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 plainclothes 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.