They weakened. The old yegg had beaten them at their own game.

“Lock them up!” ordered somebody in authority. The marshal and a crowd of citizens took us to the calaboose, a small, one-room shack in the middle of a big lot. They waited around till a pair of villainous-looking Bannock Indians appeared with rifles. They were hired to watch us and took turn about, sitting on a box outside by the door, day and night, silent, motionless. At evening the marshal brought a basket of food from a nearby restaurant, and a bundle of clean, new blankets.

Pocatello boasted of two lawyers, brothers. One prosecuted cases in the magistrate’s court, and the other defended anybody foolish enough to hire him. Salt Chunk Mary sent the defender over to see us the next day. He hadn’t influence enough to have us brought to his office, so he talked to us through the calaboose-door wicket. We were not going to waste any money on him. We decided to wait and see if we needed a lawyer first. George thanked him for coming, told him we had done nothing, and didn’t need an attorney.