In 1861 Roy arrived at Mesilla, New Mexico. A partisan of the southern rebellion, he organized a band of rapscallions to fight the Yankee Bluebellies. They called themselves the Free-Rovers, possibly because they were too free with other peoples’ property. Otherwise known as the Forty Thieves, they did no fighting but were a menace to Mesilla’s chicken population.
For a while Roy roosted among a jumble of shacks he had dubbed “Beanville,” near San Antonio, Texas. He married a teenage muchacha named Virginia Chávez, who presented him with two boy and two girl Beans. The marriage was not a success. The couple fought like cats and dogs. On one occasion Roy found his señora in bed, presumably not alone. He snatched a burning stick from the fireplace and applied it vigorously to her derrière, whereupon she vanished from his life.
In 1882, “bearded, rum-soaked, and fat,” Bean arrived in the hamlet of Vinegaroon with his copy of the Revised Statutes of Texas, a fierce passion for liquor, and an even greater one for his unattainable idol, the actress Lillie Langtry, a picture of whom he always carried in his wallet. He set up a saloon and was soon known as Old Vinegaroon, though Spanish-speaking folks simply called him Fríjoles. A short time later Roy moved to the tiny jerkwater town of Langtry, of which he claimed to be the name-giver, and there set himself up as the “Law West of the Pecos” in his combination of saloon and courthouse, called, slightly misspelled, Jersey Lilly in honor of the actress he adored. It was situated within a stone’s throw of the whistle-stop on the newly built San Antonio-El Paso line. The Jersey Lilly was a sort of ramshackle bungalow with signs proclaiming: JERSEY LILLY, JUDGE ROY BEAN, NOTARY PUBLIC, LAW WEST OF THE PECOS, JUSTICE OF THE PEACE, ICE AND BEER. As one of the ballads about Roy had it:
He was born one day at Toyah,
Where he learned to be a lawyer,
And a teacher and a barber and a mayor.
He was a cook and old-shoe mender,
Sometimes teacher and bartender,
And it cost two bits to have him cut your hair.
The old rascal was about sixty years old when he established his rule at Langtry, and it was only at that historic moment that the Legend of Roy Bean had its beginning.
Ah Ling’s Hommyside
Judge Roy Bean of Vinegaroon
Held his court in his own saloon,
Fur a killin’ or a thievin, or other sech fracas,
Bean was the Law West of the Pecos.
An article in the Saturday Evening Post of 1931 concluded that “as a matter of cold legal fact Roy Bean was no more a justice of the peace than the first jackrabbit he met in the Big Bend brush.” Such criticisms never bothered the old scalawag, who had soaked up a lot of courtroom jargon during many trials in which he figured as the defendant. He usually started proceedings with a solemn “Hear ye, hear ye! This honor’ble court is now in session an’ if any galoot wants a snort afore I start tryin’ this case let him step up to the bar and name his pizen.”
Roy’s temple of justice was his saloon, his judge’s bench the bar. Behind it was a chair on which he used to sit when dealing monte, and for dispensing justice he placed the weighty Revised Statutes of Texas on the chair and took his seat upon it, which enabled him to look over the counter at the defendants before him. The jury box consisted of a dozen beer barrels on which the panel of tried-and-true men took their seats.
In performance of his duties Judge Bean was self-important, scurrilous, high-handed, and outrageously profane. He allowed no appeal. The presence of lawyers was discouraged. Objections to his rulings were squashed by the display of a pair of oversized shooting irons. Thus with a booming voice that brooked no contradiction, Roy tried cases, passed sentences, performed marriages and divorces, leveled fines, and played coroner. His most famous inquest, the story of which has been told and retold in a dozen different versions, involved a murdered Chinese laundryman named Ah Ling. The defendant was an Irish gandy dancer who, as the only witness, testified on his own behalf. His Honor looked with favor upon the Sons of Erin because they were good customers, and the accused was one of the best. By contrast, he detested the “pigtailed heathen Sons of Heaven,” who never spent a cent on his wet goods.
Roy got out the Revised Statutes from under his ample hindquarters, placed the heavy tome on the bar, and pretended to study it.
