It’s been five long years since we moved away from the border. I miss it, but it’s still only 20 miles away. It is a wild and crazy place, full of contradictions. Cultures collide, then mix and sometimes even meld. People are sociable, opinionated and thorny as the Cholla cactus. One minute they are cussing the illegals, the next they complain about the Border Patrol as they pour salsa on their chorizo. Life is never dull. The Border Bandits we had in the beginning turned out to be from our side of the line. Life in our rural county attracts people that don’t like rules. Sagging trailers and falling down shacks sit within sight of mansions. Nobody cares. Life is as good as it will ever get for most. Want to know more about life on the Arizona border? I figure I own about 80 miles of it between Naco and Nogales. Good country, full of adventure. My favorite way to run the border was on my dirt bike. I made it marginally street legal for the highway sections. Come along on one of my rides.
A good dirt bike is handy in the border country. My XR400R
Let’s start at Paul’s Spur, east of Naco. Limestone plant, CTI, whatever that stands for. You can wash the white dust off later, it’s just where you turn to hit the wall, err… border fence. This is one of the few places you can drive right beside the international border. About fifteen years ago the Feds put in a multimillion-dollar Bollard fence. It’s steel posts with concrete footers. For a while a couple of local welders were kept busy mending holes in it. Those battery-powered cut-off tools can get through the steel in a Hong Kong minute. Still, it’s easier to use a ladder or find a wash that can’t be fenced. The more agile simply climb it. In towns like Naco and Nogales, they tunnel under it. At least the “wall” keeps the 18 wheelers out. Five miles north of the border is Highway 80. If you stopped your van there in the 90’s, a half dozen illegals would have tried to jump in. There are dozens of Border Patrol Agents in the area. One on every ridge, plus untold numbers of electronic sensors. I always feel I’m being watched here, because I am. Back in 2012 there was a big shootout in the hills between the border and the highway. Three agents checking on a sensor alert got in a shootout in the dark. One agent fired, hitting his partner. The third agent killed the shooter. We also lose a lot of agents due to off-duty accidents. One made the mistake of telling his drinking buddies in Cananea, Sonora where he worked. They dumped his body in the desert.
About 8 miles down the road I hit the twin Nacos. Naco Sonora was the scene of numerous battles in the Mexican Revolution. In 1928, Naco Arizona gained the distinction of being the first American city to be bombed from the air. The tiny border crossing at Naco is a good place to cross. You never have to wait in line. The first person you meet on the Mexican side is a soldier with an M-16. He’s wearing a ski mask. He’ll rotate out in a week or so. They don’t want the cartel getting to him. The locals and the snowbirds go to Naco to get cheap prescriptions and dental work. Others go for the night life.
Naco Border Crossing
In the old days, the Naco border fence was made out of recycled steel runway panels. I once watched a guy sitting on top of it one block from the border crossing. When the coast was clear, he signaled and two guys jumped over the fence. They ran to an abandoned car in someone’s back yard. The best use anyone in Naco ever found for the fence was the annual cross-border volleyball game. The Border Patrol officiated.
International Volleyball game. Naco Arizona vs Naco Sonora
Just west of Naco is a place you have all seen on TV news. John Ladd has a ranch there. No politician comes to Arizona without visiting his ranch for a photo op. Ladd may tell them a few tales about people crossing his land, but lately, they mostly get caught. Afterall, there are 900 agents stationed at the Brian Terry Station, hardly a mile away. You may remember Terry as the agent who was killed near Nogales in the botched “Fast and Furious” gun tracking episode in 2010. Critics of “Fast and Furious” completely lose sight of the fact that the project demonstrated that the Mexican cartels were arming themselves at Arizona gun shops.
Before losing two Senate races Martha McSally visited the border at John Ladd’s ranch
Nearby Bisbee, like all of the towns along the border, gets a lot of cross-border shoppers, eager to stimulate their economy. Every few months, Bisbee has an auction of seized vehicles. Human traffickers from across the line normally buy older cars in Arizona without bothering to register them. It can get a bit dicey if the former owner tries to reclaim the vehicle. Once, while drinking my morning coffee, I saw two unmarked trucks chasing a Cadillac across an irrigation ditch. It bounced to a stop in my neighbor’s yard after tearing out his fence. Five illegals bailed out, only to be quickly captured with the help of a helicopter. Bob, my neighbor, was fuming about who was going to pay for his fence. An agent ran a vehicle check and found that the car hadn’t been reported stolen. Since it landed on private property, Bob got to keep it. I bought it and my wife and daughter drove it for years. We called it “Cruella’s deVille.”
On my way out of Naco, I pass a small remnant of the Mexican Revolutio0n. After Pancho Villa’s raid on Columbus, New Mexico, General Pershing set up Camp Naco to secure this part of the border. Much of it still stands. Passing the camp, I head north toward Highway 92, cross it and enter the foothills of the Mule Mountains. I can no longer follow the border because it is all private land and John Ladd doesn’t like people like me scaring his cattle. As I look back over my shoulder, I can see the ugly scar that is the rusting border fence crossing the valley. Picking my way through protruding rocks in the unimproved road, I feel less like I’m being watched. All the sensors and cameras are pointing back toward the border. Behind me is a flapping blue pennant denoting a water station. Thank you, good Samaritans. None of us want to see people dying in the desert. The agents who got filmed kicking over water jugs were thankfully not ours.
