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Gang Busters, as you may recall, was billed as “the only national program that brings you authentic police case histories.” It was, basically, “America’s Most Wanted” for the Golden Age of Radio. The radio host was telling the story of a wanted criminal named John Harvey Bugg, who back in 1945 had kidnapped a county sheriff, robbed him, and tied him to a telephone pole. Listeners were urged to be on the lookout for a man who walked with a limp, loved horses, and had the word “LOVE” tattooed across the knuckles of his left hand. “Why — that’s Cowboy Jim!” Pauline exclaimed. Cowboy Jim Williams was a popular 31-year-old ex-rodeo cowboy who, after several years of living the “Amarillo by Morning” lifestyle following the rodeo circuit, had settled down in Gearhart and taken a job at a riding academy. He’d been doing the job for a year by then, teaching kids like Pauline and Navarre how to handle ponies. He was good with kids, even better with horses, and widely loved. But he always kept strips of masking tape wrapped around the knuckles of his left hand, and rebuffed the kids’ requests to know why. Pauline, in particular, had been very curious about the tape, and one time after she pressed him on it, he actually got angry. Now, she thought, she knew why. So she shared her suspicions, first with the editor of the local paper (who didn’t take her seriously) and then with one of Gearhart’s police officers, who passed the tip up the line. A couple weeks passed, during which time Cowboy Jim himself heard the rumors and realized things were about to get too hot for him in Gearhart. Obviously loath to leave the community that had been so welcoming to him, he went to Hillsboro to lie low in a friend’s house and see if anything should happen. Unfortunately for Cowboy Jim, the FBI, when it learned about him, did some legwork and learned his Hillsboro friends’ address. So after three agents came to Gearhart and found him gone, they checked there — and found Cowboy Jim trying to hide behind a baby’s crib, his fancy Western boots sticking out behind it and giving the game away. He was taken into custody without incident. “Cowboy Jim” Bugg’s story was an interesting one; he’d committed an extraordinarily serious offense — menacing, robbing, and kidnapping a law officer — almost by accident. What had happened was this: As a young buck working on an oilfield in Seminole, Oklahoma, Bugg one day bought a Buick. The car’s price was $2,200, but the salesman told him he could finance the whole price if they’d do a little paperwork dance: They’d write the sale up at $2,700; Bugg would write a check for $500; and the dealership would “lose” the check. That way, the finance company would think it wasn’t financing the whole price of the car. Bugg wrote the check and drove away the car. Then … the dealership cashed the check. Or, rather, tried to. Bugg’s $500 check bounced halfway to low-Earth orbit. Several days later, Bugg drove his new car to Greenfield, Mo., to visit his parents, and was met there by the local sheriff, who arrested him for passing a bad check. Bugg, angry and frightened, made a really bad decision. With his hand in his jacket pocket as if gripping a pistol, he bluffed the sheriff into dropping his gun, then ordered the sheriff to drive him, in his new car, to the dealership in Oklahoma to straighten out the whole bounced-check thing. But when they crossed the state line, the sheriff told Bugg he’d just violated the Lindberg Act — under which kidnapping someone and transporting him or her across state lines was a federal offense. Bugg freaked out, and apparently decided that if he was now a criminal, he might as well go the whole hog. Accordingly, first he ditched his Buick and, with the sheriff, hailed a taxi. He then forced the taxi driver to drive a short distance out of town before stopping, robbing him and leaving him tied to a tree by the side of the road. Several hours and another state line later, he stopped and tied the sheriff to a telephone pole, robbed him of all his cash, and fled alone. Abandoning the stolen taxi a short time later, he made his way west as a fugitive. He kept a step or two ahead of the law for several years by following the rodeo circuit. He was already a seasoned rodeo cowboy — he’d won about $3,000 at the Madison Square Garden rodeos in New York in 1941 and 1942. Now he got back into the business as a way to make money while on the lam. “I made pretty good money working at rodeos,” he told reporters, “but I was afraid of the publicity. They almost caught me at Redding. Some friends tipped me off and I headed north.” Now, tracked down at last, Bugg waived extradition and eagerly took a visiting Oklahoma sheriff up on an offer to drive him back east to face the music. Once there, he appeared in court. The riding academy posted bail for him, and he promptly journeyed back to Gearhart to resume teaching his students. When he arrived, about 30 youngsters gathered to give him a rousing welcome. Pauline and Navarre weren’t there, but both were among the very first to sign a petition to the Oklahoma authorities urging clemency. Bugg was eventually sentenced to 10 years, but became eligible for parole after 15 months. His Oregon friends petitioned the parole board on his behalf, and the riding academy assured him he could have his job back when he got out; but I have been unable to learn whether or when this happened.
THE MORAL OF THE STORY, in the newspaper and on Gang Busters alike, was always, “Crime Does Not Pay.” For these two onetime outlaws, that maxim was definitely borne out. Both lost decades of their lives through bad decisions they made when they were young and full of too much spunk. But bad though their luck might have been in life, it could have been a whole lot worse for both of them. Both of them were, at least, lucky in their choice of places to hide out, and the friends they made while on the lam in the quiet parts of Oregon.
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