Joseph Brannin. When I hear his name I see a handsome young man with thick black coarse curly hair, black eyes, with prominent Spanish features. I see a man of confidence and compassion with a sense of justice. I see someone who is dedicated to family, an overseer, and one who gives unconditionally.
When the family made their exodus to Montana, Joe is the one who kept the record of their trip. He is the one who made sure the family was cared for. He helped his oldest sister buy a farm. He made arrangements for his younger sisters to get their education. He made sure they had music lessons. He gave his baby sister her beloved doll. Joe brought life and a touch of refinement to the mountains. He was the musician in the family, playing the violin.
Joseph S Brannin
Though I think of all those things, the name Joe Brannin means something else. The name speaks of death, sorrow, and injustice. Joe, the sheriff’s deputy, was killed in the line of duty. Mel Jowell, who led a life of thievery and rustling, had just been released from prison for his crime of rustling and altering brands. He quickly broke probation. When Mel Jowell came to town, you can bet there was trouble brewing. Joe was sent to pick up Mel for questioning about some stolen stock. Joe went to the bar to get Jowell but Deputy Brannin didn’t leave alive.
Jowell was on the run. Many of his steps can be retraced through eyewitness accounts, court records and various documents. He died in Texas at the age of 85, having fathered at least 5 children. Joe Brannin, provider and caregiver of the family, full of life, hopes and dreams, died at the tender age of 27.
Joe Brannin “was a young man of exceptional character, clean and upright.” Uncle Joe remains endeared to many as his legacy passes to us and demands that his story be retold to future generations.
The elderly man stopped at the door of the classroom. He placed the cane on his shoulder and marched into the room singing cadence followed by a wartime song.
The infantry, the infantry with dirt behind their ears Can whip their weight in wildcats and drink their weight in beers. The cavalry, the artillery, and the corps of engineers Can never whoop the infantry in a hundred thousand years.
As he stopped in front of the room, he turned to face the students. “Before I was born,” were his first words. Isn’t that where all our stories begin? As with most of his stories, they took him back to the mountains of Montana. Well they should have because he was “the man of the mountains.” “Before he was born,” a family in Melville bought old Cavalry horses for the kids to ride. One day the kids were out riding when some soldiers rode by on their mounts. One of the riders sounded his bugle. The Cavalry horses the kids were riding answered the call. The horses ran off to join the others. Horses were soldiers too, you know. They went quite a distance before they turned for home. As the “man of the mountains” told his story, he said, “old soldiers answered the call of the bugle and I answered the call.”
The bugle sounded and a young man went into battle in World War II. He recalled the stories of war to the students. Though the ninety-year-old man was small of stature, his presence demanded attention and respect. All eyes were on him. He stretched to his full frame of just over five feet yet he was larger than life. His World War II army jacket was held closed by the bottom button. Somehow, his presence and the recounting of his experiences in the European theater brought history to life. The stories and places the students had read about became real.
Though the old soldier is no longer with us, his story continues to be told and his memories still live on. Always a soldier, when the final bugle sounded, the old soldier answered the call.
I’ve searched through the women in my ancestry and have found no “sweet little ladies” that were docile and complacent. I only find women of strength, starch, sauce and sass.
The Knapp women were pioneers of the prairies. They set their jaw, fixed their eyes ahead and did what was necessary. They were steadfast. My great great grandmother loaded her wagons, kids in tow, no husband, and raced across the prairies in the 1889 Oklahoma Land Rush. She staked her claim, built a sod house initially and cooked over cow chip fires, continuing to make improvements in order to “prove” her homestead. My great great great grandmother lost her husband in the Civil War and raised all eight children on a meager widow’s pension to be doctors and teachers. Others pulled up stakes and tromped all over the prairie lands and mountains, traveling by covered wagons from the Midwest to untamed lands of Montana. These were women of starch, survivors! They were also women of laughter. I can still hear the hearty laughter of Aunt Leone as her lap was amply filled with kids and her table teemed with sumptuous food, complete with real cream and butter. Aunt Evelyn’s home was like her sister’s, always welcoming with delicious food on the table. She always had a story to tell. Memories of her unique voice and laughter still brings a smile to my face.