Camp Naco is a reminder of our effort to control the border during the Mexican Revolution This guy was not one of our local agents. They are better than that.
About 20 years ago we were inundated with a force of militia-like border watchers. They came to show the government how to stop them damn Meskins. They brought enough weapons to start a small war. Luckily, they didn’t shoot anyone or cause any international incidents. (I saw a Mexican TV station interviewing a few of them across the border fence.) They happily waved at passing cars, not knowing that some of those waving back were probably illegal border crossers. (Amateurs can’t tell the difference.) The leader of the effort was Chris Simcox, publisher of the Tombstone Tumbleweed. He called his group the Minuteman Civil Defense Corps. He used conservative media to hype the event. Not long after the event, Simcox was ousted from the organization he had formed. In 2016 he was convicted of child sex abuse. We still get small groups of self-appointed vigilantes monitoring the border. They claim they give intel to the Border Patrol, but they mostly just shoot up the local cacti. In 2016 an undercover reporter for Mother Jones infiltrated a camp of the Three Percent United Patriots on my route to Nogales. What he wrote was a bit unsettling. I Went Undercover With a Border Militia. Here’s What I Saw. – Mother Jones
The Minute Man Civil Defense Corps in action
O.K., let’s get back to the highway for a mile in order to cross the San Pedro River. The river flows north out of Mexico providing a natural highway for wildlife and, yes illegal border crossers. It is the only free-flowing river left in our part of Arizona. With its lazy flow and tall cottonwoods, it has the feel of an oasis. Birders love it. Beaver were returned to it in the ‘90’s. The riparian area is protected by the Bureau of Land Management and monitored by the Border patrol. Until recently, the BP did a good job of surveilling the river without damaging its sensitive eco-system. To impede vehicle traffic, they placed some huge boulders in the river bed and a steel rail fence on the bank. Sensors and cameras ensured that any illegal pedestrians were caught. That wasn’t enough for the Trump Administration. The government installed a huge Rube-Goldberg set of gates across the river. They failed to consult with the BLM, the county and apparently any hydrologists before erecting this monstrosity. We all expect one of our powerful monsoon rains to take it out any day. The resultant flash flood may wreak havoc downstream.
The Trump Administration erected this barricade across the San Pedro River. It will probably get washed away
Crossing the river, we now arrive at beautiful downtown Palominas where I lived for 21 years. Highway 92 runs parallel to the border here. It’s only three miles away. All of the hills and the big San Jose Mountain you see to the south are in Mexico. Coronado decided this was a good place to enter the U.S. in 1540. Perhaps the Apache should have asked him for his papers. The faith healer, A.A. Allen, set up the headquarters of his ministry here in 1958. He called it “Miracle Valley”. People came from all over to receive their healings from Allen. In 1970, Allen turned up dead in the Jack Tar Hotel in San Francisco. His followers had a hard time accepting that he died of alcohol abuse. One of Allen’s disciples started the Christ Miracle healing Center in Miracle Valley in the Eighties. Their cult-like behavior led to a big shootout with the Sherriff’s Department in 1982. Two died at the scene and two others, including a Deputy Sherriff, died later from their injuries. Many of my neighbors witnessed the melee. Palominas is a weird place, but interesting.
A.A. Allen’s Miracle Valley Headquarters. Palominas, AZ. Miracle Valley Shootout 1982
One of the fun things to do in Palominas is to watch car chases. An agent turned his cruiser over at our Cana Street turnoff once. He had run over the spikes thrown out for the guy he was pursuing. Another time we were sitting in the Morning Star Café when a truck with four blown tires slid into the parking lot barely missing my truck. The driver bailed out and started running. He didn’t get far. The truck, probably stolen in Phoenix, was full of bundles of marijuana. Sadly, illegal immigrants have caused a few fatal crashes as they try to outrun the law. In 2004, a crash near Sierra Vista killed six, including a local couple and injured another 22, all apparently border crossers.
From Palominas, I head south on dirt roads approaching the border. When I hit Border Monument Road, I turn right following the border west. I pass Glenn Spencer’s “ranch”. Glenn is a retired Border Patrol Agent who feels like he needs to keep fighting the good fight. His small acreage sits right at the border. He runs an organization with the official-sounding name of The American Border Patrol. He used to get in trouble fairly often. One night he heard a noise and shot up his neighbor’s garage. Another time Air Force jets had to be scrambled when he overflew the international border. He also got caught with a prohibited weapon at nearby Coronado National Memorial. Lately, he seems to have reformed, concentrating on border surveillance technologies. He’s been trying to sell them to the Border Patrol.
Using his own drones and cameras, Spencer monitors the border
My next stop is Montezuma Pass at the southern end of the Huachuca Mountains. From here, I can see far into Mexico and for a long way along the border in both directions. At the foot of the mountains is the beginning of the Arizona Trail. The trail runs along the crest of the Huachucas before meandering off to the west. In the old days illegal entrants used to follow it to the various canyons on the east side of the mountains. There, they were picked up by smugglers, often American, who drove them north. These days, the Border Patrol has a significant number of agents and surveillance equipment at the pass. Nobody gets by and very few local hikers have ever followed the trail to its terminus the Utah line.
