All my speculations were put to rest the next morning when I was brought before the magistrate.
When I hear the word “technicality” I think of American jurisprudence. If there is any such term used in British courts I never heard it. The procedure in this magistrate’s court was simple, alarmingly simple. The hotel man proved the burglary. The next witness, an old prospector who was wintering at the hotel, testified that he had changed a twenty-dollar bill at the hotel bar the evening before the burglary; that it was the only bill of that denomination he had; that he had carried it with him for six months and had looked at it so many times he remembered the big serial numbers on the back of it. He swore further that he went to the hotel man the next morning and gave him the numbers. The arresting officers now told of following the train, getting the conductor’s statement, and arresting me. They produced the fatal twenty-dollar bill, the only one in the roll that could have hurt me, the prospector’s bill. They testified that they got it from the conductor, who told them I had paid my fare out of it.
The prospector now identified his bill. On top of this it was shown that I had suddenly and suspiciously left the town, avoiding the ticket office and paying cash fare with the deadly twenty.
I hadn’t a leg to stand on in the way of defense, but managed to get up and object to hearsay evidence and ask to have the conductor brought into court. The magistrate and Crown prosecutor laughed. “He’ll appear when you go on trial at the next term of court,” said the “cutor.” “Any defense?” asked the magistrate.
I saw they had me right. “No, your worship, I’ll save my defense till I get into a court where I will not be laughed at.” He laughed again and made the order to hold me. This court proceeding didn’t take an hour. I went back to the jail wishing the thing had happened in the good old U.S.A., where, with a smart lawyer, I would have got a continuance and sent somebody to the conductor who might listen to reason and not be so cocksure about getting the bill from me.
At the provincial jail I found a drunken Scotchman in charge. He was assisted by two half-breed Indian boys serving six months each. One of them cooked for the jailer and any prisoners that came in; the other scrubbed the jail. Both of them watched me faithfully and fed me regularly when the jailer was drunk. I was locked in a cell and never got out except for a bath once a week. The Indian boys slept on the floor in front of my cell by a big stove that was always hot and kept the jail warm.
There was not a fixture in the cell but a bucket. I had plenty of blankets and slept on the floor. My clothes were taken and I was dressed in a pair of white duck pants and a hickory shirt. They left me my shoes and hat. I was never so bare and helpless before or since. Not a smoke, nor a paper, book, nor magazine was allowed in the jail. When I asked the Scotchman for something to read, he got me a Bible, which I read and re-read with much interest but no profit. I was pestered daily for weeks by the Crown prosecutor to return the balance of the money taken from the hotel safe, eight hundred dollars. He offered me a short jail sentence if I would give it up, but I mistrusted him and decided to let some car cleaner find it rather than admit anything and get myself in deeper.
I gave my case a good thinking over and concluded there was no way out. Judge Powers, J. Hamilton Lewis, and Tom Patterson of Colorado, all rolled into one, couldn’t have acquitted me. All day, every day, I read my Bible and prayed that the conductor might fall under his train before the day of my trial.
A priest visited the jail one day and gave me a pamphlet on which he had printed the Chinook language. In answer to my question he told me it contained about three hundred words—nouns, verbs, and adjectives. It was created by the Hudson Bay traders, years before, and taught to all the Northwest Indians to simplify trading with the different tribes.
I soon mastered Chinook, practicing on the two “breed” boys and any Indians that happened into the jail. I had given up hope of escape. I was bare-handed. Even the tin spoon I ate my stew with was taken away when the meal was finished. The jailer disliked me from the first. He would come into the jail corridor roaring drunk at night, rout out the two “breeds,” and have them unlock my cell and search “the damned Yank,” while he stood away brandishing a big gun. They never found anything; there was nothing there.