Summer came and the memorable World’s Fair. I saw it all, but it put an
awful dent in my bankroll and winter was coming. I heard wonderful tales
of New York City and its opportunities, told by the hop smokers in
California Jack’s, and had almost made up my mind to go there for the
winter when I met an intelligent young chap who knew all about it. He
advised me to stay away from New York.
“It’s the toughest town in the United States for an outsider to get by
in,” he said in answer to my questions. “I’ll tell you what you’re up
against. You go in there single-handed. If you get by the wise coppers
and the hungry fences, you’ve still got the gangs to beat. Almost all
the thieves belong to gangs—the Irish, the Jews, and the dagoes. They
fight each other, but they make common cause against an outsider,
especially if he’s from the West, and they’ll know you in a minute with
your soft hat and your Western talk.
“The gangs are made up of natives and ‘home guards,’ and some of them
are not above snitching on you if you go in there and get too
prosperous. If you show up in any of the hangouts with money they will
beat you up and take it away from you like any sucker. Of course if you
got into a gang they would protect you. The gang protects you, and the
ward alderman protects the gang, see? But even then you’d never have
anything, for the money’s split too many ways.
“Those hop fiends are raving when they tell you New York is a simple
spot to make a living in. Everything is simple and easy and rosy to
them when they get a few pills under their belts; but you take my advice
and stay away from it. I can get dollars in the West where I couldn’t
get dimes in New York, and I wouldn’t go back there on a bet. I’m for
Chicago and points west where you don’t have to wear a derby hat to get
by a policeman,” he finished in disgust.
Turning this gloomy picture over in my mind for a few days, I decided to
let New York alone and go back West. My spare clothes were left with the
landlord, and after a soft, easy year I went back to the hardships of
the road almost gladly. I made long jumps under fast trains into St.
Paul and then on to the Dakota harvest fields.
Thousands of harvest hands were leaving with their season’s earnings and
a horde of yeggs, thieves, gamblers and their women beset them on every
side. Some of the more wary and experienced laborers bought tickets and
got out of the danger zone unscathed; others dallied with the games of
chance and were shorn, or fell into the yeggs’ clutches and got “catted
up.”
Harvest workers were called blanket stiffs or gay cats, and the process
of pistoling them away from their money was known as catting them up.
Train crews flourished by carrying the gay cats over their divisions in
the box cars at a dollar each. Bands of yeggs worked with the brakemen,
who let them into the cars, where they stuck up the cats, took their
money, and forced them to jump out the side doors between stations. By
the time they walked into a town and reported their losses, the train
was far ahead, the money split with the train crew, and the yeggs were
holding a convention in some safe jungle.
After several seasons the cats began buying tickets out of the harvest
fields and the profitable industry of catting up went by the board.
I traveled along slowly now, uncertain where to go or what to do.
Meeting many who had seen me and Foot-and-a-half George on the road, I
told them freely the story of his finish and my getaway. My prestige
grew and I came to be accepted everywhere as “Stetson,” which, in the
language of the road, means first class.
Being young I naturally got puffed up and superior. I looked wise and
mysterious, said nothing, and “connected” only with the higher-ups among
the knights of the road. Stepping out on the street one morning at Great
Falls, Montana, an icy wind out of the north reminded me that winter had
come. I was almost broke, and fearing a Montana winter without money, I
made a dash for the coast. I traveled north through Lethbridge, at the
Canadian line, and into Calgary, Alberta; then west over the Canadian
Pacific toward Vancouver, where I hoped to spend the winter. The snow
had piled up in the Selkirk range, delaying trains for days and making
life on the road uncertain and very unpleasant. My money had dwindled
till buying a ticket was out of the question. Riding the rods of
passenger trains meant freezing, and I was forced to take the slow and
infrequent freights with their open box cars. At one of the larger towns
in British Columbia I stopped off to rest up, get a decent night’s
sleep, and thaw myself out.
In the office of the hotel I went to stood a safe that attracted me. It
was of a make that George always favored, and we had beaten a half dozen
of them in the two years we were together.
No explosives were needed. It could be got “on the quiet.” I put down my
last dollar for a week’s board and room, and began planning an assault
on the ancient “box.”