The Arizona Trail starts on the border beneath Montezuma Pass
About 15 miles to the north of Montezuma Pass is a tethered balloon called the Aerostat. Its radar can detect low-flying aircraft trying to sneak into the country. It has crashed three times that I know of. The last time it fell in someone’s back yard.
The Aerostat, Fort Huachuca, Arizona. It crashes a lot.
High above, an unmanned aerial vehicle looks for signs of smuggling. Years ago, I had a fixed wing Border Patrol aircraft circle me as I was loading landscape boulders into the back of my truck. I guess he thought they were bundles of weed. These days, the Border Patrol has a Blackhawk helicopter with a machine gun. (I have stopped collecting boulders in washes next to the border.)
The Border Patrol has a constant presence at Montezuma Pass
Well, I’ll stop at the pass, pausing to admire the beautiful, unspoiled San Raphael Valley to the west. I won’t make Nogales this time, but I can see the sacred Baoquivare Peak beyond the town. Don’t believe all the shit you hear on Fox News about the border. It truly is a wonderful place.
“Blee-Blee-O-Leh, Hi-O-Leh, Hi-O-Lay,” a song I still can hear,
Though the rest of Sixty-Three, really ain’t all that clear.
Gunny Buell countin’ cadence, beneath his Smokey Bear,
Chest full of ribbons, though we never asked him where.
There at the Depot, the Grinder was his home,
Never let him catch you, lettin’ your eyeballs roam.
Sixty pair of corded heels a’ clickin’ like as one,
He’d make us all Marines before his job was done.
Corporal Kempton, far from Erin’s emerald shore,
Wasn’t quite a Limey, so he had to join the Corps.
Always wore his greens when he took us for a run,
Never missed a step, ran backwards just for fun.
Ashbrook was a Sergeant with an impish grin,
He swore an Irish pennant was a mortal sin.
Torment was his forte, his weapon was PT,
“Maggot, y’er a squirrely four-eyed cluck* to me!”
Staff Sergeant Anderson was A-jay squared away,
But if you ever crossed him, there’d be hell to pay.
“Drop your cheap civilian ways, do it just this minute,
‘afore I unscrew your head, and hafta’ spit* right in it!”
And Lord I must confess, we Privates were a mess,
“Recruiters scraped the barrel,” the Gunny would profess.
In our yellow sweatshirts, the fuzz upon our domes,
First time most of us had ever missed our homes.
McDaniel couldn’t cut it, got sent to STP,
Then he’s o’er the hill, wantin’ to be free.
Spears he went a missin’ middle of the day,
D.I said he had to go, Private Spears was gay.
And Jonesy took a walk, Runway Number One,
With a Section Eight his Gyrene days were done.
At Matthews did we snap in, our rifles at the fore,
Steven’s broken glasses, caused him not to score.
Spent a week in Balboa, dropped out of a run,
Lungs were full of phlegm, wasn’t very fun.
Gomez crossed the border, Smitty, he was a Black,
When the goin’ got real tough, both would have y’er back.
Beers, he was slacker, never could keep up,
Passed out in the ranks, such a buttercup.
All the rest would pass the test, Uncle Sam’s Marines,
Follow them straight to hell, got fightin’ in their genes.
Semper Fi!
LDT Nov 10, ‘21
No, he ain’t a bulldo0g!
GLOSSARY:
-Gunny- Marine rank of Gunnery Sergeant (E-7)
-Cadence- A Drill Instructor’s call to keep the troops in step. Every D.I. has his own unique rhythmical style. Cadence calls: https://youtu.be/X52lJG2glQU
-Smokey Bear- The Campaign Hat worn by D.I.s.
-Depot- Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD) San Diego
– Irish pennant- A loose thread hanging from one’s uniform.
– Yellow sweatshirt- One of the first items issued to Marine recruits was a yellow sweatshirt with a red eagle, globe and anchor. It was a sign of a newbie. We hated them.
– Grinder- Parade field.
– STP- Special Training Platoon. Out-of-shape and overweight recruits were sent there for extra physical training.
-Over the Hill- Absent without Leave (AWOL). I saw McDaniel at the Separation Barracks six months later. He never made it out of Boot Camp
Gay- Nobody was gay in 1963. Marines used a lot of Homophobic slurs. To SSgt Anderson’s credit, he was completely professional and non-judgmental when he told us about Spears. I got the impression that he had talked to Spears’ parents.
-D.I.- Drill Instructor. NCO responsible for all aspects of Marine Recruit Training.
-Runway Number One- MCRD San Diego is next to Lindberg Field. We had a guy who was caught sleep-walking down the main runway in his skivvie shorts. Not a good habit for someone serving on a ship or in combat.
-Section Eight- Discharge for mental reasons.
-Gyrene- Archaic nickname for Marine.
