, though the authorities had promised to fund his mission until he could find employment. I would say those ten months were a short-lived “honest life.”

The summer of 1912, Mel Jowell along with another prisoner, John McAdams, were transported to Livingston to testify in the trial of George Ricketts, another prison mate of Jowell’s and Whitton’s charged as a co-defendant in the murder of Deputy Sheriff Joseph Brannin. On the return trip to Montana State Prison aboard the Northern Pacific #41 train, the two, chained together, escaped from a bathroom window on the moving train as it slowed along Pipestone Pass. After the two were separated from their shared bonds, Jowell headed south. Somewhere along the way, he was aided and abetted by one Jim Ross. The two made their way to Elko, Nevada. A series of events led to their arrest. Jowell was arrested under the alias of Rex Roberts. His partner Jim Ross was none other the Harvey Whitton. Whitton had returned to the same place he was captured in 1897 after the murder of Deputy Sheriff Allen. Seems a bit ironic, doesn’t it?

The two were sent back to Deer Lodge, Montana State Prison. Jowell, also gifted with words, charmed his listeners and readers and influenced the authorities by his letters of appeal, and eventually bought his freedom with words and “good behavior.” Whitton continued his life of crime under yet another alias, James B. O’Neal.

The mother of Harvey Whitton never saw her son again, nor did his sister, Dolly, rest in the arms of her beloved brother she so longed to see. Whitton did find fame – not the kind that would make a mother proud, and not the fame of the renown heroes of the West he read about as a boy. He traveled the hidden trails of notoriety with outlaws who left behind women and orphans to grieve in the wake of gunsmoke… and to think it began with a cheap dime novel…

Mal (Mel, Mallie) Jowell (Jewel, Jouel, Joel), alias Dalton I. Sparks, alias Rex Roberts
Harvey Whitton (Whitten), alias James Hall, alias Jim Ross, alias James B. O’Neal

The hobos that frequented box cars and rode the open rails had their own language and culture. Jumping trains, riding the rails from place to place, gathering in hobo jungles while waiting for the next outgoing train, was a different way of life. One way for them to communicate within their “family” was by a series of signs and markings. A drawing of two shovels indicated a place to find work. There were signs given for doctors who wouldn’t charge them a fee, places to get food, caution about thieves, free phones, and warnings of danger. If they saw the symbol of a smiling cat drawn on a fence post or side of a house, they knew they were at the home of a kindhearted woman who would offer them a meal. Such was the home of my Great Grandmother whose house was along the tracks in Big Timber, Montana.

My Mother told stories of the hobos that came into her Grandmother’s yard behind the house by the railroad tracks. The hobos who jumped off the train in Big Timber, Montana, certainly knew where to find a pot of stew or tin barrel of “torpedoes” (beans) with a fire still burning beneath. They surely sent word down the tracks of finding “The Big Rock Candy Mountains.” 

Maybe some of the hobos reminded Great Grandma of youngsters she had known who had to make their way at an early age. Maybe she saw a reflection of her own boys, one at least who was known to hop a train on occasion. Regardless, she saw those who were hungry and needed a warm meal and a kind hand.

I wonder if there was a symbol of a fat, happy, smiling cat etched on a post facing the tracks. Here was the place of a kindhearted woman who gave of her meager bounty to feed hungry hobos down on their luck, exploring the country, or seeking a place to call home. Let me tell you, even her scraps were heavenly!

There was a song written about the hobo culture. This is a portion of the cleaned-up variation of the original lyrics:

One evening as the sun went down
And the jungle fire was burning,
Down the track came a hobo hiking,
And he said, “Boys, I’m not turning
I’m headed for a land that’s far away
Besides the crystal fountains
So come with me, we’ll go and see
The Big Rock Candy Mountains

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains,
There’s a land that’s fair and bright,
Where the handouts grow on bushes
And you sleep out every night
Where the boxcars all are empty
And the sun shines every day
On the birds and the bees
And the cigarette trees
The lemonade springs
Where the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

“The song is about a hobo’s dreams of a supposedly perfect life. Based on the song and some outside information and context, the theme is simply dreams and wishes for a better life. For example, “The Big Rock Candy Mountains” are mentioned often and they could be a symbol of euphoria: “Oh I’m bound to go where there ain’t no snow, where the rains don’t fall; the winds don’t blow, in the Big Rock Candy Mountains.” “This quotation describes a place where everything is perfect, at least in the author’s eyes.”

