In those days this was the bums’ best getaway, and it never failed unless they went to sleep and snored so loud that the brakeman heard them when the train was on a sidetrack. Supplied with food and water, men have traveled across the continent in safety while sheriffs and posses beat up the jungles for them in vain.
Luckily enough, we got into a train that was already “made up” for departure, and it pulled out in an hour. Making ourselves comfortable on top of the cases of merchandise, we took turn about sleeping, and after a ride of almost twenty-four hours, got into Silver Bow Junction, where we opened an end door and crawled out, hungry and thirsty. Then a walk of six miles, and we were in Butte City, where we got food and a room.
George was well known to the police in Butte, but took no pains to hide himself, feeling sure that the masonry of the road and jungle would protect him against the common enemy—the law.
The next afternoon we were picked up on the street by plain-clothes men and taken before the chief of police.
“What’s wrong now, chief?” queried George.
“Oh, nothing much, Foot-’n’-a-half, just a telegram from Pocatello—murder charge,” smiled the chief.
“What about me?” I asked.
He looked at a telegram on his desk. “Hold anybody found with him.”
They searched us thoroughly and held everything found on us. We were locked up alone, in separate cells. “You’ve got plenty of money, boys,” said the jailer, “you can buy anything you want in the way of food and tobacco.”
I sat on the side of my iron cot, wondering who had kicked over the bean pot. A rat-eyed trusty came down the corridor and stopped in front of George’s cell, directly across from mine. “What’s the trouble, old-timer?”