-Snap in- The first of three weeks of training at the rifle range is devoted entirely to assuming the offhand (standing), sitting and prone firing positions (snapping in). Two days before qualification, a recruit got too close to the receiver when he fired, shattering his glasses. Had he qualified, our Head D.I. could have claimed the coveted 100% qualification distinction.
-Matthews- Camp Matthews, where recruits got their rifle training. (Now closed.)
-P.T.- Physical Training.
-Balboa- Balboa Naval Hospital. I spent a week there with pneumonia. Got the Doc to release me a bit too soon.
The Valley County Courthouse The Jail is on the left
I first heard the story from Tom (T.H.) Markle sixty years ago. As a young man he had come West to seek his fortune. He got off the Great Northern passenger train in a little place called Glasgow Montana one morning in 1903. Glasgow had started off as a railroad siding in 1887, but had slowly grown as settlers, ranchers and railway workers poured in. In 1893 it became the County seat of Valley County. Much bigger than it is today, the county occupied all of Northeastern Montana from the Missouri Breaks to the North Dakota line. This meant it had a modern court house and a two-story county jail. Both of these institutions were badly needed as the area was rife with outlaws, rustlers, claim-jumpers and the occasional grifter who got off the train with a carpet bag full of nefarious schemes. In 1894 Kid Curry had killed Pike Landusky in the nearby Little Rockies. Then in 1901 Curry held up a train at Wagner Montana while the Valley County Sheriff was on it. A decade earlier the Sundance Kid had also tried to rob the train at Malta. Both outlaws would use their Montana resumes to one day join Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch.
After stepping off the train, Tom picked up his meager baggage and headed down 5th Street looking for lodging. Young Tom had a head for business and just enough cash to buy a wagon and team. He was going into the draying business, hauling cargo between the railroad and the scattered farms and ranches of the sparsely populated county.
As he approached Third Avenue, he could hear a commotion in the courthouse square. A crowd had gathered looking up at the second story of the courthouse. Tom stepped into the street to get a better look.
“My God!” he exclaimed to himself. “There’s a body hanging from the window! What in the hell have I gotten myself into?”
Turns out the body belonged to a petty criminal named Jack Brown. His chief crime was throwing his lot in with the wrong jailbird. I’ll get back to Brown later.
William Hardee was a drifting cowboy with a bad temper and an even worse opium habit. He had wandered into Northeastern Montana from Wyoming, looking for easy money to feed his addiction. In 1901 he partnered with a young man named Charles Snearley in a wild horse roundup operation. The frontier wasn’t quite closed and plenty of wild ponies still roamed the unfenced plains. It was easy pickin’s for a couple of enterprising cowboys. Just build a catch pen on the route to a water hole and drive them into it.
At first things went well for the pair. They managed to corral a small herd of the wild critters. But somehow on September 3rd, 1901 at the ranch of J.P. Smith near Culbertson, their little lot of horses managed to escape. All their hard work had come to naught. Hardee had desperately needed the cash to feed his opium habit. He blamed his young partner for the loss. They argued. Things got out of hand. Hardee threw his revolver down and dared Snearley to pick it up. Before Snearley could react, Hardee grabbed a shotgun and fired. Gravely wounded in the arm and lungs Snearley fell to the ground. A telegram summoned Dr. Belyea from Williston to treat the his wounds. It was hopeless. Snearley died in agony. Later, the Billings Gazette would quote Hardee as saying it was, “necessary to kill his man.”
The magnitude of his actions soon penetrated Hardee’s drug-fogged brain and he decided to make himself scarce. He jumped on a horse and lit out over the prairie. The North Dakota line was close. Hell, he even had a brother in the penitentiary there. Maybe he could hide out. Alas, it wouldn’t be long until the long arm of the law would catch up with him. He was captured when he sought refuge at a local ranch. Soon he would be residing in the formidable Valley County Jail.
Hardee was tried in Glasgow and sentenced to death by hanging for the Snearley murder in December of 1901. As he languished in jail his attorney, George E. Hurd, filed an appeal based on insanity. Hardee’s sister, Lottie, had provided an affidavit stating that their Grandmother in Iowa had become insane and committed suicide. She also stated that an uncle had died a lunatic. Dr. Mimmiminger of Glasgow asserted in his affidavit that, “Hardee was insane at the moment he committed the murder, and furthermore declares the man to be afflicted with homicidal mania. He further shows that Hardee has for years been a slave to morphine and liquor, a combination which has unhinged his mind and made him irresponsible for his acts.” The good Doctor also mentioned that since Hardee’s incarceration he had been prescribing him 12 grains of morphine daily to keep him alive. This was enough for Judge Tattan to delay the scheduled January 22nd execution date. More legal maneuvering kept the case active until the Montana Supreme Court upheld Hardee’s conviction in April of 1903.
The same day Hardee got the news about his death sentence being upheld by the Montana Supreme Court, he tried his first escape. At 7 O’clock in the evening on April 11, 1903, Hardee and two other prisoners, Albert Jackson and Jack Brown, broke out of the Valley County Jail. The prisoners had dug a hole through the brick wall at the back of the jail. They escaped while jailer John Dillard was away on a brief errand. Hardee and Brown made their way to the nearby Milk River and turned East. About 11 O’clock the next morning they were found hiding in a coulee about 15 miles from Glasgow by Under Sheriff Rutter and jailer Dillard. Weakened from his past bad habits, Hardee offered no resistance. Brown got an extra six months tacked onto his sentence for escaping jail.