I was alone, almost broke, and here was opportunity. Opportunity not
only to fortify myself with money, but to test myself and prove whether
my years with George and the Sanctimonious Kid had fitted me to make my
way alone at the profession I had drifted into. I went over the
situation carefully. A westbound passenger train passed through the town
at one o’clock A.M. The hotel closed at midnight. An hour was time
enough for the mechanical work on the box. The time-tables showed that I
could be on the “American side” in twelve hours if I got out on the
night train. Here was a feasible getaway.
The next thing was to make sure that no one entered the hotel office
between the hours of twelve and one. Several nights’ watching satisfied
me that I would not be interrupted in that way. The week was almost
gone, so was my money, and I saw that more would be needed for my board
and lodging before the arrival of my first big night alone. This forced
me into a small room burglary that was almost fatal.
Prowling through the one other hotel in the town I found a room door
unlocked and stepped inside. There were two beds in the room, both
occupied. On a chair by the bed nearest the door was the sleeper’s
trousers, from which I got a purse. Pocketing it, I moved to a chair by
the second bed, where I could distinguish something dark that appeared
to be a bunch of clothes.
Right there I learned that a fair-sized, healthy dog sleeps sound as a
human being. Instead of putting my hand on a pair of pants, it touched
something furry that came to life with a start and a growl, and fastened
a pair of strong jaws on my forearm. Both sleepers stirred. Before I got
to the door, dragging the snarling, clawing brute that wouldn’t let go
his grip, the man whose purse I had sat up in bed. I was without a gun,
but threatened to blow his head off just the same. Being a sensible man,
he remained quiet.
I had put out the only light in the hall. Still burdened with the
tenacious, growling dog, I was forced to feel my way with my feet toward
the back stairway. I couldn’t stop in the hall to choke him loose; my
only hope was to drag him downstairs and deal with him outside the
place.
At the top of the stairs his struggles and weight overbalanced me, and
we rolled and bumped down the long, dark stairway to the landing below.
On our way down he weakened, let go his grip on my arm, scrambled to his
feet, and tore out into the alley, howling piteously. I gathered myself
up and ran in the opposite direction. In my room, I took stock and found
he hadn’t injured me, and that I had enough money to carry me for
another week.
I now moved into a small lodging house and paid for my room each night.
As a transient roomer I could leave at any time without causing comment.
Curious to learn something about the dog I was tangled up with, I went
into the office and barroom of the hotel, looking for him. One evening
while I was getting a drink I heard a low, threatening growl across the
room, and a look in the big mirror back of the bar showed me a good,
big, husky shepherd dog standing under a card table. The hair on his
neck and back bristled as he eyed me suspiciously. I thought he was
going to attack me, and turned around to face him. When I did this, he
backed still farther beneath the table, but never took his eyes off
me. The room was crowded with loungers and card players, but none of
them appeared to notice his actions. I went out of the place and
stayed out.
At last the night came that I had decided was to be my last in the town.
I had done everything possible in the way of precaution and protection.
The stormy night favored me and the box gave up its contents after a few
sturdy blows from a short-handled sledgehammer. The train arrived on
time, and when it pulled out I got aboard without a ticket. That was
part of my plan. I didn’t want to be seen at the ticket office, where I
knew inquiries would be made the next day.
The safe contained nothing of value to me but a roll of paper money. I
had no chance to count or examine it while waiting for the train, but
before the conductor got to me I fished out a worn twenty-dollar bill
from which I paid my fare, about fifteen dollars, to Vancouver. I had no
intention of going into that city now, but paid my fare there to mislead
any one making inquiries from the trainmen. I planned to leave the train
at a junction and take another across the border. Well satisfied with
myself, I was reviewing the night’s work when the train slowed down
between stations, about twenty miles from where I got aboard.
After a long wait, the conductor appeared with the information that the
train was blocked by an avalanche of snow and rock. “Make yourselves
comfortable,” he said, “we won’t get out of here before noon to-morrow.”
