He threw me in the calaboose, promising to take me to Blackfoot the next day to start on my six months. He hired no Indians this time, but just locked the door and went back uptown, probably to look for George. I paced up and down the length of the calaboose, cursing my carelessness. About midnight there came a rap on the door.

“Are you in there, Kid?” It was Salt Chunk Mary. She passed in a small bottle of whisky and some sandwiches. I implored her to go over by the depot and try to find some bum that would break the lock and let me out.

“No use, Kid,” she said. “The town has been hostile ever since the convention. A bum can’t light here anymore. I’ll try to get some gambler to do it.”

She hurried away. In an hour she came back alone, armed with a crowbar. She put the pointed end of it into the neck of the lock and with a mighty wrench twisted it off and threw the door open. I stepped out. That pale, light-fingered ghost, “The lady that’s known as Lou,” would have fainted in my arms. Not Mary. When I reached for her hand, she pushed me away.