I rode into Langtry after an extended stay in the town of Del Rio. I had to leave in a hurry after a dime novel I'd written was published. It seems that folks in town recognized themselves in the story, and didn't particularly care for the way they were portrayed. I tried to assure them that the things they read were merely creations of my overactive imagination, but they couldn't be persuaded. One gentleman, and I use the term loosely, argued that I should pay for my supposed libel in blood.

I was just able to make a getaway, stealing a horse and riding like hell out of town. I spent the trip cursing my profession. Some folks might think the life of a lawman or a mine worker is dangerous, but they've clearly never tried their hand at fiction before.

Words have been getting me in trouble for most of my life. As a boy, my Pa used to whip me for telling lies at the dinner table. Ma said that my mouth would be the death of me. I've been in more than a few bar fights on account of some fool thing or another that I've said. I suppose I should be more careful, but then again, whoever accomplished a blamed thing by being cautious? Ned Buntline didn't make his name because he was careful with his words. He just let 'em all spill out.

It was time to move on from Del Rio anyway. I needed to research my next story, so I was heading toward Mexico. My plan was to write about Ignacio Parra, the noted Mexican bandit. I didn't much care to meet the man, but I wanted to get a feel for the country before I tried to depict it. I figured that the little town of Langtry would serve as a nice waypoint before I slipped across the Rio Grande.

I arrived in the late afternoon. A group of men lounged on the porch of a ramshackle building labeled the Jersey Lilly. At the center sat a rugged-looking fella with a bone-white beard. Two or three folks were standing by a cart on the roadside. A body was stretched out on the cart stone dead.

"We found him like this just outside of town," a man said. "He ain't got no identification on him, but he did have a pistol and forty dollars in his pocket. What should we do, Judge Bean?"

"A pistol?" the man they called Bean said. "Well, I do believe he was carrying it illegally into our town. How much money did you say was in his pocket?"

"Forty dollars," the man replied.

"By a curious coincidence, that is the exact fine required for illegal possession of a firearm in Langtry. I declare him guilty as charged, now hand over the money and take him out of town, and bury him."

The men passed a wad of cash to the old man and then set off with the cart, presumably to dispose of their grim cargo. It was only then that the judge took notice of me.

"Welcome to the Jersey Lilly," he said. "My name is Judge Roy Bean. And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

"Name's Dean Carter," I said.

"And what brings you to our fair city?" Bean asked.

"Just passin' through," I replied.

The old man nodded and looked me up and down.

"Where you comin' from?" he said.

"Del Rio," I said.

"You'll excuse me for sayin', but your accent sounds like you're from somewheres back East," Bean said. "Can't say we get many of your kind 'round these parts."

"You've got a good ear," I said. "I'm not quite from the East Coast, but I did grow up on the other side of the Mississippi. I've been out west for a few years now chasin' stories. I'm a writer by trade."

"Like a newspaperman?" Bean said.

"Oh, no sir," I replied. "At least, not anymore. I worked for a newspaper for a time, but it was stifling work. These days I write cheap yarns about outlaws, heroes, and women of questionable character. Stuff to keep folks entertained. It's not as respectable, but it puts coins in my pocket and keeps me moving."

"Always fancied that maybe one day I'd be the hero in a dime novel," Bean said. "Hell, you could write a whole series of books about all the things I've done. I'm not, as you might have noticed, just the bartender here. I'm also the judge and jury in this town. No doubt you've heard all about ol' Judge Roy Bean, the only law west of the Pecos."

Now, between you and me, I had never heard the name before, but I suspected right off that it would be imprudent to say so.

"I doubt there's a man west of the Mississippi who hasn't heard of Judge Bean," I said. "No doubt folks on the other side will be learning your name soon enough."

I don't know if the old man believed me, but he seemed pleased by the flattery. A smile creased his leathery face. I figured I'd pour it on a little more.

"Pretty soon you'll be just as famous as Judge Parker from Arkansas," I continued.