Hardee spent the next six weeks getting himself in better shape. The gallows were about to go up for his scheduled execution on June 26, 1903. This highly anticipated event would be the first ever legal hanging in Valley County. To save his skin, he needed a plan. This time he would have new accomplices. He persuaded fellow inmates, Fred McKinney, and a man named Pierce to join his escape. Once again Jack Brown agreed to go along. They watched the guards and looked for their chance to escape.
On June 6, 1903 they saw their opportunity. At about 4 PM they sprang into action. Under Sheriff Harry Rutter was in the cell at the time. Jailer Dillard came in to get the dishes. The inmates grabbed and overpowered both men. One of the conspirators ran into the kitchen where he found a Winchester rifle. They also armed themselves with a Colt 45 revolver, probably taken from Rutter. Then they lay in wait for the other guard, Jack Williams, who had been on some errand in uptown Glasgow. As Williams opened the door, he saw the escapees. Turning to run, he was shot in the back with the Colt. The wound was mortal. Williams would linger until the next morning before expiring. Dillard and Ritter were badly beaten. The Great Glasgow Jailbreak had begun.
Armed and dangerous, they headed for the cover of the brush and Cottonwoods of the Milk River. They ditched a pair of shoes and some clothing before swimming across. An hour after the jailbreak three of the men were spotted by a ranch hand near the river. The quickly assembled posse was only 15 or 20 minutes behind.
Early on Pierce and the hapless Brown separated from the other two outlaws. Pierce apparently headed East toward North Dakota. Brown re-crossed the Milk River and headed West along the railroad tracks. Arriving late at night in Hinsdale, he sought help at a hotel claiming he had just been put off the train. He was fed and given a hat before going on his way. Brown was captured near Hinsdale on June 10, 1903 by Joe Miller and Under Sheriff Ritter. Having recovered from his beating, Ritter had been tipped off as to Brown’s whereabouts. Brown said he had lost his Winchester while swimming across the river and offered no resistance. He was returned to the Valley County Jail, this time facing far more serious charges.
Hardee and McKinney had taken two horses from a ranch near Glasgow. At first it was assumed that the pair were heading east toward the North Dakota line with Pierce. The Milk and Missouri River valleys were scoured carefully all the way to Wolf Point. Though rumors of their whereabouts persisted, the posse found nothing. On reaching the Missouri Hardee and McKinney had turned west and headed upstream. They were bound for the Missouri Breaks. The rough and barren Breaks had been a favorite hiding place for all manner of outlaws for decades. Hardee had some familiarity with the country from his days as a cowboy.
A witness saw Hardee and McKinney skulking around the Missouri, thirty miles south of Glasgow. Hardee had a bandage wrapped around his head and was carrying a Winchester. McKinney was in his undershirt and trousers with rags tied around his shoeless feet. At Stevenson’s ranch near the river they abandoned their horses and stole a boat. They managed to row it across the river before Sheriff Harry Costner’s posse could catch up with them. Costner and the posse found their own transport and crossed the river in hot pursuit.
On June 20, 1903 Hardee and McKinney holed up in some brush on a hill as the posse approached. One of the posse members, Charles R. Hill, had been a schoolmate of Hardee’s from his days in Buffalo, Wyoming. Hill, who had a ranch nearby at Snow Creek, was reminiscing with the other posse members about Hardee. He even mentioned being a part of a Wyoming posse that had once pursued Hardee. He revealed that he hadn’t been too diligent in his earlier posse duties, not wanting to shoot his old acquaintance.
As the posse combed the brush looking for the outlaws a shot rang out. Hill toppled from his horse, shot square through the eye. He died instantly. The pinned down posse returned fire, but with little effect. The outlaws had good cover behind the rocks and brush. They did catch a glimpse of one of the fugitives moving through the brush, but apparently failed to hit him.
Earlier, posse member Frank Loomis had separated from the group. Hearing the firing, he had hastened to make his way back. A shot rang out from behind a hill, narrowly missing his head. It was McKinney making his escape. Loomis took cover until it was safe to rejoin the rest of the posse. With nothing to shoot at, the posse hunkered down and waited. The hot afternoon faded into a long, anxious night.
At daybreak the posse crept forward to reconnoiter the hideout used by the fugitives. They found Hardee lying dead in a pool of his own blood, shot through the lungs. McKinney was gone. He was quickly burried near where he fell. There was no ceremony.
By now, word had spread throughout the scattered ranches and homesteads of the river country. One desperate outlaw remained. McKinney was armed, desperate and dangerous. No telling what he would do to save his own skin.
After 14 days of the chase, some posse members were worn out and had to return to their homes. The Sheriff recruited new posse members from the local ranches and more men arrived from Glasgow. That evening, he renewed his pursuit of McKinney. Everyone was on the alert, rifles and handguns always at the ready.