“This here book, which is a Texas lawbook,” he finally ruled, “says that hommyside is the killin’ of a yooman, male or female. Thar’s innum’rable kinds of hommyside—murder, assasinashion, shootin’, knifin’, pizenin’, killin’ in self-defense, plain hommyside, negl’cent hommyside, an’ praiseworthy hommyside. Thar is three kinds of yoomans—white men, niggers, an’ greasers. It stands to reason that ef a Chinee was yooman, the sendin’ of him up the flume would come under praiseworthy hommyside. It says nowhere in this here book of statutes that killin’ a Chinaman is onlegal. The prisoner at the bar is discharged on condition that he pays for havin’ this pigtailed heathen buried.”
In another version of the same tale, the Irishman, Paddy O’Shaughnessy, swore that he had merely intended to frighten Ah Ling for not doing a good job with Paddy’s laundry: “Faith, yer Honor, them divilish infidel Sons of Asia is worse than Orangemen, begorrah! May God give me mercy in the last days. It wasn’t murder. ’Twas the Chinee’s own fault. If I’d had a shillelagh I’d jest given him a good knock on his bean, ef this honor’ble court pardons the pun. Not ’avin’ a shillelagh, I shot at the bastard wid a gun, but, by the Mither o’ God, I told that dirty bodach to duck an’ he didna duck, the pig-tailed sonuvabitch. ‘Twas his aun fault, as I said afore. He did it out o’ malice. That’s as true as the sun, bedad!”
Judge Bean put his specs on his rosy proboscis and consulted his statutes, cleared his throat, took a nip of the good creature, and pronounced: “Paddy O’Shaughnessy, you stand before this bar of justice charged with murderin’ one oriental named Ah Ling. Murder, Paddy, is a serious crime, special serious for the galoot who got killed. These here revised statutes of Texas say that the killin’ of a citizen is punishable by death, but, by gob, it don’t say a word about killin’ sech a sorry specimen of the animal kingdom as a goddam Chinee. An’ it is my roolin’ that this was a justifi’ble case of hommyside an’ that Paddy here, a powerfully good customer of your Honor, stands acquitted of all charges. I pronounce him innocent, an’ I’ll fine any gander-eyed galoot who sez different. The drinks, however, are on Paddy. This honorable court stands adjourned. What’ll it be, gents?”
In still another version it is Roy’s dim-witted factotum, Oscar, who sent Ah Ling to join his ancestors with a rusty saber left behind by a besotted cavalryman. The proceedings went like this:
“Hear ye, hear ye, boys, this honorable court is now in session, an’ if any of you saddle-stiffs wants a shot afore I use my gavel, let him specify his brand of coffin varnish an’, gentlemen of the jury, make sure of bein’ well lubricated, fur this trial here may take some time. Wall, you all know the defendant here, Oscar, who stands accused of the orful crime of murder. Oscar shore is a puny, pitiful specimen of the yooman race. But we’re mighty fond of him all the same. Who would clean out the spittoons, an’ wipe the floor an’ put sawdust on it, if it warn’t for good ole Oscar here.
“Waal, yore honor’ble jedge is a square shooter, an’ no bottom dealer, an’ ef Oscar is guilty this court’ll hang him higher than Haman, by ned! But have another snort afore I go on. Waal, here’s the book, the Revised Statutes of the Great State of Texas, the Lone Star State, my friends, the State of Davy Crockett an’ Jim Bowie, an’ Sam Houston. An’ it’s all in here, boys, from the Alamo clear to this here Year of our Lord, eighteen eighty four, yessir. An’ supposin El Stupido here is guilty I’ll wrap it to him as if he was a stranger, by gob!”
Whereupon the judge proceeded to read the statutes from cover to cover, wading through Texas law from “alienation of affection” to zapping “zorillas in a zanja.” After reading for some three hours, interrupted by frequent recourse to the Jersey Lil
ly’s stock of strong waters, Bean closed the book and roused his comatose jury:
“And thar she is, gents, the full unabridged an’ unexpurgated law of the Great State of Texas, from soda to hoc. An’ thar ain’t a single goddam mother-violatin’ line in it nowhere makin’ it a crime to kill a Chinaman. Tharfore my roolin’ is that the defendant is discharged. My further roolin’ is that all present are fined one dollar legal tender fur fallin’ asleep while yer honorable jedge was readin’ the law, the money to be fer buryin’ the slant-eyed Son of Heaven. Court stands adjourned. Belly up to the bar, boys!”