The smile disappeared. He was scowling and there was color in his cheeks.

"Judge Parker be damned," he said. "He ain't half the judge that I am. They call him the 'Hanging Judge' but he ain't worth a hoot. You look at my town here and you'll see what a real judge can do. We don't have problems with bandits and outlaws because they know not to fool with Roy Bean. Hell, they know it for miles around. Crooks and thieves wouldn't dare commit a crime within a hundred miles of this place for fear of me."

Now, normally in a situation like this, I would buy the man a drink by way of an apology. Liquor, it seems, covers a multitude of sins. Free shots of whiskey have saved me from many a fellow who only moments before was set on knocking the teeth from my mouth. It's a little harder when the man you've angered owns the bar.

"You know, I've always felt about the same," I said. "I can't imagine why some folks make such a big deal outta the old fool. It's good to meet a man with some common sense for once."

Somehow, my attempt to mollify the judge seemed to exacerbate the problem. He narrowed his eyes and his brow furrowed. He raised his fist and pointed a finger in my face.

"An old fool is he?" Bean said. "That's no way to talk about a lawman. I won't stand for it. We respect the law around these parts."

"But you just said—" I protested.

"I'm a judge myself," Bean snapped. "I can call Carter any name I please, but I won't stand for a civilian sullying the name of the law. If I hear another word against him I'll see you behind bars. Do you understand me, son?"

Frankly, I did not understand the man at all. However, it seemed that every word I spoke made the situation worse, so I merely gave a somber nod. A grin slowly cracked through the judge's stony visage and a moment later he was laughing. This only served to spur my confusion, which must have been evident because Bean laughed even harder.

"Calm down boy," Bean said. "I ain't serious. I wouldn't take a piss on Carter if he was on fire, and I'll drink with any man who would say the same. Let's go inside."

He stood up and sauntered in the front door of the saloon. I followed and was shocked to find that, upon entering, I was almost exiting the building again. The small backdoor seemed a mere arm's length away. It was larger than an outhouse I suppose, but not by much. The air was filled with the sour smell of spilled liquor and old tobacco smoke. A lone table with a few chairs sat in the middle of the room. The raggedy-looking bar was off to one side. A few bottles were lined up against the wall, and a portrait hung just above them.

Bean stepped behind the bar and grabbed a bottle and a pair of tin cups. He pulled out a rag and wiped absently at them. Given the age and color of the rag, I could only assume that the cups were now dirtier than when he began. Fortunately, good hard liquor kills most anything, so I kept the observation to myself.

I am not typically a drinking man. That is not something one admits out west, or as a writer for that matter, but it is the truth. I have only been drunk on a few occasions, and in all instances, I am afraid to say that I vomited until I was sure that my innards must have poured out on the ground. Despite this rather delicate temperament, I felt it would be imprudent to decline the drink set before me. I swept up the cup and tried to down the elixir in a single go. It felt as though I were swallowing fire. My eyes watered as I coughed and spluttered, hoping I wouldn't accidentally spit alcohol into the judge's face.

"This stuff could tickle the toes of a hanged man," Bean said with a chuckle. "Not surprised a city boy can't hold it down."

"It's . . . mighty strong," I said, attempting to regain my composure and at least a measure of dignity.

Before I could object, Bean refilled my cup and pushed it back across the bar. A wiser man might have walked out the door, hopped back on his horse, and made for the edge of town. Were my head not swimming from the effects of the liquor, I might have done just that. Instead, I tried to bravely down a second helping of the foul beverage which I was fairly certain could strip the paint off a building.

This process repeated itself a third time, and by then I had lost all capacity for reason or tact. Bean and I were swapping stories. I told him about my various misadventures trying to write the great novel of the American West and he waxed poetic about his career enforcing the law. Though I don't recall exactly how the subject was breached, we began talking about women. As we spoke, my eyes found the portrait behind the bar again. It depicted a lady with dark curls and skin as fine as porcelain. She wore an ornately decorated dress and what appeared to be some sort of Bacchanalian crown. Her eyes were cast demurely down.