The Darnell Ranch was located on the South side of the Missouri some 80 miles southwest of Glasgow. Just about dark on June 24, one of the Darnell daughters was making a trip to fetch something from the icehouse. Sensing something was out of place in the darkened dirt-covered dugout, she summoned her father. As the two of them approached, McKinney appeared with a Winchester rifle. He raised the rifle and aimed at Darnell. The weapon jammed and McKinney struggled to chamber a round with the malfunctioning lever-action . As he fumbled with the weapon, Darnell’s daughter rushed to the house to get a rifle for her Dad. Thankfully she returned in time.
Aiming his rifle, Darnell commanded McKinney to put up his hands and surrender. McKinney refused and made a dash to escape. Darnell fired, striking the outlaw in the arm. McKinney fell, but got up and started to run again. Darnell demanded his surrender once more. The outlaw responded that he would rather die before he would quit. Darnell’s next shot hit him in the lower back tearing through the intestines. This time McKinney was down for good. He lingered for another 3 hours before expiring. As he lay in pain he lamented that Hardee had only lasted 3 or 4 minutes after being shot by the posse.
Meanwhile in Glasgow, the last chapter of the Great Glasgow Jailbreak played out. Word had reached the town about the shootout that had killed posse member Charles Hill. About 10:30 PM an angry mob assembled at the jail and demanded they be given Jack Brown. It didn’t take much persuading to get the still-shaken jailers to turn him over. The vigilantes drug Brown to the 2nd floor of the Court House and put a rope around his neck. They tied the other end to a radiator and threw him out of the window. He gagged and kicked for a few minutes as the crowd watched by lantern light. Then he was dead. The mob left him to hang all night. By morning he was as cold as the radiator he was tied to. The Great Glasgow Jailbreak was over.
Of the four escapees, only Pierce was never accounted for. Pierce is alleged to be the one who killed jailer Jack Williams during the escape. In Buford, North Dakota on June 22, 1903 a billiard hall operator named Kublick was killed by a 30-30 rifle at his establishment at 1:00 AM. It was believed that his killer was the fugitive Pierce.
Tom Markle, stayed on in Glasgow. He became one of the town’s leading citizens and his name still graces the businesses he started.
Thanks to Jack McRae for the following information:
-John Darnall was the rancher who killed Fred McKinney.
-William Hardee and Charlie Hill were buried side by side where Hardee was killed.
-Thanks to Pegg Rutter Cornwell, I have gotten more info on Undersheriff Harry Rutter and corrected the spelling of his name. He is in the Montana Cowboy Hall of Fame. Harry Rutter Was a Cowboy – Montana Pioneer
(There is a findagrave.com memorial for Hardee in the Glasgow Highland Cemetery, but it doesn’t list an actual plot number. Could be just a placeholder.) William Hardee (1870-1903) – Find A Grave Memorial
REFERENCES:
Note: The Great Falls Tribune of 19 June 1931 is said to have the complete story of the Glasgow jailbreak.
The Williston Graphic, Williston, ND, Sep 12, 1901.
There have been many great motorcycles over the years. The Crocker, the Knucklehead Harley, the Triumph and BSA Twins and the Brough Superior were all ahead of their time. They introduced new technologies, went faster and looked better than their predecessors. They all faded into the dustbin of history as better machines took their place. All, except one.
With its connection with the company that made the Enfield rifle, the Royal Enfield Motorcycle Company adopted the slogan “Made Like A Gun”
In 1949, the British Marque, Royal Enfield introduced a new version of its Bullet. It came with a brand-new overhead valve engine affixed to the frame with a recently developed set of telescopic front forks and a revolutionary swing arm rear suspension. Critics said it wouldn’t work. The rear end would be bouncing all over the place. Everyone knew that the only springs a motorcycle needed were on the rider’s seat. Besides, if you went off road you simply stood up and let your knees absorb the bumps.
The Royal Enfield Bullet Trials version was effective in off-road competitions in the late ’40’s and ’50’s.
The critics were soon proven wrong. The new Bullet won two gold medals at the International Six Days Trial. (The ISDT is an endurance run for off-road motorcycles which remains one of the pre-eminent motorcycle competitions in the world.) The Bullet continued to perform well off-road throughout the 1950’s while sales of street versions were strong. By the ‘60’s, however, powerful, light-weight two stroke bikes began to dominate the off-road scene. The Bullet would soldier on as a street bike and military scout/courier machine. India started importing military versions of the Bullet in 1949. They were ideal for patrolling remote stretches of its borders. During the 1950’s, the famous American Indian Motorcycle Company imported Royal Enfields under its own brand name.
Re-brander Bullet as the “Indian” Woodsman (1956)
In its home country of England, the Bullet began to fade in popularity as more modern designs took its place. The invasion of cheap, reliable Japanese bikes in the 1960’s didn’t help. Royal Enfield of England stopped making the Bullet in 1967. Three years later, the whole company folded. That should have been the end of the Bullet story, but it wasn’t. Remember those military models exported to India?
