Summary:  Written for Camp in the Pines, 2018.  Sometimes the best show in town is in the courtroom, especially when the Cartwrights are involved.

Rating: K

Word Count: 5385 words

The Jury-Go-Round

Well, hey there!  Good to see you again, young’un.  Back for another story about the “good ole days,” are you?  Well, I reckon, maybe, I could conjure up another’n, if’n I could just get this tired old brain o’ mine to workin’.  Hard on cold days like this, so why don’t you throw another log in the fireplace, son, and I’ll try to come up with somethin’.  Now, don’t rush me, boy; just fix that fire and park yourself down on the settle.  By that time somethin’ll likely come to me.

Ooh, that feels good and warm.  You settled now?  Okay, here goes:

Back in them so-called good ole days, law and order weren’t much more’n a joke in Virginia City.  Them what was runnin’ the government was more like young’uns, fresh out of their toddler dresses and eager to try on their big boy britches, than growed men with a sense of civic responsibility.  Now, you gotta understand this was before we got men like Sheriff Clem to run things or like Roy Coffee before him.  You ever meet Sheriff Roy, boy?  No?  That’s a shame, ‘cause he sure liked young’uns like you.  Gone on to his reward now, but he earned it.  Virginia City was raw and rambunctious back when he took over the sheriffin’, but I’m gettin’ ahead of myself.  This here story starts before Roy’s time, back when ole Sheriff Howard was in charge . . . if you can call the way he run the place bein’ “in charge” of anything.  He was about as much in charge as the feller runnin’ the merry-go-round when the carnival comes to town.

Gotta admit, though, sure was a hoot, watchin’ the first jury that scoundrel put together.  It was made up of nothin’ but squint-eyed fellers, picked for that very reason and none other.  Drove the lawyers on both sides crazy, just tryin’ to keep that jury’s attention.  Most entertainin’ trial I ever done seen!  A regular knee slapper.  ‘Course, you gotta understand I wasn’t much more’n a shirt-tail young’un like you back then.  I was growed enough to go down the mines, though, so I figured myself a man, even if my shirt tail was flappin’ most of the time.  Didn’t fret myself none then about whether justice was being done.  Just sat there and enjoyed the show.  It was the best one in town and all for free.

So, when the next trial come around, I was chompin’ at the bit to see what the sheriff could do to top that show, and the whole rest of the town was chompin’ right along with me.  He didn’t disappoint us.  His next jury was made up of the fattest men he could find in town, and once they heard, prospectors come pourin’ in from all the mining camps hereabouts, just to see if’n all them fat fellers could squeeze theirselves into them puny chairs in the jury box.  Me, I think the sheriff must’ve scoured the town for the runt-sized things, ‘cause I don’t remember the squinty-eyed jury squirmin’ and jostlin’ each other half as much.  And the accused being a midget made it seem all the funnier to have the jury made up of such oversized men.  Could’ve howled my head off at the sight if I hadn’t taken a gander around the room and seen ole Ben Cartwright’s face.

If he’d belched fire, it wouldn’ta surprised me none, red-faced and fumin’ like he was.  And I reckon he had cause.  You see, the last man squeezin’ his hiney into one of them skimpy jury seats weren’t none other than Ben’s middle boy, Hoss.  Yes, sir, the trial was a whole heap funnier before Hoss’s Pa got mad, but on t’other hand, it had just got a whole heap more promisin’, too.  Anything that involved the Cartwrights was, but when one of ‘em was spittin’ mad and ready to rassle, well, that was a show worth seein’, any day.  I reckoned not one of us would be goin’ home disappointed!

Didn’t much like seein’ Hoss uncomfortable, though.  He’d always treated me right kindly.  He didn’t really belong on that jury, nohow, on account of he wasn’t fat like them others.  He was big, all right, one of the biggest fellers in town, and he probably carried a mite more flesh on his bones than he needed, but it was mostly rock-solid muscle.  Hoss was one of the strongest men around, and there come a day, years later, when I had reason to be glad of it.  If it hadn’ta been for his strong back, I reckon I’d still be buried in the collapse of the Gould and Curry, but that’s another story.

Gettin’ back to this one, the whole room was rockin’ with laughter at the expense o’ them fat fellers sittin’ in judgment on the midget, and ole Judge Kent had to bang his gavel for nigh on to five minutes before they settled down.  Well, I didn’t actually time it, on account of I didn’t own a watch back then, but it seemed at least that long.  Givin’ that gavel one more, loud smack, the judge raised his voice, ‘cause folks was still snickerin’, just not as loud, and he asked the prosecutor and the defense lawyer if’n they was satisfied with the jury.  Guess they figured sayin’ otherwise wouldn’t do ‘em a lick o’ good, ‘cause they both said they was.