The Brannin women were a bit different. They were up for any task and had plenty of starch. But they also had a lot of sauce and sass. If you riled one of those Spanish beauties, you’d experience dancing eyes that could shoot fiery darts! They had a sense of adventure, well, it might be more of a “dare me” characteristic. Some may even call it a streak of “meanness.” They could outride, outthink and out work most folks. They were the great Matriarchs. That starch and sass was necessary to their survival in a world of gun slinging, cattle rustling, traveling in covered wagons over desert lands and mountains. The head Matriarch kept her infant grandchild alive, along with her own little one, by nursing them both after the baby’s mother came down with typhoid fever.
Yep, these were women of strength! I find many of these characteristics in my sisters, aunts and cousins even today. Even the kitchens of some of these ladies bring back fond memories! We are still survivors. But I’ll give you a word of warning – Spanish blood still runs strong. You might not want to push that too far!
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.
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.
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.
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.
I stood on the hill among tombstones hiding in the tall grass and wildflowers of the old Silver City Cemetery. Helena could be seen in the distance just to the southeast. Though the streets of Helena were busy with the comings and goings of all kinds of folks, the little town of Silver City wasn’t much more than a name. Had events taken a turn years earlier, she would have won the right of being the capital of Montana. But that wasn’t to be.
The cemetery was quiet except for the kind gentleman who pushed a mower to try to clear the memories of weeds and to deter rattlesnakes, I would venture. With my boots on, I walked around and snapped a few pictures of forgotten names on stones that had been so worn away no inscription could be read. Sunken places in the earth whispered stories of those whose remains lay all but forgotten.
As I stood there pondering the tales that would never be told, wondering about the lives of those who had come to this harsh and beautiful land, a van came up the trail. It slowly made its way up the hill. A young lady got out of the driver’s seat and walked around to the other side of the van. Out stepped an elderly gentleman with a cap on his head. His elbow lay in the palm of the young lady’s hand, her other hand placed gently on his arm. He spoke to the man who had turned off the mower. “I just came to put a flower on her grave.” He spoke of the grave of his wife. In the elderly man’s hand, he held a purple flower on a single stem.
The lady guided him through the newly chopped clumps of grass and into the weeds yet to be trimmed. “Watch out for rattlesnakes, Grandpa!” They made their way to the grave of his beloved. He bent down, pulled a few weeds from the front of the tombstone to reveal her name, then stooped lower to place the purple flower on her grave. A warm gentle breeze blew as yellow wildflowers danced to the song of memories. I turned and walked away to allow them the sacred magic of the moment.
Among the tombstones was that of my great aunt, Georgia Ann Hunter Brannin, 1879-1923. “Old Moss”, a Mexican man who came with the Brannin family from New Mexico to Silver City, is also buried there but the wooden marker that once marked his grave is rotted and scattered among the weeds.
My Guest Author today is my lovely aunt as she shares her passion of family and keeps their memories alive.
I never knew my brother, Jack. He was born nearly 20 years before me and he died when he was only 14 but he lived a life that affected many.
Mama and Daddy were married on the 4th of November 1916. It was a mild fall day, gathering up for a full-fledged winter in the Melville country. They were married at my Uncle Ed’s. There is a little piece of Mother’s wedding dress in a treasure box. It was white wool with blue flowers.
I have to make up details to suit myself, but they had a nice lunch there and then loaded a few donations and gifts in Granny’s wagon. They would ride their horses along with the Uncles and Granny up country towards the Sweet Grass Canyon, some eight miles into the mountains. Granny Brannin and the bachelor uncles lived there on homesteads they had acquired. There often were a few who also went along just because they enjoyed the company, but in that group was Ernest Parker who was a partner with my Daddy in the sawmill business. They had bought the sawmill from Uncle Ed and were ready to get into business. No need to figure Mother in as camp cook as she had learned horse wrangling but not the skill of cooking, however Ernest had been on his own since he was 12 so he would instruct the feisty little gal.
