a jury of your peers has tried the case, and has found you not guilty of any felony charge. They have found you guilty of the misdemeanor charge of impeding the progress of a public coach, so now it is incumbent upon me to sentence you.
“Normally, for misdemeanors, I would assess a sentence equal to time served, or, I would levy a fine. In your case, however, I intend to give you the maximum penalty the law will allow. To my great disappointment and bitter frustration, I can only sentence you to six months in jail. And that, sir, is exactly what I am going to do.
“I hereby sentence you to be incarcerated in the Colorado Territorial Prison in Cañon City, Colorado Territory, for a period of not less than one hundred and eighty days. Sheriff, put this miserable specimen of humanity in irons and transport his carcass, under maximum guard, to the territorial prison.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the sheriff replied.
Judge Hawkins turned to the jurors. “The decision you twelve men made today is beyond comprehension. I cannot reverse it. However, I intend to have your names placed on record, and I shall direct the clerk of this court to strike each and every one of you from the jury pool. You are a disgrace to the system.”
Judge Hawkins picked up his gavel and brought it down sharply. “The jury is dismissed, and this court is adjourned.”
Chapter Three
March 10, 1876
Colorado Territorial Prison
When the gates of the territorial prison opened to allow Jim Garon to leave, he was met by Clete Harris. Harris brought an extra horse with him.
“The first thing I want to do is get me a beer,” Garon said as he swung into the saddle. “I ain’t had me no beer in six months—ever since I come to prison.”
“There’s a saloon no more than a mile from here,” Harris said. “I’ll buy you a beer, and we can talk.”
Clete Harris paid the bartender of the Double Eagle Saloon for two mugs of beer, then carried the beer over to a table where Jim Garon was sitting.
“You could’a knocked me over with a feather when I looked up and seen that my old pard was foreman of the jury,” Garon said as he took his first drink. It wasn’t just a swallow; it was several Adam’s apple-bobbing gulps that took half the mug before he set it down.
“Ahh,” he said, wiping some of the foam away from his mustache. “You don’t know how much you miss somethin’ like that till you are in a place where you can’t have none of it.”
“I thought you might want a beer,” Harris said.
“I ain’t seen you since when? Since we pulled that job together down in Texas, I reckon. Where you been keepin’ yourself?”
“Around,” Harris said.
“Yes, sir, well, I tell you what, Harris, that was one lucky break I got having you as the jury foreman,” Garon said.
“Luck didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” Harris replied. “I bribed my way onto the jury, and bribed a couple of the jurors to elect me foreman. Then I talked them all into changin’ it from a felony to a misdemeanor.”
“Why didn’t you just get it dropped altogether? I mean, I still had to serve six months in that hellhole. You got ’ny idea what it’s like in that place?”
“You should appreciate that I was able to get the charge knocked down at all. Had you been found guilty as charged, you wouldn’t get out this side of twenty years.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate it and all,” Garon said, “but it does get me curious as to why you done it.”
“What do you mean, you are curious? We are pards, ain’t we?” Harris replied.
“Yea, I reckon we are,” Garon took another swallow of his beer, and again wiped the foam away from his mustache. “But still, I can’t help but ask why did you do it?”
“Do I really need a reason to help out a friend?”
“I guess not. I just wonder why, that’s all.”
“All right, I’ll tell you why I done it. I done it ’cause I have a job for you to do.”
“What kind of a job?”
“You might say it’s a job as a salesman.”
Garon shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “I’m glad you got me off with the jury and all, but there ain’t no way in hell I’m goin’ to be a drummer, then get all dressed up and go around from town to town sellin’ goods, makin’ a few pennies on ever’thing you sell. Huh, uh, that ain’t for me.”
Harris laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Thinkin’ of you all dressed up,” Harris said.
“Yeah, well, then, you can see why I ain’t all too excited about it.”
“Don’t get yourself all in a bind over it. That ain’t exactly the kind of selling I’m talking about,” Harris said. “And it won’t be a few pennies, it’ll be more like makin’ ten to twenty dollars on ever’thing you sell.”
“What could you possibly sell that would pay that much money?”
“Rifles,” Harris answered.
“Rifles pay that much?”
“Sure they do,” Harris said. “If you are willing to go where you need to go to find the right customers”
“And where would these customers be?”
“In Montana.”
“Montana?”
Harris lifted his mug and smiled before taking a swallow. “We’re going to sell rifles to the Indians,” he said. “For twenty dollars apiece.”
“Are you crazy? I don’t cotton to doin’ business with Injuns in the first place, but even if I did, why would we sell them rifles for twenty dollars apiece when they are going to cost us that much or more?”
“I already got the rifles,” Harris said. “And they didn’t cost me nothin’.”
“Really? Where did you get them?”
“Let’s just say I have a contact in the Colorado Home Guard. These rifles were supposed to be shipped to the armory in Denver, but a simple rerouting of the shipping order caused them to go to a warehouse in Rapid City, in care of Harris Farm Implements. They’re waiting there for me now. All we have to do is pick them up and deliver them to Cut Nose.”
“Who is Cut Nose?”
“He is a subchief for the Oglala Sioux. The Sioux are off the reservation now, and they need rifles for hunting and such.”
“Hunting?