That was when Hoss Cartwright stood up behind the jury’s rail and called out, “Your Honor!”

“Sit down, boy,” ordered the judge.  “We got to get started here.”

Bein’ the kind to do as he was told, Hoss sat down—well, perched—on the edge of that skimpy chair, but he tried again to get the judge’s attention.  “Your Honor,” he said.  “I ain’t so sure I ought t’be on this jury.”

“What’s the matter?”  Judge Kent snorted.  “Don’t you think you’re big enough for the job?”

That set the room cacklin’ again and brought Hoss’s Pa to his feet.  “Your Honor,” he protested, all indignant.  “This is no laughing matter.  A man’s life, or at least his liberty, is at stake!”

The gavel banged again, and then the judge waved it at Mr. Cartwright.  “You sit yourself down, Mr. High-and-Mighty Cartwright, or I’ll find you in contempt.”  Ole Ben sat, but smoke was comin’ out both ears, so to speak.  He tried to keep talkin’, but Judge Kent just gaveled him down again.

“Your Honor,” Hoss said, tryin’ once more, which made him a whole heap braver man than me.  “You don’t understand.  I know the defendant.  We’s good friends, and it don’t hardly seem right for me to sit in judgment on ‘im.”

That’s when I realized that midget was one of them leprechauns what Hoss had brought into town some time before.  I should’ve remembered that right off, but he looked different without his green suit, and, well, after that prime speech Hoss gave about ‘em once, most of us here in town had quit thinkin’ of the little fellers like they still belonged in a circus.  They had Hoss to thank for that, so he was tellin’ the pure truth about bein’ a friend to the little man on trial.

“You sayin’ you can’t be fair?” the judge demanded.  “You tellin’ me, boy, that even if the evidence proves this man guilty as sin, you’ll find him innocent, just out of friendship?  I’d’ve thought as almighty righteous a man as your pa would’ve raised you better’n that.”

“Yes, sir, he did; ‘course, he did,” Hoss said right away, though his eyes still looked fretful, “and I’ll sure do my best to be fair, but . . .”

“Good enough, then,” Judge Kent said, waving his hand like he was brushin’ away a pesky fly.  “Now, quit your bellyachin’ and listen to the evidence.  You ready to start, Mr. Atkins?”

“I am, your Honor,” the prosecutor said, and standing up, he started right in, paintin’ that poor little midget guilty as sin, just like the judge had said.

The case was about the robbery of a store, and the thief had gone in through a window so small no full-size man could’ve made it.  Now, there was a few of them leprechauns still around, so could’ve been any one of ‘em, but this here one couldn’t account for his whereabouts at the time of the crime.  The prosecutor had some other reasons for thinkin’ the midget done it, but I can’t quite recollect ‘em after all these years.  Anyways, what mattered most was what a slick talker that lawyer was, way slicker than the one defendin’ the midget, so ‘most everyone in that courtroom was convinced he was guilty, me among ‘em, I’m sorry to say.  It wasn’t quite noon when they finished up, so I decided to stick around until the jury came back with the verdict.  I figured it couldn’t take long.  Open and shut, like they say.

Only it wasn’t, at least in someone’s mind, ‘cause I waited and waited and waited some more, and my stomach commenced to growlin’ somethin’ fierce.  Didn’t help when I saw Ben’s youngest come back into the room, carryin’ a bag of sandwiches.  I guess his pa had sent him out for lunch for the family, ‘cause they were stickin’ close, too.  The Cartwright family always was like that, stickin’ by one another when any one of ‘em was facin’ somethin’ hard.  I must’ve been slobberin’ after them sandwiches with my eyes, ‘cause Little Joe—that was the boy’s name—trotted over—he took everything at a trot back then—and gave me half of his.  I shouldn’ta taken it.  Skinny as that kid was—about half the size of his big brother Hoss—he needed every bite hisself, but he said he’d had enough, and I was half-starved, so I took it and bit right in.

Little Joe sat down next to me, friendly-like, so I just asked him straight out if’n he thought his big brother was holdin’ up a guilty verdict out of friendship for the midget.

“No!” the boy declared, flarin’ up so quick I naturally held that sandwich out of his reach, for fear he’d snatch it back.  “Hoss is the fairest, most honest man you’ll ever see, so if he’s fightin’ for a not-guilty verdict, it’s ‘cause he believes the man is not guilty.”