My carefully laid plans crumbled. I wished myself back in the town. I
thought of the bill I had given the conductor. I could see the
constables with their heads together in the morning “deducing” and
“inferring” with the result that they would deduce and infer that their
burglar had left on the night train. I could see them arriving at our
stalled train some time in the forenoon and buttonholing the conductor.
I could see him pointing his finger at me.
It was suicide to leave the train. Not a hut or habitation within miles
and a terrific storm raging. I went over every possibility and finished
with a helpless, half-trapped feeling. I went into another coach, and,
finding an empty seat, cut a slit in the cushion and planted the roll of
money, keeping only the change from the twenty-dollar bill. There was
nothing else I could do to protect myself. I tried to sleep in a seat,
but couldn’t, so I sat around, apprehensive and nervous, till morning.
The storm abated at daylight and an hour later a work train pulled in
behind us, prepared to dig us out. I got ready for a shock.
Sure enough, in a few minutes, two constables from the town I had left
came slowly down the aisle behind the conductor. When he came to my
seat, he stopped and nodded his head toward me. One officer stood by me,
but said nothing. The other said something aside to the conductor, who
took a roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off the top one and handed
it to him. He turned the bill over, looked at it carefully, and then at
a piece of paper he had in his hand. After more talk with the conductor
that I couldn’t hear, he turned and faced me with a gun in his hand.
“Put the irons on him, Mr. Stevens,” he said to the officer beside me.
“He is our man.”
I protested against being handcuffed, pushed “Mr. Stevens” away, and
demanded an explanation.
“You’re arrested in the queen’s name,” said the officer in charge, “and
anything you say will be used against you. You had better submit
quietly. If you want force you can have it.” He waved his big,
serviceable-looking gun in my direction.
I submitted. They took me forward to a baggage car, removed my shoes and
nearly all my clothes, and went through them slowly and thoroughly, but
found nothing incriminating. When the train was dug clear it pulled out,
carrying my roll of bills with it in the seat cushion, and I
congratulated myself on getting rid of it. I was taken back to the town
I left so suspiciously the night before, and thrown into the jail
wondering what they had on me. They hadn’t asked me any questions; that
looked bad. They seemed too well satisfied with the thing.
All my speculations were put to rest the next morning when I was brought
before the magistrate.
When I hear the word “technicality” I think of American jurisprudence.
If there is any such term used in British courts I never heard it. The
procedure in this magistrate’s court was simple, alarmingly simple. The
hotel man proved the burglary. The next witness, an old prospector who
was wintering at the hotel, testified that he had changed a
twenty-dollar bill at the hotel bar the evening before the burglary;
that it was the only bill of that denomination he had; that he had
carried it with him for six months and had looked at it so many times he
remembered the big serial numbers on the back of it. He swore further
that he went to the hotel man the next morning and gave him the numbers.
The arresting officers now told of following the train, getting the
conductor’s statement, and arresting me. They produced the fatal
twenty-dollar bill, the only one in the roll that could have hurt me,
the prospector’s bill. They testified that they got it from the
conductor, who told them I had paid my fare out of it.
The prospector now identified his bill. On top of this it was shown that
I had suddenly and suspiciously left the town, avoiding the ticket
office and paying cash fare with the deadly twenty.
I hadn’t a leg to stand on in the way of defense, but managed to get up
and object to hearsay evidence and ask to have the conductor brought
into court. The magistrate and Crown prosecutor laughed. “He’ll appear
when you go on trial at the next term of court,” said the “cutor.” “Any
defense?” asked the magistrate.
I saw they had me right. “No, your worship, I’ll save my defense till I
get into a court where I will not be laughed at.” He laughed again and
made the order to hold me. This court proceeding didn’t take an hour. I
went back to the jail wishing the thing had happened in the good old
U.S.A., where, with a smart lawyer, I would have got a continuance and
sent somebody to the conductor who might listen to reason and not be so
cocksure about getting the bill from me.
At the provincial jail I found a drunken Scotchman in charge. He was
assisted by two half-breed Indian boys serving six months each. One of
them cooked for the jailer and any prisoners that came in; the other
scrubbed the jail. Both of them watched me faithfully and fed me
regularly when the jailer was drunk. I was locked in a cell and never
got out except for a bath once a week. The Indian boys slept on the
floor in front of my cell by a big stove that was always hot and kept
the jail warm.