Military version of the Royal Enfield Bullet as used by the Indian Army starting in 1949
Demand for the Bullet by the Indian Army remained strong after their initial 1949 order. In 1955, a factory in India started assembling Bullets from parts kits shipped from England. By the next year, India had the tooling to make its own Bullets for sale to the public. Demand was solid and Indian tariffs kept out the competitors that were killing British motorcycle sales. Sales to private owners soon outstripped the demand of the Army. About 20,000 bullets were built each year. With no competition, the design was frozen in time. Eventually, the machine became an anachronism, prized by people who couldn’t afford or lacked the skills to build a restored classic bike. By 1977, Enfield of India was exporting the bikes back to England. In the ‘90’s it was modified to meet US specifications and small numbers of them began to appear on our highways.
Very few changes were made to the endearing 1949 design over the years of production in India. A Rube-Goldberg linkage was developed to switch the gearshift to the left side on American models. The antiquated drum brakes got bigger. An alternator replaced the gear-driven generator providing brighter lights. Crude smog equipment was added. In the 2000’s Bullets got a much better five-speed gearbox without the sloppy linkage of the old Albion four-speed. Later models even had electric start, but a redundant kick-starter remained for purists. (Bullets were renowned for their ability to start on the first kick.) The final 500cc Bullets with the original frame and engine style rolled off the assembly line in 2007. They were not much different from the first Bullets of fifty-eight years before. Though the new Royal Enfield 650cc twin has won the hearts of many old school enthusiasts, the Bullet remains a timeless classic.
The recently-introduced Royal Enfield 650 Twin is drawing lots of attention for its classic styling
I once owned a 2004 Royal Enfield Bullet “65”. It was an amazingly simple machine. With its tiny Mikarb (Mikuni knockoff) carburetor, it got 60 MPG. In spite of the antiquated design, it was fun to ride. I did find it too slow to use on 65 MPH highways. The big single had a visible thump as it idled at an incredibly low RPM. At higher speeds, the bike vibrated much more than a modern single.
My 2004 Royal Enfield Bullet 65
The drum brakes were marginal. Mine had the newer five-speed transmission, but the rear brake pivot still crossed underneath the engine giving it a sloppy feel. Making matters worse, the pedal was a very flexible, stamped steel design. The front brakes weren’t much better. I planned my stops carefully and never followed too close. Welding was crude and the metallurgy of the alloy cylinder head was weak. A cast rocker arm broke once, leaving me stranded. I had to helicoil several rocker block stud threads when they stripped out of the soft alloy head. Adding to my woes, was a bewildering mixture of metric and Whitworth (British) bolts. I often replaced the latter with US thread bolts and aircraft locknuts. Removing the head was problematic because the head-bolt washers were so soft they riveted themselves to the studs. A weld on the fuel tank broke. Engine vibration required constant tightening of bolts and the front fender stays broke from the stress. The drive chain was an incredibly stretchy Diamond brand. I replaced it with a better chain at a thousand miles. Tires were high-quality Avons, but in a smaller size than I would have preferred. Tire options were limited due to the 19-inch wheel size.
Though I loved the Enfield, my 400cc dirt bike with stock gearing was at least 15 MPH faster and a lot more reliable. Eventually, I parted ways with the Bullet and got an f650 BMW for street riding. Then the retro-styled Royal Enfield 650 Twin came out. It is said to be a solid design. It will do the “Ton” (100 MPH). Too late for me…
Today is the 105th running of the Indianapolis 500. As a 13 year-old I listened to the 1958 race on KLTZ radio in Glasgow. The year before there had been a technological revolution in cars. Someone got the idea to lay the Offenhauser engine that dominated the race on its side. This lowered the profile of the cars, making them faster. With the hood open, the cars looked a little weird. The entire drivetrain was shifted off the center line. Sam Hanks won the ’57 race using this design. By the ’58 race, it was obvious you couldn’t win without a “lay-down” engine. That race was marred by a first lap crash that took the life of one of my favorite drivers, Pat O’Conner. The crash took out half the field. Jimmy Bryan won in the same car Hanks had used the year before. A rookie named A.J Foyt made his debut at the 1958 race.
The 1958 Indy 500 first lap crash that took the life of racing great Pat O’Connor
Film of the 1958 Indianapolis 500 race, to include the crash that claimed the life of Pat O’Connor https://youtu.be/RvNK-jXSvFU
In the Fall of 1963, Beatlemania was sweeping the land. Meanwhile, Ford’s Lincoln-Mercury Division was engaged in a spectacular stunt to prove the power and endurance of it’s sporty 289 V-8 equipped Comet Caliente. Five Comets would attempt to circle the high banks of Daytona Motor Speedway for 40 days and nights at over 100 miles an hour.
To accomplish this incredible feat, Mercury fitted its version of the Ford 289 “D”-Code engine with a slightly larger 4 barrel carburetor. (Ford would not allow them to use its more powerful solid-lifter “K” Code 289. Though the Mercury engine fell short of the High Performance Ford HiPo engine’s 271 horsepower, they called it a “K”-Code anyway.) The five cars used in the record attempt were equipped with beefier suspensions, roll bars and heavy-duty 3-speed manual transmissions. They pitted for driver changes and maintenance every two hours. Four of the five Calientes managed to complete the 100,000 miles without incident. The fifth had a broken valve spring, causing it not qualify for the record. It was repaired and set its own record for 10,000 miles at 124.421 miles an hour. The trial was slowed by two tropical storms in the area. About a hundred people; drivers, mechanics, timers and NASCAR officials participated in the affair. Mercury followed up the achievement with an ad campaign touting the slogan, “100,000 Miles at 100 Miles an Hour!’ (Actually, the fastest car averaged 108 MPH.)