Fining the Deceased
A red-haired drifter of whom nothing was known except that his first name was Mike, got more than commonly soused and, tottering across Myers Canyon Bridge, went over the side, breaking his neck on the rocks below. The body was loaded on a buckboard, driven to the Jersey Lilly, and there laid out on a table. Bean went through the dead man’s pockets and came up with a revolver and forty-one dollars in cash. He empaneled a jury and proceeded to hold an inquest:
“Members of the jury, this here down-on-his-luck galoot met his Maker due to nacheral causes, to whit, fallin from a bridge while in a state of intoxicashun. An’ that, amigos, is all there is to it. This here hombre’s gone belly up an’ he cain’t tell us why he carried a six-shooter which, in the court’s opinion, is a good gun. An’ he cain’t tell us how he came by these dineros. He’s already flappin’ his wings up there some place, this court shore hopes. This ain’t no business of the court. But it is its business that this feller was carryin’ about his pusson a concealed weapon, which is agin’ the law. The court is obleeged to fine the deceased forty dollar for this misdemeenoor, to be employed in plantin’ this poor sot proper-like in the boneyard. The forty-five, which, as the court opined, is a damn good gun, yer honor’ble jedge retains as a sooveneer to keep it out of reach of childers an’ sech like innocents who could endanger themselves with it. An’ that, folks, is my roolin’.”
“Thar’s one dollar left, jedge,” one of the customers interjected. “What’s that for?”
“That, you cross-eyed lunkhead, feedin’ off yer range, is fur buyin’ your hon’rable judge a drink.”
Bean, who could extract simoleons from a rock, loved inquests because there was money in them. A Mexican was found dead in an arroyo with a bullet drilled neatly and plumb center between his eyes. Roy first robbed the corpse of a small golden cross hanging from its neck, as well as of a silver belt buckle, and then held an inquest, concluding solemnly:
“I rool that this hombre cashed in his chips as a result of bein’ shot by a person unknown who was a damn good shot.”
The Hanging of Carlos Robles
This story has been told so many times and in so many versions that one almost blushes to relate it. It is probably the figment of an eastern writer’s imagination, but to hell with debunkers!
A Mexican was brought before Judge Bean on a charge of cattle rustling. Roy brought down his gavel with a bang, roared “Silence in court!” and proceeded:
“Hear ye! Hear ye! This hon’rable court is now in session, an’ if any buzzard wants to whet his whistle, let him step up an’ name his brand. Now, who’s the rantankerous cuss before me. Oscar? Speak up, featherhead!”
“Carlos Robles, Your Honor.”
“All right. Carlos Robles, it is the findin’ of this here court that yore charged with the heinous an’ despic’ble crime of cattle rustlin’, which is an outrage agin’ the Great Sovereign State of Texas an’ the peace an’ dignity of this court, This scurvy atrocioosh crime is punishable by death. How do you plead?”
“No hablo inglés.”
“Court accepts yore plea of guilty. The jury will now deliberate; an’ if any of you spavined saddle stiffs bring in a verdict short of hangin’, the court will find you in contempt. Boys, have you arrived at a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor. Guilty as charged.”
“Thank you, gennelmen. Rise, Carlos Robles, an’ receive yore jedgement. You got anythin’ to say why sentence shouldn’t be passed upon you?”
“No comprendo, señor.”
“Carlos Robles, you’ve been tried by yore peers, but not by yore equals, as they are as high above you as an eagle is above a cockroach, an’ they found you guilty as hell.”
“Carlos Robles, soon the icy winds of winter will have passed. Soon spring will come with its wavin’ green grass an’ flowerin’ trees. Gentle zephirs will stir the tresses of loverly maidens, as silver rivulets will come hop-scotchin’ down the mountains an the benev’lent sun will kiss all the lil’ pink an’ white buds. Then will come the scorchin’ summer, an’ the grain an’ corn will ripen from which good hombres will make sourmash an’ ever-glorious white lightnin’. An’ then fall will come to brighten leaves into shinin’ gold under the glowin’ sun, an’ apple trees will be bearin’ apples to turn into applejack. Yessir. An’ then we’ll have winter agin, an’ this Great Sovereign State of Texas will be mantled in snow, an’ the white mountaintops will glow pink in the sunset an’ the boys will be congregatin’ around the glowin’ stove, a-sippin’ red-eye, playin’ poker, monte, an’ euker. But you won’t be here seein’ any of it, Carlos Robles, not by a damn sight, ‘cause it’s the roolin’ of this court that you be took to that majestic cottonwood yonder an’ hanged until yore too dead for to skin. An’ may God have mercy on your no-account soul, you mud-skinned sonuvabitch! Oscar, let the prisn’er have a snort afore the boys decorate the tree with him.”