“You think the little man is innocent?” I asked.

Little Joe settled down, quick as he’d flared up.  “Yeah,” he said, “but in my case it is just ‘cause I know him and don’t see how he could do such a thing.  Good thing I’m not on the jury, huh?”

“Yeah.  Reckon it’s a good thing I ain’t, either,” I admitted.  “Them lawyer fellers talk so slick, I can’t think straight.  ‘Course, since I ain’t squint-eyed, nor fat, neither, ain’t likely I’ll end up on a jury.”

“Hoss ain’t fat,” Little Joe snapped, face gettin’ all red again fast.  You gotta understand.  Them two youngest Cartwright boys was tight, practically joined at the hip, like they say.  All the time I knew him, the quickest way to get under Little Joe’s skin was to say somethin’ agin his big brother Hoss.  I wasn’t here then, but I heard it was the same in the schoolyard and that there was some what would make hurtful comments about Hoss just to see the little feller double up his puny fists and come flyin’ at ‘em.  Tickled ‘em, same as Sheriff Howard’s juries did Virginia City.  ‘Course, Hoss wasn’t about to let his baby brother get the worst of it, so he had to step in, and once he showed ‘em his ham-sized fists, weren’t many that stuck around long!  Little brother mighta come to his senses a whole heap sooner if’n big brother hadn’t been so quick to come to his rescue, but I reckon that ain’t for me to say.  Anyways, we’ll never know ‘cause Hoss always did.

So, I was quick to agree with Joe that Hoss weren’t fat, on account of it was true, like I already said, not to mention that boy had a reputation for bein’ quick-tempered and quick on the draw to boot.  I didn’t want to cross him; besides, I plain liked him, us bein’ close of an age and all and him bein’ so generous with his grub.  Got to know him right well over the next day or so, ‘cause that’s how long it took that jury to come together on a verdict, and he was good enough to bring me a sandwich of my own whenever he got one, and he’d sit and munch and jaw along with me.

You might wonder why I stuck around that courtroom after the first day, but truth is, I didn’t have nothin’ better to do.  I worked the night shift at the mines, and I was young, so it didn’t bother me none to burn the candle at both ends.  A man can’t sleep his life plumb away, after all, but there weren’t that much to do, neither.  Sittin’ around, jawing with Joe over a free sandwich was as good a way as any to pass the time ‘til my next shift, so we was both there when the verdict come in.

I found out later, from gossip around town, that it sure ‘nough was Hoss who’d held out against the other eleven men until they saw it his way and, one by one, changed their votes to not guilty.  Seems like he’d argued that just ‘cause a man coulda done a crime and couldn’t prove he hadn’t didn’t mean he was the one what done it.  Made sense to me.  We found out, much later, that it was actually a young boy, forced by his pa to help with the break-in, who’d gone through that window, and that just made us think all the higher of Hoss for standin’ up for the midget like he had, friend or no friend.

I ain’t so sure Judge Kent felt the same, ‘cause at the time he sure grumbled about havin’ to stay over in Virginia City while that jury piddled around, the way he put it.  Heard him mumble once that he shoulda took Hoss up on his offer to step down.  Sheriff Howard, on t’other hand, seemed to think it made for a better show and kept folks in town, makin’ it good for business.  Anyway, he didn’t seem the least bit perturbed about havin’ put a stubborn Cartwright—they don’t come no other way—on the jury, ‘cause next trial that come around, lo and behold, if’n he didn’t slap another one in the box.

This time it was Adam, Ben Cartwright’s oldest boy, that was put on a jury of the tallest, skinniest fellers in town.  Not that that described Adam, any better than fat did Hoss.  Oh, he was tall enough, which must be what got him there, but he wasn’t rail-thin and spindly like most of them others in the box.  No, sir, Adam was well muscled, a fine figure of a man.  Frankly, his baby brother Joe woulda matched them other jurors better—well, not in bein’ tall, ‘cause he wasn’t, but in t’other way.  He filled out later on, but in them days that kid was plumb scrawny, even more’n me, and I weren’t more’n a wisp in the wind back then.  Reckon that’d make Little Joe about half a wisp.  Ooh!  Ouch!  Gotta remember not to slap these bony knees like that nor to laugh at my own jokes so hard, neither.  I ain’t as young as I used to be.