“A kindhearted woman lives here”

Stars twinkled across the sky from one side of the prairie to the other. It looked as if they had been cast into the black of night to hang by a thread. They swayed and lit up the world below as they illuminated the path of stardust across the Milky Way. 

Fiery red and yellow flames danced against the night sky in rhythm with the twinkling lights and the music that glided on the breeze. The crackle and pop of the fire added percussion to the tunes that rose and fell from the stringed instruments.

After days on the trail, the evening fire under a clear sky was a reprieve. Not only had there been some days and nights of rain when everything got soaked, but they were travel weary. Oh, there were times when they stayed in camp a couple of days when they camped beside a river. That’s when they repaired harnesses, wagons, and equipment, did laundry, cooked a big pot of beans, and swam in the river. But a cool crisp evening around the fire was a special treat.

Sitting around the fire was a diversity of participants and onlookers. Dad Knapp with his fiddle, and his son, Bee, who played the fiddle he bought from Old Man Bradley for $12.00 a few years earlier, drew their bows across the strings to release the rich mellow tones. Someone else grabbed the banjo, while another tried to add to the tune with a mouth harp. 

Those who sat in the warmth of the flames were diverse as well. A toddler was in the arms of Mother Knapp. Little Evelyn sat wide eyed, not wanting to miss a thing. Bee, at seventeen, was the oldest of the children on the trail, brother Fred having stayed behind. He and Buster drove one of the teams. Leone usually rode with the brothers though her eyes were set on the shy handsome young man who helped Uncle Press with his wagons. The McNeil cousins, one Evelyn’s age, added to their companionship. More than just family shared their fire as well. Travelers they met heading east pulled out their instruments to join in the revelry. It is said when Dad Knapp played the fiddle, even “a wooden Indian couldn’t have kept his feet still.” No less could the Indian braves who joined their fire on the open prairie as they neared the Crow Reservation. The braves found great entertainment with the pioneers but also wanted to try to work a trade for Bee’s big bay, Bill, that had outright beat their Indian ponies in a race. They offered five ponies for the bay whose veins ran with race blood. Bee would not strike a trade.

As I peer through the curtains of time, I see Indian braves and children dancing around the fire, the braves trying to coax Leone to join in the dance, smiles and joy reflected on faces in the firelight. I hear the music of the instruments playing old dance tunes with laughter and singing rolling across the prairie like tumbleweeds. Somehow, I sense that Dad Knapp especially was completely content.

He thrived in the wide-open countryside. When neighbors moved too close, he felt penned in. He was among the rushers into Indian Territory in Oklahoma 25 years earlier. But things were getting too crowded for him. By 1914, word came of new territory. Montana was open country. There was land a plenty. A couple of the McNeil brothers had already staked a claim with glowing reports of good grass and plenty of land, 320 acres per homestead. That was enough for Dad Knapp to pull up stakes. Their success depended on the Oklahoma harvest. One hundred acres were planted in wheat. They could easily lose a crop to locusts, drought, hailstorm, or prairie fires. So much hinged on the weather, they were nervous and anxious until the time of harvest came. Dad Knapp didn’t care for the storms that rose up without warning on those western prairies. With an eye on the weather and a prayer on their lips, they waited. The time of harvest came and brought a bumper crop. It was enough for them to make the move.

They arrived at their final destination sixty days and over 1300 miles after they began. The following spring, the families all moved to their prospective homesteads. That was wide open country that seemed as vast as the endless sky – enough to satisfy the wandering soul and itchy feet of a prairie fiddler. 

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Years later, Charles Knapp retired in Big Timber, Montana
where he lived out the rest of his days.

Memories of Grand Old Bee Bell’s fifth Christmas, 1901

I sure did feel good about getting that long letter and picture page from you boys at Christmas time. I don’t much to write about so I’ll just tell you about my fifth Christmas.

Our neighbor lived 4 miles from us and mother told me to take a small bag of popcorn balls to the boys. It was not so far if I cut thru the hog pasture. A small creek ran thru the pasture, had a small bridge across it.

• 

Well – I was going under the bridge on a narrow trail. It was only wide enough for one boy or 1 hog. I got halfway thru when that big old sow – she went WOOF and I fell in the water and the old sow went on by. Well I tore out fast as I could run. I left the bag of popcorn on the porch and headed for home around the road.

When I got home mother thot I was sick. I had been running so hard and forgot to breathe, it just about done me out.

Well – we had a real nice time that year. 

Hope you had a nice time and a happy and Jolly New Year.

This is from your Grand Old Bee Bell