Roy Bean’s Pet Bear
Roy Bean had a pet bear, and it was beautiful to see how the two of them got along. Some say the old griz’s name was Bruno, others made it Sarsaparilla, but that’s neither here nor there. Roy had a cage made for the bear, but Bruno never saw the inside of it. The ferociously friendly critter was kept right next to the Jersey Lilly, tied to a tree by a chain long enough to give Bruno ample space to exercise his legs.
Bruno was good for business. Roy taught him to drink beer and the bear took to it like a bock-beer–weaned Bavarian. Roy would toss a bottle at Bruno, who would catch it between his huge paws, pull out the cork with his teeth, and empty its contents with one mighty swallow. Travelers passing through Langtry would leave their train to watch Bruno perform, buying bottle after bottle to have the show go on.
Roy also enlisted Bruno in the cause of justice. His Honor developed a habit of punishing drunks who had passed out after refusing, or being unable, to pay for their coffin varnish, or low-down characters who had made a ruckus while being booze-blind, by tying them to Bruno’s tree with a chain just long enough to be out of the bear’s reach. Waking up from their binges and contemplating Master Bruin standing erect, fangs bared, and his huge claws mere inches from their anatomy, not only sobered them up in no time, but also instilled in them a new respect for the law.
It is said that few men ever got the better of Roy Bean, but a drummer by the name of Sam Betters did. Roy had a wonderful racket going that produced for him an ever-flowing stream of greenbacks. The Jersey Lilly was the only saloon within a hundred miles. Whenever a train stopped at Langtry, all male passengers, as a matter of course, alighted to make a beeline for Roy’s liquid refreshments. They had about fifteen minutes to quench their thirst before the train pulled out. Sam Betters was such a traveler. He ordered a beer at Roy’s outrageous price of one dollar per bottle and paid with a new crisp and crackling twenty-dollar bill, unaware that the judge never made change. Roy put the note in his till with an absentminded look, yawing on a glass to give it some polish.
“This beer’s as warm as piss,” Betters complained. “Don’t you keep it on ice?”
“Boys, did you hear this? The tenderfoot wants ice in July! That’s a good one.”
Roy never kept ice, despite the fact that his sign proclaimed “ICE, BEER, AND CHOICE LIQUORS.” Sometimes he put a special lump of glass in the tumbler of a favorite customer just to make him feel good.
The train’s whistle emitted a
loud blast. Betters inquired, “Hey, where’s my change?”
Roy smiled with a faraway look, chomping on his cigar.
“Goddam it, man, the train’s leaving. Gimme my change. Hurry up!”
Roy continued to smile beatifically, gazing at the distant mountains shimmering in the haze. It dawned upon Betters that Roy had no intention of making change. The train’s whistle sounded a last warning.
“You goddam money-grubbing, theiving old fart,” yelled Betters, “I want change for my twenty!”
“Ye infinitismal pismire a-crawlin’ up my pants leg,” Roy answered good-naturedly, “this court fines you twenty bucks fur aboosin’ yore honor’ble judge an’ usin’ profanity. The beer’s on the house.”
The train started pulling out slowly. Betters barely managed to get back on it. He was leaning out the window, shaking his fists, yelling like the devil: “Bean, you cheating son of a bitch, some day I’ll get even with you!”
Roy waved back, grinning from ear to ear.
One or two years later Roy was in El Paso on business, bending his elbow at the bar of the Ruby Saloon. As fate would have it, Betters was there too. “Howdy, Judge,” said the drummer, patting Roy on the back, “that was quite a joke you played on yours truly a while back at Langtry. Well, I’ve got a great sense of humor. No hard feelings, Bean. Let me buy you a drink.”
Legends and Tales of the American West Page 37