Well, Sheriff Howard probably had him a knee-slappin’ fit when that jury took their seats, ‘cause he’d switched out the chairs again, so’s to make ‘em look as ridiculous as he could.  He’d put twelve of the shortest chairs I ever seen behind the rail for them tall men.  Might be why he picked Adam Cartwright to sit in one, ‘stead of his baby brother, if’n he was wantin’ a Cartwright, ‘cause Little Joe woulda fit fine.  Adam’s knees, on t’other hand, was bent clean up to his chest, but he took that seat regal-like as a king on his throne.

He weren’t bent up as much as Henry Blasdel, though, him hittin’ the clouds at a whoppin’ six feet, five inches.  Now, I know you’ve heard that name, boy!  It’s in all the history books, I reckon.  That’s right, our state’s very first governor hisself; he was on that jury, right alongside Adam.  I sort of think, though no one’s ever told me this for true, that the Cartwrights’ connections with the governors of Nevada got its start right on that jury, ‘cause you could tell, just by lookin’ at ‘em, that Henry Blasdel and Adam Cartwright was two peas in a pod when it come to sortin’ out the truth.

Folks used to say Adam was high-and-mighty.  Well, they said it about all the Cartwrights, ‘ceptin’, maybe, Hoss, who was always as down-to-earth as they come, but they said it most about Adam.  Him bein’ college-educated—back East, no less!— was part of it, but it was mostly the way he carried hisself, calm and collected, like he was above it all, if’n you take my meanin’.  Like how he could just walk away from a gunfight, instead of drawin’ leather for no reason but pure pride.  Now, that takes grit, boy, to turn your back on some feller tryin’ to egg you into gunplay.  You remember that, you hear me?  Courage ain’t all bark and bluster; sometimes it’s quiet control, like Adam showed many a time.  That’s how he handled this jury silliness, too, like he didn’t even notice.  He was there to see justice done, and he’d see ‘er done, by crackies!

Hoss, who’d been through it hisself, frowned at seein’ his big brother made the butt of the sheriff’s joke, but Little Joe, ornery as he was in them days, couldn’t resist gigglin’ a mite.  That kid was a born prankster hisself, and he sure loved a good laugh, at his own expense as much as any other’s.  Him and Adam, though, was just natural sparrin’ partners, so I reckon it tickled him to see his sober-sided big brother, who he really thought the world of, lookin’ a smidge nonsensical.

That was before Adam’s Pa got mad, though, and lit into the sheriff.  Oh, no, boy!  I don’t mean he hauled off and hit him.  That weren’t Ben’s way, not agin the law.  No, I meant he lit into him with words; iron-spiked words they was, flyin’ fast and hard.  Didn’t make a bit o’ difference, though.  Sheriff Howard just kept on grinnin’ at him ‘til he run out of breath, and when ole Ben finally stopped, he asked, “What’s the matter, Cartwright?  You afeared your boy ain’t up to it?”  From the way he leaned on that word, “up,” it was plainer’n the nose on my face that he was mockin’ Adam’s height.  Them sittin’ near enough to hear broke out laughin’—well, with one exception.  I was close enough to hear, obviously, or I couldn’t be tellin’ you this tale, but I was beginnin’ to see things through Cartwright’s eyes—and I don’t mean the youngest one, neither.  He’d quit giggling, but I could still see a twinkle in his eyes and a smile twitchin’ at his mouth.  Good thing his pa had his eyes set on the sheriff or that boy likely wouldn’ta sat easy for a month of Sundays.  I give ‘im a wink, to let ‘im know I knew what he was feelin’ and he give me one back.  Me and Little Joe got sort of chummy over the course of them trials, and it’s a friendship I prize to this day.

Judge Kent come in from his chambers, and when he got a look at who was sittin’ in that jury box, I thought he might have hisself an attack of apoplexy.  At first, I thought it was because he’d had enough of the sheriff’s foolishness, but I soon learned what was really botherin’ him.  “Mr. Cartwright,” he said, addressin’ Adam, “do you by any chance know this defendant?  He a friend of yours?”  Apparently, he didn’t want another trial-draggin’ Cartwright on his jury if’n there was a way to get him off.  I know folks say Kent was as crooked as a dog with his hind leg broke, and I reckon he was, but all that come later.  In the early days, which this was, I figure he was just lazy and didn’t give a hoot what happened in his court, so long as it didn’t put him out none.

Adam lifted his eyebrow in that lofty way he had and said, calm as the world, “Why, no, your Honor.  To the best of my knowledge, we’ve never met.”

“Huh!”  The judge snorted, lookin’ put out already, but I guess he couldn’t think of nothin’ else to ask, ‘cause he just grunted and told the prosecutor to get started.

