Bloodshed of Eagles. William W. Johnstone

“There’s no way that son of a bitch isn’t guilty!”

      The shotgun guard wasn’t the only one to react in such a way. Several others shouted out in protest as well, including Arnie Sessions.

      “This ain’t right!” the coach driver said.

      Judge Hawkins banged his gavel on the desk, and had to do it over and over, shouting, “Order in the court! Order in the court.” It took several calls before order was restored. The judge looked back over at the jury foreman. “I must say, Mr. Harris, I find your verdict astounding.”

      “There is more, Your Honor,” Harris said.

      “All right, let me hear what else you have to say.

      “We have lowered the charge of attempted robbery to the misdemeanor count of interfering with the transit of a public stagecoach. And on that charge and specification, we find the defendant guilty.”

      “Misdemeanor?” Judge Hawkins questioned. “You have taken it upon yourself to lower the charge to a misdemeanor?”

      “We were led to understand that if we could not find the defendant guilty on the felony charge, that we could lower the charge to a misdemeanor,” Harris said.

      “Yes, it is within your authority to do so,” Judge Hawkins agreed.

      “Very good, Your Honor, because that is exactly what we have done. Since the defendant did not discharge his weapon during the incident, and those who did discharge their weapon are now dead, the jury can find no cause for a felony charge.”

      “You do realize, don’t you, that the maximum punishment I can assess for the misdemeanor charge is one hundred and eighty days?”

      “Yes, Your Honor.”

      Judge Hawkins let out a long audible sigh, then ran his hand across the top of his bald head.

      “Very well, Mr. Foreman, you may sit down. Sheriff, if you would, please, bring the defendant before the bench.”

      The sheriff walked over to the defendant’s table and signaled for Garon to stand. He then walked with him to appear before the bench.

      “James A. Garon, in all my years on the bench, I have never seen a greater miscarriage of justice than what I have witnessed here on this day. You are obviously guilty of attempted stagecoach robbery and, because two of your fellow perpetrators were killed in the failed attempt, you could also be charged with murder.

      “However, 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,”