I recently made a whirlwind trip to Montana with family over a long weekend. I had packed two small travel size containers of lotion. When I opened my makeup bag there was another little jar, unbeknown to me, labeled “Facial Lotion” that just happened to be empty. So, when one of the small containers of lotion busted, I put the contents in the Facial Lotion jar.
Though our trip was quick, we had a great time and spent several hours outdoors enjoying the cool clear air and sunny days. When I got back home, I noticed that I had picked up a bit of a tan on my face. That was a bonus.
A couple of days later, it seemed that my face was getting even darker. I noticed a dark line on the edge of my hand. What was up with that? I had mixed some age defying oils (so they say) into my daily lotion but it had not caused any discoloration before.
This morning, I opened the small jar of facial lotion. As I looked in the mirror pondering my tan, I started laughing. It was then I remembered the facial lotion container was filled with sunless tanning lotion, not facial lotion. Oops! And so the mystery is solved!
Though his vision failed, he still labored to read the book that lay on the table. The old cowboy rubbed his eyes, closed the book and rested his head on it. His hair was disheveled with gray strands going in every direction. He roused when I walked into the room, more from sensing my presence than hearing it. Time had taken its toll. The old cowboy had become weathered with age. His dim eyes drooped and watered. Though his mind and memories weren’t quite as clear, he still recalled old stories. The tales told time and again were ripe with adventure and history.
We talked for a while. Then the old cowboy said, “What did you find in the mountains?” It wasn’t his question that held my attention but his eyes. The weathered face softened, and his dim watery eyes seemed to awaken and dance with life. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a young boy just learning to throw a lasso. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a teenager headed off to the front lines of the war. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a spark of romance. Somewhere in the old cowboy was a young man just starting a ranch of his own. I gave high praise to the land of which he spoke. I described the scenery, the fresh spring water, the rich green grass and the soothing of my soul from just being in such a place. Like a newborn calf, life seemed to leap within him.
His trips to the Eden in the heart of the mountains were fewer. It seemed that part of him longed to see it again with young eyes. The days of riding horseback through the mountains had passed. Though he could not go himself, he reveled in the stories of others – those who shared his love of the mountains. His failing vision and bent body did not erase the memories of so many years. His dim eyes clearly saw the mountains from his memories. His muted ears heard the mountain streams that made their way over river rocks and bounded down the slopes and through the valleys. His dulled senses felt the fresh breeze that whistled through the trees and tugged at his hair.
The droopy dampened eyes, gray disheveled hair, stooped walk, stumbling feet, muted ears and fading memory did not hide the little boy I saw sitting before me. I saw a little boy thrown into manhood. I saw compassion and understanding. I saw someone who had experienced the hardships of life. I saw someone who had seen death. I saw life ignited by that which he so loved.
The old rancher, a genuine cowboy, the last of a dying breed, gave a strong embrace as we said our goodbyes.
John Muir is known as “John of the Mountains” and “Father of the National Parks.” He was a naturalist, an advocate for the preservation of our country’s wilderness, a writer, philosopher, and a pioneer of our national park system. “The Mountains Are Calling and I Must Go.”
“The world is big and I want to have a good look at it before it gets dark.”
“How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains!”
Wherever we go in the mountains, or indeed in any of God’s wild fields, we find more than we seek.”
“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.”
“This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor ever rising.”
“Come to the woods, for here is rest. There is no repose like that of the green deep woods. Sleep in forgetfulness of all ill.”
“When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world.”
” I never saw a discontented tree.”
“We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us.”
“Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days, days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God.”
The youngest of my brothers was an instigator. He always looked like he was up to something and wore that Cheshire Cat grin. He could make me mad quicker than a chicken on a June bug. What was so unnerving was that he grinned the whole time. I will admit that I often threatened him bodily harm. The only thing was, I couldn’t catch him. Oh, I chased him plenty, but he would only taunt and tease even more. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t catch him or I would have been locked up at the age of nine.