There was not a fixture in the cell but a bucket. I had plenty of
blankets and slept on the floor. My clothes were taken and I was dressed
in a pair of white duck pants and a hickory shirt. They left me my shoes
and hat. I was never so bare and helpless before or since. Not a smoke,
nor a paper, book, nor magazine was allowed in the jail. When I asked
the Scotchman for something to read, he got me a Bible, which I read and
re-read with much interest but no profit. I was pestered daily for weeks
by the Crown prosecutor to return the balance of the money taken from
the hotel safe, eight hundred dollars. He offered me a short jail
sentence if I would give it up, but I mistrusted him and decided to let
some car cleaner find it rather than admit anything and get myself in
deeper.
I gave my case a good thinking over and concluded there was no way out.
Judge Powers, J. Hamilton Lewis, and Tom Patterson of Colorado, all
rolled into one, couldn’t have acquitted me. All day, every day, I read
my Bible and prayed that the conductor might fall under his train before
the day of my trial.
A priest visited the jail one day and gave me a pamphlet on which he had
printed the Chinook language. In answer to my question he told me it
contained about three hundred words—nouns, verbs, and adjectives. It was
created by the Hudson Bay traders, years before, and taught to all the
Northwest Indians to simplify trading with the different tribes.
I soon mastered Chinook, practicing on the two “breed” boys and any
Indians that happened into the jail. I had given up hope of escape. I
was bare-handed. Even the tin spoon I ate my stew with was taken away
when the meal was finished. The jailer disliked me from the first. He
would come into the jail corridor roaring drunk at night, rout out the
two “breeds,” and have them unlock my cell and search “the damned Yank,”
while he stood away brandishing a big gun. They never found anything;
there was nothing there.
One day he came in with a scared-looking China boy about twenty years
old. “Yank, here’s a cellmate for you.” He locked the Chinese in,
thinking he was punishing me. The China boy later proved the jailer’s
undoing and my deliverance. He knew some Chinook, but not one word of
English. I learned from the Indian trusty that he was held for trial,
charged with stealing a considerable sum of money from his employer, and
that his case was about as hopeless as mine.
We got along great. I taught him the alphabet and many words of English
while he instructed me in Chinese. I even humbled myself to ask the
jailer for pencil and paper to teach the Chink writing. He went down
to his office at once and brought me a lead pencil and pad of paper. I
was surprised, and so grateful I thanked him half a dozen times.
Inside of a week he got drunk and ordered his Indians to take them away
from me. I asked him no more for anything, and to this day I believe he
gave them to me anticipating the warm, grateful, pleasant thrill he
would get from depriving me of them.
The China boy’s company got him a lawyer. When he came to the jail he
called me out and offered to take my case. I could have got money by
writing to Salt Chunk Mary, but it looked like waste to fight it. When
I asked him straight out if he could do anything with the conductor, he
was shocked, indignant. “Oh, ah, but, my man! Tamper with the Crown’s
witness, what?” He left as if I had the plague, and I don’t doubt he
reported me to the prosecutor.
I’ve had a lot of dealings with Chinamen and never got the worst of it
from one. If a Chinese doesn’t like you he will keep away from you; if
he does like you he will go the route. By signs and a few words I
conveyed to my cellmate that our only hope was to beat the jail. There
was a barred window in our cell, the outside was not guarded. All we
needed was a hack saw. He was for it. His “cousins” visited him
regularly every week and if they could be made to understand what we
needed they would get it.
There was but one hardware store in the town and to buy the saws there
might cause talk. I had him tell his “cousins” to send to Vancouver to
their company for them. After weeks of anxiety and uncertainty and much
negotiating with their friends at Vancouver the precious saws were put
into my cellmate’s hands under the drunken jailer’s nose. My plan was
simple. Wait till spring when, if we got out and failed to get a train
we could take a chance on foot in the country away from the railroad.
Night after night we listened to the trains arriving and departing,
checking the time. A freight train departed immediately after the one
o’clock passenger. If I could “spring” into a box car, we could make
Vancouver in safety. I secreted the saws and we settled down to wait for
softer weather.