The logging camp was set up a couple of miles beyond the Brannin homeplace, a rustic cabin, bunkhouse, and the sawmill on the side hill. There are still the remnants of the cabin, a rotted out log or two or at least I claim there is. As they settled in, so did winter and in March baby Jack decided to be born right there and then. Ernest was enlisted to get on his long-legged horse and plow through the drifts to get Granny, but in the meantime, my Daddy, Bud Ward was stoking the stove, sweating and boiling water for whatever reason and Mother and God were delivering her firstborn baby boy. Tiny little guy, he fit in a shoe box and when he wasn’t in my Mother’s arms he was near the warming oven of the stove.
An old Chinese proverb says that a child much loved has many names, or maybe one of my uncles said that. John Carrington Ward, carried the full array of English names that represented my Daddy’s family he had left at 16 years earlier to explore Canada and USA. But he was called Jack, Dyke, Montgomery Ward, Wardie or Baby Jack, doted on by his family and extended family.
By the time they could plow their way out of the Crazy Mountains in June, the Doctor pronounced him a genuine baby boy and by the time he was one year old, he weighed 12 pounds and could run without ducking under the table. I can see my Mama packing him on her hip down to see Granny or snagging him off a stump to ride with her on Spider. She always loved dolls and now she had her very own.
Winter in the Crazies
That next years were the years of WWI and Daddy, an enthusiastic American, gathered Ernest and my Uncle Barney and Uncle Sid and enlisted, going to France as an engineer in the sawmill division and Mother took little Jack to live with Granny. Many times, the little man got in trouble for something his Uncles taught him, but he was well loved and learned confidence, a little mosquito, a favored companion to everyone.
Jack with Peaches the bear
No sooner was the war over, and the men returned when they fought another war. Fire raged along the side of the canyon, an insult to their home, but God turned the beast back on itself and life went on. I see pictures of Jack squatted down playing around under the feet of a horse, riding on a pet bear or a pig, playing in mud puddles though Mother kept him a safe distance from the sawmill. I know he perched on Daddy’s knee and rode “a cock horse to Bamberry Cross to see a fine lady upon a white horse.” And he trusted Ernest’s growly instructions.
Even tiny boys grow up and though Mother, an avid reader had only managed, off and on, six years of school, Daddy was a strong supporter of education; so little Jack was left with the Evangelical Preachers family to stay in Big Timber, at least three hours away, to go to school. (I don’t know how my Mother could let him go.)
Being a fearless gregarious fellow, he enjoyed the fellowship and company, I don’t know about the academics. Because I lived the same way to go to school, I know it would be a long time before Mother and Daddy would get to Big Timber to see their school kids and in Jack’s case a much longer time; so what is a guy to do, but pack up and head for the hills. It was forty miles to the sawmill, twenty miles to Melville and twenty miles on from there. Jack caught a ride with the mailman to a few miles beyond Melville, now Perry Anderson’s. (Now how do you suppose this little kid talked the mail man into that?) He would hoof it over the hills home from there. Remember he is little in stature and few in years.
Jack
During the night, the Uncles saw a campfire up on the hill by the Lone Pine and figured it was a hunter but the next morning little Jack showed up at the ranch. That is a long and lonely trip, but that little boy could.
He went back to school and participated heartily, at one time taking a very hard blow to his head as he had put a bucket on his head and another boy hit the bucket with a bat. Whether this was the start of the tumor or not, who knows, but Ernest noticed Jack losing his balance and they took him to the Doctor to find out he had a tumor on his brain. Mother would take him to Mayo Clinic in Minnesota and they would use radiation. Ernest generously used his Spanish American War retirement to finance these treatments. Gradually Jack was confined to home and by now he had sisters, Ellen and Barbara and brother Buck.
