The stones would have to go to the American side to be disposed of in some big city. I decided on San Francisco and planned my route there. Irish Annie was no small problem. I had no intention of confiding in her or giving her any part of the junk, if I got it. I was under no obligation to her. Our relations were just those of two social outcasts, thrown together by chance, and our parting could mean nothing to either of us. To disarm any suspicions she might have later on, I told her I planned to go to Carson City, Nevada, for the big fight between Fitzsimmons and Corbett. This would give me a reasonable excuse for leaving after the burglary.

With the five hundred dollars I got from Swede Pete and more I had picked up around the hotels, I was amply supplied with expense money and had no worry on that point. Two weeks ahead I bought an old Indian cayuse and a cheap secondhand saddle and bridle, planning to ride across the boundary line fifteen miles distant, plant the junk, and return before the burglary was discovered.

The old horse was staked out in a corral where I could get him at any time. I even rode to the American side, crossing the Columbia River, which marked the boundary, on the ice, and picked out a place to plant my stuff. A week ahead I rented a front room in a lodging house across the street and from my window watched every move in the store every evening. I saw the boss go out to dinner, leaving the place in charge of his clerk and an apprentice boy. I saw his man in the repair shop go out and away. I saw the boy go home after the boss returned, and later saw the clerk depart. An hour after, the owner began gathering the most valuable articles from show window and show cases, placing them in specially made trays and boxes that fitted snugly in the safe. Then the big door swung shut, and a quarter turn of the knob locked it so that it could be opened quickly in the morning by the lazy, careless owner, or just as quickly at night by an industrious, careful burglar.