Harry Morse was elected Alameda County (Calif.) sheriff in 1864. Initially, his “baby face” inspired criminals to call him “El Muchacho,” meaning “the boy.” However, because of Morse’s relentless pursuit of criminals, like the pursuit of killer Joe Newell described here, he was destined to be relieved of this demeaning moniker by the same criminals who gave it to him.
The crime
On September 20, 1868, Joe Newell passed the farm of Morgan Leighton. When Newell’s bulldog attacked Leighton’s little “yipper,” Leighton intervened on behalf of his own dog. His rough handling of Newell’s bulldog inspired Newell to impulsively draw his revolver and unjustifiably shoot the farmer through the eye.
Leighton shouted his last words, “Murder! Wife, I’m shot!” to his wife, who had witnessed it all. With that said, Leighton died.
Newell, realizing he had committed murder, fled the county.
During this era, many sheriffs would not pursue anyone out of their county, meaning that leaving the county of the crime was a murderer’s get-out-of-jail-free card. Morse was unique in that a murderer would not go unpunished just because time, distance, and great effort stood between him and the arrest of the suspect. Morse strongly believed that for the commission of a crime to be discouraged, apprehension and punishment of the criminal must be inevitable.
Before beginning this pursuit, Morse gathered a detailed description of the killer. In doing so, he even stopped at the local bootmaker to get a good description of the boots the cobbler had just made for the man.
Morse discovered the boots were a fine pair, whose soles were fastened on the bottom with “copper brads forming a heart.” The bootmaker added Newell was wearing checkered pants, pronounced his S-es with a noticeable lisp and was mounted on a fine roan horse, standing “14 hands tall, branded with J.R.”
Morse sent the description of his suspect over the wire and received information back that a man matching Newell’s description had asked for directions to the mines in Los Angeles County — nearly 400 miles away. Morse, now provided with a direction of travel, prepared for his pursuit.
The long trek
Morse acquired several mustangs for the long journey and deputized San Leandro Constable Lewis C. Morehouse to accompany him. The searchers loaded a light spring wagon with provisions. During the long pursuit, they would live off their provisions of bacon, crackers, coffee and tea, supplementing their meals with game harvested on the trail.
His favorite, quail, would be especially abundant on this journey.
Their initial contacts, made while passing through Visalia, revealed Newell had stopped to feed and water his horse.
In San Joaquin Valley, they were informed that Newell rewarded the hospitality of a shepherd by stealing two heavy homemade blankets.
Further south, the Fresno Ferry ferryman confirmed Newell crossed there just days earlier.
Morse and Morehouse continued south from Elkhorn Station to Fountain Springs, where a Mrs. Hilton said she saw Newell pass through, “riding a small roan mare.” She had paid particular attention to Newell, imagining him to be a desperate murderer on the run. She was simply “gleeful” to have her suspicions confirmed.
The lawmen arrived at the foot of the Greenhorn Mountains and traveled through Kernville (also known as Whiskey Flat). They continued through Havilah, and upon arriving high in the Sierra Nevada, they discovered a fresh grave. Their cursory investigation revealed that a passerby and his wife had found a man robbed and shot dead, so they buried him. Morse suspected their man might be the killer and continued the pursuit with even greater determination.
Near Fort Tejon, a man named Handcock said Newell asked for directions to the Soledad Mines about 10 days earlier.
In Llano Verde, Morse and Morehouse found Newell’s little roan “turned out to die.” Morse later wrote, “The little animal was foot-sore, stiff, and worn down to the skin and bone. She came up to us and we gave her a feed of barley as she seemed sadly in need of it. She looked at us with her melancholy eyes, which said, ‘Thank you,’ as plainly as if she had spoken it.”
They were re-energized not only because they saved the life of the little roan but also because they realized Newell was now on foot. The station keeper at Llano Verde confirmed Newell passed through eight to 10 days earlier and was hiking over the mountains toward the Soledad Mines to find work.
Now, with the occasional heart shape in the boot print left upon the trail urging them on, Morse strapped on his six-gun, saddled a Mustang and split with Morehouse. They agreed Morse would follow the mountain trail on horseback toward the mine. Once arriving, the sheriff would use a cover story that he was “looking for work.” Simultaneously, Morehouse would circle around the mountain, taking the mine road with the wagon and horses to cut off Newell’s escape in the event that he was there.
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However, when Morse reached the mine, he discovered Newell had been there and, as he was unable to find work, was now gone. Newell was revealed to be heading to Los Angeles, a burgeoning town of 5,000 at the time.
Upon arriving in Los Angeles, the lawmen spent four days searching from one end to another but could find no sign of Newell. However, contacts revealed that about five miles out of Los Angeles, construction of the Wilmington to Los Angeles Railroad Line was in progress. Workers were being hired there by the score, so on a hunch, the two set off for the railroad camp.
At the camp, Morse ran into an old friend named McDonald, who, upon hearing of the sheriff’s quest, confirmed one new employee matched Newell’s description but seemed too nice to be a killer. Reportedly, the man had earlier sprained his wrist swinging a sledge and was at that very minute working light duty in the kitchen.
In the camp kitchen, Morse spotted a man with a large knife cutting meat, who was deliberately avoiding the sheriff’s gaze. Morse asked McDonald the name of the man.
“George Hartley,” came the reply.
Morse called to the man from a safe distance, “George, I want to talk with you a few minutes. Lay down your knife and step this way so that we can sit down to it.”
“Hartley” laid down his knife and the two sat on the benches alongside one of the tables.
Morse noticed a bead of nervous sweat drip off “Hartley’s” nose as his eyes “quailed.” Modern officers would come to call this simply “the look.”
Morse took note that the man physically matched Newell to a T and was wearing pants with a checkered material as a patch as well as a once-fine pair of boots, worn and cut down from a long journey. Morse described the moment later: “Reaching down, I seized one of his feet and held it up so I could see the sole of the boot. Great God! How it did startle me, and at the same time, how exultant I felt. For in the center of the sole was a figure of the heart, made with copper nails.”
Morse arrested the man, who argued, “But I’m George Hartley.”
Unmoved by the pleadings, the sheriff loaded the suspected killer into the wagon, handcuffed. As the lawmen turned north for the 400-mile return trip to Alameda County, the prisoner turned to the sheriff, whose reputation had preceded him, and with the killer’s trademark lisp asked, “Is your name Morthe?”
“It is,” replied Morse.
The prisoner continued, “I thought tho,” and he burst into tears. “I am Joe Newell, the man you theek. Great God, how I’ve thuffered. I did not mean to kill the old man.”
Morse and his partner, now assured they had their man, retraced their epic trail, recrossing mountains, rivers and the Mojave Desert in their monumental effort to bring one man back in the name of justice. Once the three were back in Alameda, Newell was tried and convicted not of murder but manslaughter. The jury and judge saved Newell from a noose, possibly moved by his sincere-looking contrition, made more sympathetic by his lisp. Newell would serve five years for the killing of Leighton.
Conclusion
Morse had a stellar 48-year career, successfully bringing countless criminals to justice. Out of respect for Morse’s many determined pursuits, like this one, criminals of his day ceased to refer to him as “El Muchacho.” Instead, they came to call him “El Diablo,” because once Morse was on your trail, there was nowhere to hide, since this law dog would “chase you into Hell.”
Resources
1. “Lawman, The Life and Times of Harry Morse, 1835-1912,” by John Boessenecker
2. “Law Dogs II: More Great Cops in American History,” by Lt. Dan Marcou