Guest Author
Men regularly came to the sawmill to buy lumber and they almost became family as they were invited to eat and stay over, and they quickly took to the spunky boy. One man, a bit infamous, made a special trip to see Jack and left in tears at the sight of the crippled in body but not spirit, lad. Mother would massage the cramps out of his limbs. He would talk about his confidence in heaven and wrote out his will, leaving his cow and watch etc. to his brother and sisters and one day God relieved the little boy who could, and a community of admirers wept.
Jowell was a handsome likable fellow. In fact, women swooned when he walked into a room. He was eloquent of speech and pen, able to sway the pendulum his way. One article described him as “uncommonly good looking, and doesn’t look to be a man of hardened criminal tendencies.” In May of 1912, Mel Jowell began serving a 22-year sentence at Montana State Prison in Deer Lodge for the killing of Deputy Sheriff Joseph Brannin on the streets of Melville, Montana in November 1911. He and S. P. McAdams, both serving time, were transported to Livingston, Montana, as witnesses at the trial of Walter Waymire who had been charged with assisting in the murder of Brannin. After the August trial the two men, under guard, were put on the Northern Pacific No. 41 for the return trip to Deer Lodge Prison.
The train pulled up the steep grade at Pipestone Hill near Hell’s Canyon in the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest along the eastern edge of the Rocky Mountains foothills. Fuel was added to the fire in the belly of the beast as the engine belched steam from the slow-moving train. Two men, joined by chains attached to steel cuffs, slid out of their seats to go to the toilet. Jowell was first to go in with McAdams still attached on the other side of the slightly opened door. He opened the toilet window and somehow managed to get his feet out. In one short movement with a jerk of his hand, the toilet door flung open. McAdams’ coat caught on the door knob but was torn loose as Jowell jerked. McAdams shot out the window behind Jowell. They jumped from the train moving at 30 mph, rolled down the hill and disappeared into the rocky hills. The commotion broke loose so quickly, Sheriff Killorn, only three feet away, was helpless to act. He grabbed and pulled the bell cord, yelling for the trainman to pull the air. The train stopped in short order but before Killorn could alight, the train started moving. By the time it came to a complete stop again, they were a mile away. Jowell and McAdams fled into the rugged wilderness of rough cliffs, rocks and timber.
It was evident the men had assistance in their escape. Jowell had such brash confidence that he would have help along the way, he left a note at the home of Earl Flynn on Trout Creek informing Flynn that “the writer of the note” had been there.
In the note he added, “Tell Fallang that he will have a harder time catching me than he did before.” He openly signed it “M. B. Jowell.” (Fallang was the Sheriff of Sweet Grass County, Montana who pursued him after the killing of Deputy Sheriff Brannin and picked him up in Phoenix, Arizona in December 1911.) One of the men who supposedly assisted their escape was a man by the name of Harvey Whitton.
Pipestone Pass railroadold train bed at Pipestone Pass
It wasn’t long after their jump from the train that McAdams was seen at Pipestone Springs freed from his shackels. Jowell was seen at Fish Creek and in Wyoming as he escaped south heading to Texas or Arizona. He took up company with Whitton. The two headed into Nevada, leaving a trail of at least 18 stolen horses along the way, each to replace their spent mounts. Although they had eluded posses and authorities, they were soon pinned down near Elko, Nevada. A shootout ensued. Before Jowell was taken, his stolen horse was shot out from under him. Jowell was dismounted and opened fire on the officers. He failed to hit his target and seeing he was outnumbered, he surrendered. Jowell and Whitton were taken into custody October 14, 1912.
Mel Jowell used the alias of Rex Roberts when he was arrested in Elko. In December 1911, when he was picked up in Phoenix for the murder of Joseph Brannin, he used the name of Dalton I. Sparks. His partner, Harvey Whitton was arrested using the alias of Jim Ross. He was also known by the alias of James B. O’Neal as noted in California records. After serving some time in Nevada, Jowell was returned to Deer Lodge in 1915 under the alias Rex Roberts.
Rocky rugged wilderness near Pipestone Pass
Joseph Shelby Brannin’s life was taken from himNovember 16, 1911. He left his widowed mother, seven brothers and five sisters to mourn his loss and future generations of nieces and nephews to carry on his legacy.
