Soldier Johnnie ran around and pulled him away from the fire by the feet. George stood, with the gun smoking, glaring at the others of Gold Tooth’s tribe. They slunk away into the dark, gibbering drunkenly. Some of the drunken sleepers by the fire were not even aroused by the shots. Johnnie kicked them awake; they got up and staggered away. Montana Blacky, our crazy cook, reeled unsteadily into the circle of firelight, wabbling like an old crow on a dead limb. Holding his bottle aloft, he croaked: “Oh, then the bums began to fight, and there was murder right and tight.” Waving his arm over the scene as if conferring his benediction on the fire, the dead man, George, Johnnie, and myself, he disappeared, muttering: “The stool pigeon’s the coming race.”

George handed me his pistol. “Throw this in the river, Kid.” I broke it open, took out the slugs and empty shells, threw them into the water at one place, and the gun at another. We hurried away toward the railroad yards. On the way up, we decided that Johnnie should stay in Pocatello and intimidate any of the weaker bums who might talk, and also try to shoo them all out of town.