"What brothel did you find that lovely hussy in?" I said with a drunken laugh.

They say that a rattler can strike faster than the human eye can follow, injecting its deadly venom into your body and retreating to admire its handiwork before you even know you've been doomed. That's how it seemed with Bean. No sooner had the words left my mouth than I found myself staring down the barrel of his Colt.

"You dare disparage the name of the great Lily Langtry in my bar?" he thundered. "The finest actress of this, or any generation? You, sir, are not fit to kiss the ground beneath her feet, and yet you'd call her a whore to my face? Why, I should drop you where you stand and let the buzzards eat your pathetic remains."

I struggled to follow what he was saying but found it hard to focus on anything but the barrel of his gun. My vision blurred until it seemed I was staring at two pistols. Darkness crept in along the edges of my eyes and I felt myself begin to topple backward. I briefly wondered if the man had gone ahead and shot me, and then everything slipped into darkness.

I can't say how long I was unconscious, but when I woke it felt as though a railroad spike had been driven through my head and wads of cotton stuffed in my mouth. I opened my eyes, to find myself on the floor inside a jail cell. Bean stood outside the cell glowering at me.

"Now that you are awake, we can have your trial," he said.

"Trial?" I mumbled.

"You didn't think we'd recognize a cattle rustler when we saw one?" Bean said. "That's a hanging offense, and I intend to see justice done and done swiftly. Now, how do you plead?"

My mind, which moments before had been mired down with the lingering effects of liquor, was suddenly crystal clear and racing. I felt a rising sense of panic that threatened to make me vomit on the floor of my cell.

"I am not guilty!" I said. "I'm just a writer. This is some kind of horrible mistake."

"Are you suggesting that I am a liar Mr. Carter?" Bean said. "Is it your intention to insult this court?"

"But . . . but . . . this isn't a court," I said. "There's no jury and more importantly I've committed no crime. Now, let me go goddamn it!"

"Don't you raise your voice at me!" Bean roared. "I am the law in this town and I'll be treated with the respect I deserve. You listen to me, you lousy son of a bitch. The court is wherever I say it is and justice is whatever the hell I declare it to be."

A trio of men entered the room and stood behind Bean. I recognized them as the men I'd seen speaking with the judge on the porch of his saloon. They seemed to be his deputies, though of a rather questionable sort. All three men were armed, and there was an unmistakable hunger in their eyes for violence. One went so far as to place his hand on the butt of his pistol, as though waiting for word from Bean to fire.

"Are we taking this Yankee bastard to the gallows?" a man with a thick mustache and dark brown eyes said. "Or should we just take him out and shoot him?"

"I say we watch him hang," declared another of the men.

"Gentleman, let me remind you that this is a court of law," Bean snapped. "There has been no verdict declared, so we can hardly discuss sentencing."

The men looked crestfallen, their bloodlust forced to go unsated for at least a few more moments. I flailed about mentally, trying to come up with any plausible way to circumvent my demise. I recalled the judge appropriating the money from the dead man and wondered if I might appeal to his greed. If not, perhaps my place as a teller of tales could somehow play to his vanity and thus spare me from swinging at the end of a rope.

"I have some money . . . " I stammered.

"It is a crime to attempt to bribe the court," Bean said coldly.

"Of course," I said. "It would be the height of impropriety, but certainly a donation from a grateful citizen to fund the good work undertaken by this court would not be objectionable?"

"A sweet offer, boy, but we'll be emptying your pockets soon enough," he declared. "For the crime of cattle rustling, I sentence you to be hung by the neck until dead. The money in your pockets will be used to compensate this court for the trouble."

I feared I might faint yet again, so I reached out a hand and grabbed hold of the jail cell bars to hold myself up. I'd narrowly escaped Del Rio with my life, and now I was going to hang in this god-forsaken little speck of a town. The good Lord must not care much for dime novelists.

