No matter how small the town is, somebody can be found to fix things. Mary was on the job and got the town fixer to “see the judge.” He consented to suspend the sentences if we would get out of the town and stay out, warning us that if we ever came back we would automatically start serving our time.
We went over to Mary’s to get out of sight till train-time, and find out what had caused our arrest. Soldier Johnnie had not appeared at her place. He folded his tent and stole away with other members of the convention, and so precarious was the life we led that it was fifteen years till I saw him again. All Mary had gathered was that the marshal, noting the scarcity of bums about town, had gone down to the jungle, where he found a dead man sprawled beside a burnt-out fire. Searching the jungle further, he came upon poor old Montana Blacky, raving mad. He was taken in and later sent to an asylum. He was the only bum in Pocatello the day after the convention’s tragic close. We never knew what caused our arrest, but surmised that Blacky in his ravings might have named George as the killer.
When our train pulled out, the marshal was there to see that we got aboard and to ascertain where we were going. We foiled him by neglecting to buy tickets, and at the same time saved ourselves money by paying a hungry conductor half fare cash to ride us into Butte.
There I began my apprenticeship at the dangerous and fascinating business of breaking open safes. As was proper, I did all the fetching and carrying. I stole the dan, bought the drills, got railroad time-tables, and guidebooks. I was sent out to make the preliminary survey of the “spot” George had designs on. I reported to him whether the spot was “flopped” in. I looked up the getaway, the all-important thing. No place is fat enough to tempt unless some feasible getaway can be figured out.
I located the blacksmith shop, where heavy tools could be had if needed, and the livery stable, where saddle horses could be got if required. I learned what trains passed, and when. I checked the town whittler’s comings and goings. I was careful to look over the place for dogs, the bane of the burglar’s life. If my report satisfied George, he looked it over once to make sure. When we went against a spot he did the “blacksmithing” inside, while I covered the outside.
We traveled on foot, on horseback, or on trains as the occasion required. A hike of twenty, thirty, or even forty miles was not rare. We never got any such great amounts of money as burglars get to-day. A thousand dollars was considered a good “touch.” I believe a thief could get more out of a thousand dollars thirty years ago than he could out of five thousand to-day. Living was cheaper, police fewer and less active, shyster lawyers not so greedy and well organized, and the fences and fixers not so rapacious. “Justice” was not so expensive.
Only the large cities attempted anything in the way of identification. The Bertillon system was in the experimental stage and finger printing unknown in police work. We jumped from one state to another, kept away from the cities, lived almost entirely on the road except in the dead of winter, and spent our money in the jungles with the bums or played it in against faro bank in the mining towns. When we got a decent piece of money we quit stealing till it was almost spent, but while we were spending it we always tried to locate new spots against the day when we would be broke. George, although past fifty, never spoke of quitting. I doubt if the thought ever entered his mind. He was as much attached to his trade as any carpenter or bricklayer, and went about it as methodically as any mechanic.
His cold-blooded shooting of Gold Tooth caused many bums to avoid him. After he was dead, I learned by accident why he did it, but it was too late then to shake hands with him over it.
A year after we were banished from Pocatello, a letter from Mary told us that the Sanctimonious Kid was arrested in Denver, charged with a tough burglary, and wanted help. She wanted to help him, but didn’t know how to go about it. I sneaked into Pocatello for her generous contribution, and with what we could spare we went to Denver and got him the best lawyer there—Tom Patterson, afterward Senator Patterson from Colorado. We stayed in the state, turning every dollar we could steal into his lawyer’s office, but in vain. Sanc got everything Patterson had in the way of service, and finished with fifteen years at Canon City.
A small post office in Utah yielded us a few dollars and a big bundle of “stickers.” I had no fear of Pocatello after getting in and out of it once, and we thought it only right that Mary should have the stamps and get the profit on them. I got into her place with them, but she hadn’t enough money and I had to wait till morning for her to get it from the bank. Instead of staying quietly in her house, as she advised, I went out for a look at the town and the whittler got me.