LINE RIDER: An Arizona Ranger's True Story of Indians, Outlaws, Gamblers, and Stampedes by Joseph Harrison Pearce & J Washburn

Author:Joseph Harrison Pearce & J Washburn [Pearce, Joseph Harrison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: LOST BOYS INK
Published: 2013-12-08T08:00:00+00:00

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There was a third kind of rustler or outlaw that was more pitiful than the others, the one that got into trouble by accident or circumstance, and was forced to stay an outlaw.

That kind was poor Mal Jowell. I’d known him since he was a kid. He was about twenty-three when he got into trouble, a fine looking fellow, almost handsome, very friendly and affable and popular with the girls, a good cowhand and well liked by everybody.

Montie Slaughter was Mal Jowell’s cousin. Old man Pete Slaughter ran several thousand head of cattle on his place on the Black River, and his five sons, of whom Montie was the oldest, rode for his outfit. The Slaughters of Black River were kin to John Slaughter, famous sheriff of Tombstone, who built himself a record as a heavy contributor to Boot Hill Cemetery there. So all the Slaughter boys had hot blood like the one that shot up the dance hall, Christmas, and was fools for trouble. But Mal Jowell came into the trouble very indirect.

One day Montie racked into Springerville, looked up a number of his cowpuncher friends, and they got to playing poker and drinking heavily. Montie quarreled with Sheriff Ed Beeler and got himself killed, shot through the stomach. A coroner’s jury acquitted Beeler. The Slaughters were never quite satisfied with the jury’s verdict. Mal Jowell came down from Montana where he’d been working, and went to riding for old man Slaughter. He stayed at the ranch mostly, worked hard, said little.

About eight months rolled by. Then word reached Springerville that Ed Beeler had been killed on his ranch twenty-five miles away. He had driven his team and wagon through the gate, got down to close the gate, and was shot three times. Pat Slaughter and Mal Jowell were seen in that locality the day of the killing. It was plenty obvious who had done it.

Pat Slaughter stayed in the country waiting to take his medicine, and nothing was ever done about it. But Mal Jowell vanished. He turned up near Helena, Montana, where a sheriff tried to arrest him for extradition to Arizona and got lead as an answer. A little later Jowell was captured near Lone Tree, Wyoming, charged with the murder of the Montana sheriff.

He was returned to Helena, tried and convicted of the murder, and sentenced to be hanged. Yet on the train taking him to prison, he made another desperate effort to escape. It was successful. He jumped headlong through the train window with the train running forty-five miles an hour. Somehow he worked his way down to the Slaughter ranch on the Black River, secured a fresh mount and chuck, and vanished into the forest.

I knew Jowell well. Before the trouble he had eaten off my table at my ranch in Greer; he’d ridden the range with me, helped to brand my calves and drive cattle to the railroad. Now I was with the Arizona Rangers when the news traveled around my country that Mal Jowell had returned.

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