He always managed to talk me into not telling on him when he did something bad. One day we were out playing. Off to the side of our yard was a small hill covered with broom straw and rabbit tobacco that overlooked the old railroad bed. He looked at me and grinned his usual evil grin. He reached into his pocket and out came a corncob pipe. Mama would not approve! He continued to grin and said, “Don’t tell.” As usual I said, “I won’t.” He stuffed the pipe with rabbit tobacco, pulled out a match, lit it, and proceeded to smoke that weed. True to my word, I didn’t tell on him. Well, at least not then.
Years later, we all sat down for supper one night. We started reminiscing about some of the places we had lived. Everyone was sharing stories. My brother was the subject of many of those stories. I then told of the time he smoked rabbit tobacco in his corncob pipe. He grinned and said, “You weren’t supposed to tell!” He didn’t even get in trouble!
The screen door slammed behind us as we walked into the house, the smells from the kitchen already dancing a happy dance with our noses. I think I’m a pretty good judge of good cooks and Aunt Leone was top on the list.
We went to Aunt Leone’s several times during the year. She and Uncle Charlie lived in one of those old Southern homes with a big porch and a wide hallway dissecting the house. Aunt Leone was not a Southerner by birth, but she oozed with Southern hospitality. Often when we arrived, she would be sitting in her seat facing the door with arms and ample lap ready to snuggle little kids. One squeeze would about break me in two. Her booming voice was welcoming and was soon joined by a hearty laugh that erupted from the tips of her toes.
When we sat down at the table, there was plenty for all of us and part of the neighborhood. She didn’t scrimp on anything. Real cream and butter were staples in her house. Homemade bread and cinnamon rolls, pies, cakes, cookies, potatoes loaded with butter, vegetables, meats – it was all good. She could slap a meal together in no time at all and it was always scrumptious. No one was excluded from her table. My mother told me the story many times of going to Aunt Leone’s house when she was young. If unexpected company showed up, Aunt Leone popped open a couple of big jars of home canned chicken, threw it in a pan with butter and cream poured on top, let it cook for a bit and then served it with a big pile of mashed potatoes. Mama said that was the best ever!
On special occasions the whole family congregated at Aunt Leone’s. Almost any time was a special occasion. Long tables were set up under the big shade trees. On cold or rainy days, we piled up in the house and spilled onto the porch. By the time everyone gathered, there were no empty spaces on the tables loaded with food. Those Knapp girls could cook! Kids ran around playing in the yard and climbed on the old grist stones that stuck upright in the ground. Uncle Charlie, Uncle Herb, Daddy Bee, Mutt and John sat on the porch spinning yarns about their early days of homesteading and life on the prairies. Others would float in and out of their tales, adding a story here and there. Soon, Guy threw out the starting pitch and the game was on. Kids of all ages ran the dried cow patty bases as the ball flew through the air. After the game, it was time to cut the cooled watermelons. Sticky juice ran down the chins of kids leaving red streaks on their bellies. My Granddad ate his watermelon by cutting off slices and eating them from the tip of his pocketknife. Everyone made a second round at the tables, grabbing up scraps of cinnamon rolls or a slice of pie.
When we heard the whistle of the train, we ran to get a good view and started counting cars. There were hundreds and hundreds. All of us kids lined up at the edge of the yard, stuck our arms in the air and pulled the imaginary horn with our closed fists. We were usually rewarded when the steam trumpet blew repeatedly as the engineer pulled the whistle. If we happened to be on the road on the other side of the tracks waiting for the train to pass, Daddy might even drive down the road to the railroad trestle and we watched the endless stream of cars cross above us. The clankety clank of the train wheels on the rails echoed in the distance even after the train passed out of sight and there was one last eerie broken sound of a faint whistle.
Full and satisfied, we gathered up our dishes, balls, bats and gloves, and crammed into the car for the return trip home. A day at Aunt Leone’s was always a good day!
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.
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!
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.
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.