Judge Kent may not have wanted a Cartwright on his jury, but the longer that trial went on, the gladder I was that we had one.  The way Hoss had handled hisself had made a mighty big impression on me, and gettin’ to know Little Joe had, too, so I knew I could trust Adam to do what was right, and we sure needed men like him—and Henry Blasdel, too—on that jury, ‘cause that case was a hard one.

Not only was the defendant accused of cold-blooded murder, but he was knowed to be friends with none less than Farmer Perkins.  They probably don’t teach young’uns like you about the likes of him in school, but he was a pure terror to Virginia City back then, and any man who voted to convict a friend of his had every right to fear for his life.  You could see in the faces of most of those jurors that they were already quakin’ in their boots, but if Adam or Blasdel was, it sure didn’t show.  Now, I was real easy to sway back in those days, and on Hoss’s case the slick-talkin’ lawyers had pulled me back and forth betwixt ‘em, but this time there wasn’t a lick of doubt the man was guilty.  The only question was whether the jury would have the courage to find ‘im so.  I figured the best we could hope for was a hung jury, probably one that had voted 10 to 2 to let the man go free.

One thing I’ve learned over the years, though, is that courage can be catchin’, same as fear, and I reckon that’s what musta happened in that jury room.  Those twelve men stayed in there for days.  Can’t remember exactly how long, but days longer than any jury before ‘em.  Little Joe’d quit his grinnin’ by then, and I could tell he was worried about his big brother.  Musta heard some of the rumors goin’ around about what would happen to them jurors, if’n they didn’t straighten out and vote the man free.  Can’t say for sure if’n the rumors reached into the jury room itself, but I had a feeling they had and that that was what was keepin’ ‘em in there, the one place in town they figured they was safe.

Judge Kent was sure ‘nough put out by the time they filed back in with their verdict.  It was Adam Cartwright who stood up to deliver it.  Good thing, too, ‘cause he still looked as cool and calm as the day he first took that chair with the sawed-off legs, whilst some of the others was shakin’, just sittin’ there silent.  Reckon, maybe, they was prayin’ to the Maker they figured to be meetin’ soon.  A man needs to feel prayed-up at a time like that.  Don’t know if Adam was prayed-up or not—never thought to ask his baby brother—but he looked it, anyhow, when he read out the verdict of guilty, as charged.

A hush fell over the room, like they say in some of them sorry dime novels you’re so fond of, boy, and Judge Kent looked sober as—well, as a judge, I reckon—when he asked, “You sure about that, son?”  Now, I don’t know whether he’d developed a sudden concern for those jurors or whether he was afeared Farmer Perkins would lump him in with them when it came to passin’ out retribution or if, maybe, I was wrong and he really was a crooked judge back as early as that and actually wanted that killer to go free.

Either way, it was Adam that stood tallest to me, even in a jury full of sky-scrapin’ men, when he said, solemn and sincere, “We all are, your Honor.”  I think he might’ve been gildin’ the lily a mite, ‘cause I know for a fact a couple of them jurors was so sure of their verdict that they hightailed it out of town before their next meal.  At the time I figured they was the smart ones.  I reckon the others knew what was likely headed their way, ‘cause they walked soft, lookin’ behind at every step for the next little bit.

Wasn’t too long after the hangin’ before the first juror took a bullet, but the man that shot him paid for it fast, too, on account of Ben Cartwright had his boys and a bunch of his men keepin’ watch over each one of those jurors.  It was only a flesh wound, thank the good Lord, but we lost another man or two over the mountain.  The ones that stayed, though, reached down into their souls and found they had more grit in ‘em than they’d knowed was there, and none of the rest of ‘em ever took a bullet.

Way I heard it later was that Sam Bryant, big boss man around here for a while, told the Farmer to back off, that they’d get their revenge later.  Must not a-been ready to show his hand just yet, but by the time he did, he near about had his grip so tight on Virginia City that the life was squeezed out of it.  Adam Cartwright played a big part in unsqueezin’ it, but that’s another story, and it’s high time I finished up this one.