Ford made its fabulous small block Windsor engine as used in the record-setting Comets from the 1962 model year to 2002. Displacements ranged from 221 to 351 cubic inches. The most desirable versions were the high performance units like the Ford’s “real” “K”-Code” 289 engine with its 271 horsepower. These are mostly found in 1964 1/2-1967 Mustangs. Carroll Shelby modified the “K”-code to 306 Horsepower and fitted them in his Shelby Mustangs. Another highly sought after version of the Windsor engine is the 1969-70 Boss 302. This engine featured the better breathing cylinder heads from from Ford’s Cleveland engine series. It was rated at a modest 290 horsepower due to insurance considerations. Another great performance version of the Windsor was the High Output 5.0 used primarily in Mustangs from 1987-1993. These engines were very popular and helped end the “Malaise Era” where American cars suffered from a lack of performance. Sadly the miss-labeled “K”-Code engines used on ’64 Comets aren’t really all that desirable unless they are in one of the five 100K cars.
I have owned a bunch of Windsor small-blocks: An original 221, two 260’s, two 289’s, three 302’s, an HO 5.0 (302 CID) and two 351’s. One of the 289’s powered three different cars. The Achille’s heel of the early versions of the Windsors were their wimpy timing chains. They stretch and fail beginning at about 80,000 miles. This was made worse on the early engines which had a resin-fiber bottom timing gear to reduce engine noise. Typically, a worn timing chain will jump one tooth on start-up. The engine will still run, but the ignition and valve timing will be off. If not replaced it will jump again. This time the valves will collide with the pistons leading to a catastrophic engine failure. I got really good at replacing timing sets on all those Windsor engines. One of the few that never needed replacement was the High Output 5.0 on our ’89 Mustang LX. If you find an early Windsor small block with the original timing set, be careful when you change it. Early engines had a spacer on the front of the cam that is not used with most aftermarket timing gears. Neglect to remove it and your new timing chain will eat up your aluminum timing cover. (Don’t ask me why I know this.)
They said he rode with Curry, but we can never tell,
but at the ridin’ and the ropin’ we knew he did excel.
Perhaps he had a long rope, an orphan calf or two,
those farmers and the ranchers never had a clue.
Tall and slim and fitted out in the finest clothes,
Long George was the best hand, everybody knows.
From Pendleton to Calgary, he always won the prize,
started up a ranch ‘neath the big Montana skies.
He had a horse named Tony, at ‘dogging did they shine,
and for the fair Amanda, his lonely heart would pine.
She’s teachin’ school at Simpson out on the lone prairie,
but Long George stole a horse, and then he had to flee.
For two long years he hid out somewhere in the ‘Paws,
the Sheriff looked the other way, said he had no cause.
Then George he starts ‘a thinkin’ that what he done was wrong,
Then sweet Amanda says “I’ll wait, six years ain’t that long.”
He stands before His Honor, heart upon his sleeve,
“Before I go to Deer Lodge, can I get a small reprieve?
And if ever you should grant it, I promise I won’t stray,
You know I gotta’ see my girl, she’s in a family way.”
On Christmas Eve he’s granted his final fervent wish,
He’s headed up the river, with gifts his sweetheart will cherish.
He opens up the stall and hollers out at Tony, “Shoo!
When you hit the mountains, you’ll know what to do.”
Crankin’ up the Hupmobile, he heads out in a rush,
the flurries they are flyin’, road of frozen slush.
Slippin’ and ‘a slidin’, easin’ off the clutch,
Snow is fallin’ harder, the light there isn’t much.
He missed the curve and slid off at the river bend,
Crumpled up on the ice, the car has met its end.
Looks down at his leg, the bone is stickin’ out,
A crate and some denim will fix it up no doubt.
Climbs up on the bank followin’ the road,
Maybe there’s a farmer bringin’ in a load.
He crawls a mile or more freezin’ in the snow,
he’s thinkin’s that it’s gotta’ be twenty below.
Now he’ll never make it, he’s fadin’ and forlorn,
Soon that pretty schoolmarm is gonna’ have to mourn.
He thinks about that pistol underneath the seat,
if he only had it, he’d match Curry’s final feat.
But all he’s got upon him is a pocket knife,
and sweet Amada Spears will never be his wife.
LDT May 14, ‘20
Long George Francis (1874 -1920) was born in Cedar Valley, Utah. He first came to Montana with the Warbonnet Cattle Company in 1894. He is buried in Highland Cemetery in Havre, Montana. Tony, his bay horse, roamed free in the Bear Paw Mountains for years. In 2008 Long George was honored with the Montana Cowboy Hall of Fame Legacy Award.
Schoolteacher Amanda Spears was born in Minnesota in 1890. Old-timers say she left teaching after George’s death. Her baby did not survive.
Outlaws, Outrages and Outright Lies 