Idaho officers came the next day and we went back with them to Pocatello, not caring to waste our money fighting extradition, and feeling confident there was nothing more than a suspicion of guilt against us. We were taken straight from the train at Pocatello to an undertaker’s. Every town official was there. Inside, in the back room, they led George up to a table where his victim was laid out under a white cloth. He knew what was coming, and so did I. The cloth was jerked off the body and one of the officers pointed his finger at George.

“There’s the poor devil you shot, you damned, murdering ⸻, and we’ll hang you for it.”

George coolly and calmly placed his right hand on the dead man’s brow for an instant. Then, taking it away, he held his arm out full length with the palm of his hand up, and said to the officer:

“If I killed that man, there’s the hand that held the gun, and there’s the finger that pulled the trigger” (jerking his index finger back and forth), and, pulling up his coat sleeve, “there’s my pulse! Do you want to feel it?”