Word was that Sheriff Howard was plannin’ another special jury for the next big trial.  Supposedly, this one would be made up of the handsomest men in town.  Well, now, what man wouldn’t want to get picked for that jury!  (So long as it was a nice, easy case, you understand, with no friends like the Farmer lurkin’ about.)  With a mug like this, I knew I didn’t have a prayer of landin’ in the jury box, but there was considerable speculation on who might.  Most folks agreed Little Joe Cartwright was certain-sure to get chose.  I mean, if you’d asked any woman in the territory to pick out twelve good-lookin’ men, I guarantee that boy, plumb purty as he was, woulda been near the top of the list.  His brother Adam would, too, but bein’ as he’d just served on a jury, it weren’t likely he’d get asked to serve again so soon, ‘less’n the sheriff really wanted to rile Judge Kent.  Ben Cartwright hisself cut a fine figure for an older feller, but that probably woulda bought the sheriff more trouble than he could handle.

Well, sir, Little Joe commenced to struttin’ around town like a dadgummed peacock, grinnin’ and winkin’ at every skirt he passed, like he was purely enjoyin’ all the attention.  I figured it’d be hard to find a seat in that courtroom with all the ladies fightin’ to get in.  But that was before Joe’s pa got mad.  And I do mean good and mad, ‘cause as much as Ben took on about his other boys, he could be plumb foolish when it come to his youngest.  Well, they all could, for that matter; Hoss and Adam was just as protective of Ben’s baby boy as their pa, and not one of ‘em thought it’d be a good idea to let that young’un preen his peacock feathers in a jury box.

Ben was determined to put a stop to the sheriff makin’ the courtroom his own personal play yard, once and for all, and he finally found the right way to go about it.  Talkin’ to the judge hadn’t done no good; hollerin’ at the sheriff hadn’t, neither, so Ben went where the real power in town was.  He went to the women—not the young ones, who was all for seein’ purty boys like Little Joe strut their stuff.  No, sir, Ben went to the mothers, appealed to ‘em as parents to help him shut down this nonsense and make Virginia City a fittin’ place to raise their young’uns, and that done it.  You might as well learn this early, boy: ain’t no stoppin’ a lady with a bee in her bonnet, and as for a whole town full of ‘em . . . well, I reckon you get my drift.

Say, it’s gettin’ on toward suppertime.  You best start for home, or your mama’ll have my hide.  What’s that?  She said to ask me home to supper?  Well, help me up, then, young’un, ‘cause I ain’t about to turn down an invite like that!  Ain’t nobody makes chicken ‘n’ dumplings like your ma, and if there should happen to be apple pie for dessert, I could probably be persuaded to fetch another story out o’ my bag before bedtime.

What’d you say?  Bless you, boy, no!  That ain’t Ben Cartwright livin’ out to the Ponderosa these days.  Ole Ben passed on a good while past.  Hoss, too, much before his time.  Can’t you guess who that feller with the curly white mane halfway to his shoulders is?  No?  Well, that’s Joe!  He always did avoid a trip to the barber longer than any feller I ever saw, and now there ain’t no one to make ‘im cut off a single curl, ‘less’n he wants to.  Adam might, if’n he was still around, but after Ben’s oldest finally come to his senses and hightailed it back from the east coast, he settled over the mountains in Oakland, same as his old jury mate, Henry Blasdel, once he was through bein’ governor.  Better opportunities for an architect there, Joe told me once.  Him and Adam get together now and again, though, them and their families, and the way I hear it, that passel of grandkids they got just sits around, starin’ wide-eyed when they start swappin’ stories, ‘cause both of ‘em spin yarns better’n me, even if my name is Caleb T. Spinmeister.  Maybe I’ll take you out there sometime and let you hear one, straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.  Well, get the hitch outa your gidalong, boy!  There’s chicken ‘n’ dumplin’s waitin’!

The End

© April, 2018

Notes  ~ ~ ~ ~

The 4 Ws to be used in this story were:

1. midget
2. in the fireplace
3. a crooked judge
4. before Pa got mad

Okay, so what’s history and what’s just story?  Here’s the facts:

Sheriff Howard actually existed, and he really did have a penchant for picking peculiar juries.  The ones described here accurately detail their makeup in the correct order; however, the added silliness with the chairs is invented.  While we don’t know who put a stop to the madness, it did end just as the sheriff was contemplating a jury of handsome men, which any Cartwright might have graced.  Henry Goode Blasdel did sit on the third jury of tall, skinny men.  At 6 feet, 5 inches tall, he was a natural choice, and as stated, he went on to become the state of Nevada’s first governor in 1864, serving until 1871, after which he moved to Oakland, California.  Judge Kent is purely fictitious, as are the legal cases presented here.  And, as we all know, the Cartwrights are real!

Tags:  Adam Cartwright, Ben Cartwright, Hoss Cartwright, Joe / Little Joe Cartwright