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. In the railroad yards, I had my eyes opened to one of the safest getaways ever discovered—that of “springing” into a loaded box car. Johnnie got an iron bar out of a scrap pile. Equipped with this, we went through the long lines of loaded cars waiting to be routed out of Pocatello, and in a few minutes found a car of merchandise billed to Great Falls, Montana. The process of “springing in” was simple. With the iron bar Johnnie lifted the bottom of a side door till it was clear of the hasps that held it in place. Placing one foot against the car, he pulled the bottom of the door out, away from its position, making space enough for us to crawl up into the opening. When we were safely inside, he sprang the door back into its place with his bar. Usually one or both end doors were fastened on the inside, making it easy to get out. In those days this was the bums’ best getaway, and it never failed unless they went to sleep and snored so loud that the brakeman heard them when the train was on a sidetrack. Supplied with food and water, men have traveled across the continent in safety while sheriffs and posses beat up the jungles for them in vain. 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.