The men opened the jail cell and grabbed hold of me. I struggled a bit, but I'm a small man, and I knew my efforts were for naught. They quickly dragged me out of the jail and into the dusty street. My mind raced to come up with a solution.

"Judge, I could make you the star of my next novel," I said. "Just imagine that! Your name and likeness on the cover of a book that folks all over the country will read."

"You know, I've read many a dime novel in my time," Bean said. "I've even read a few of your books, Mr. Carter. Ended up using them as kindling. I think I'll just save my good name for a writer of higher quality."

Despite the fact that I was staring my own mortality in the face, his comment stung. I may not be Shakespeare or Homer, but I've always felt a sense of pride in my literary accomplishments. I made a note that if I managed to survive this encounter, I'd be sure my depiction of Bean would be less than flattering. Perhaps I'd suggest an inability to consummate his relationships or frequent bouts of incontinence. Anything to prick the old bastard's ego. They were stupid thoughts, but the mind does funny things when death is looming.

Bean's men herded me down the street toward the edge of town. I looked from side to side, searching for a gallows but none appeared, so that my fear was soon matched by confusion. How exactly did they intend to hang me? Was there a tree of some sort? The land in the area was barren except for small shrubs and the few trees I'd seen were not large enough to hold the weight of a hanging.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked.

"If I were you, I'd be more worried about where we're sending you," Bean said. "I hope you're a praying man, Mr. Carter, because you'll be meeting your maker soon."

It was hot as hell, and sweat dripped down my forehead and back and I'm sure I had the stink of fear all over me. I only hoped my bladder would hold out. Soiling myself before dying would be an even greater indignity. If that happened, I'd pray to come back to town as a ghost and haunt the damned place until the end of time.

We walked until we reached the edge of town and then one of the men gave me a hard shove in the back, knocking me down onto my knees. I fell forward when I hit the ground, my face colliding with the dry earth.

"Empty your pockets," one of the men said.

"W-why?" I stuttered.

"We're taking any valuables you might have as payment for our troubles," Bean said. "And I prefer not to dig through another man's pockets unless I absolutely must."

I pulled out several wrinkled bills I'd been carrying, along with a few coins and held them out. Bean snatched them from my hand then looked back at my pocket.

"I don't reckon you'll be needing that watch anymore," he said.

It was not a fancy timepiece. Just a simple silver pocket watch with a chain. I'd bought it with the money earned from my first book and had it engraved with my initials. I hated to part with it, but I supposed it wouldn't do me much good in a shallow grave. I begrudgingly handed it over.

"Now that we've settled fines and fees, I suggest you start walking again," Bean said. "Walk as far as your legs will carry you and don't look back unless you want to catch a bullet between the eyes."

"You aren't hanging me?" I said.

"If we ever see your ugly face around these parts again we just might," Bean said. "But for now, it must be your lucky day. It's hot as hell outside and digging a grave ain't easy work. Now get your worthless bones out of my town."

I felt like I was drunk again, my thoughts swimming and disjointed. Was I really going to make it out of this alive? If so, why go through the charade of a trial? What in the blue hell had happened to me over the last 24 hours?

My thoughts were interrupted by the sharp crack of a pistol. One of the men had fired a shot near my feet.

"I said get," Bean said. "Start walking or the next shot lays you low."

Which is how I found myself walking through the desert without a penny to my name or a drop to quench my thirst. I slowly made my way to the Rio Grande, where I drank until my stomach cramped up. Then I sat there on the bank thinking about what to do next. If I could find a way across the river, maybe I'd make my way to Acuña, Mexico, though it'd be a hell of a walk with no water. Maybe I'd be better off making my way back east and giving up this fool life of a writer.

I reckon you'd like to know just what I decided, but that's a tale for another time. Wide open spaces are calling my name, and I'm ready for my pen to get me in more trouble.