In the days of gunslingers and working women, the “Law West of the Pecos” was the only true justice according to Judge Roy Bean. No one knew if Roy had ever been certified to be what he claimed to be, but in a town with no rules "swift justice" meant fewer thieves; and for Roy, nothing could be worse than stealing another man’s property. Truthfully, he cared only about his own property, but being the gambler he was he didn’t like seeing money leave town.
One dusky evening in early September Roy played poker just as he always had, sipping slowly on a glass of whiskey so as to keep a keen eye on the game. Roy couldn’t abide a drunk at the table, being that no one could legally hold a debt over an unconscious player. But just after ten o’clock Charley O’Doherty added his chips to the pot, his mustache dotted with foam as he gnawed on a limp cigar. Charley, though always seen as a coward, had the type of no-good reputation that was a cause for discomfort at the table. He’d shot seven men in his thirty-four years--always in the back--he hit his women, and was in repute to have a trail of bastards that stretched across the entire State of Texas. He bragged that it was his Catholic roots that made him procreate, but it was his Irish good looks that brought the whores in droves. No one could deny that Charley had been handsome in his day, but years of drinking and riding in the dust had weathered him like an old glove, now not a day under fifty, and with fewer teeth than all the newborns he'd fathered.
Though Charley had a poor reputation, no one hated him more than Judge Roy Bean. Roy had his suspicions that it was Charley behind a string of stolen horses that past summer, as well as a gold pendant that had disappeared from the jeweler’s store window. For all the drinking and gambling he did, Charley didn’t work much, yet he always seemed to have cash on hand for any occasion.
Roy stared at the back of Charley’s cards, mentally burning a hole through the paper. As bad as Roy was at poker, Charley was quite good and didn't have giveaways in the form of ticks, scratching, or holding his breath. Roy searched him for clues, the way he shifted his legs back and forth, rolling on the heels of his worn boots. But the hairs in Charley’s mustache lay still on his pock-marked face, waiting. With a grunt Roy threw down the cards, and Charley, laughing, scooped up his winnings.
By the next morning Roy had lost all his money and hobbled home to his office, where he slept on an old worn sofa that smelled like the building, like Roy, and like every other bachelor who'd once owned the property. Drunk and loud enough to wake half the cemetery, Roy slept late into the morning until he was woken by a knock at the door.
“You, Judge Bean!” came a high voice. “Judge Bean, you in thar? You need to talk to me!”
Roy gagged on the cotton-mouth, hacking until he found his warm canteen.
"Come in.”
It was Calvin Miller, the local butcher and postmaster; a sometimes-surgeon when the doctor disappeared for weeks at a time to chase down his Native wife in the coulees. He hadn’t a hair on his head, his bald pate hidden under a beat-up bowler cap, and his apron stunk of rotten meat. He had blood under his fingernails. Still, he seemed excited about something; Roy poured him a cup of yesterday’s coffee.
“I heard you lost big last night, Judge,” Calvin said. “How much you out this time?”
Roy stated that he'd only lost “about a dollar.” True, he had lost “about a dollar,” but he had also lost several other dollars. He'd had more cash than usual, having collected on a hanging debt just that afternoon.
“Well, I suppose that’s good,” said Calvin. “The way I hear it, some folks down yonder lost a lot more than you. The way I hear it, they say the game warn’t all in fairness.”
Roy set down his cold coffee. He could not abide a thief stealing from others, and he could not abide a thief stealing from him. In all truth, he had lost nearly ten dollars at the table last night, and that was more than he could afford, even with a rash of hangings.
“What makes you think the game was unfair?” Roy pulled at his long, white beard.
“I don’t know, Judge,” Calvin leaned back in the chair, "but they’re sayin’ it. You’re the law ‘West of the Pecos.’ Ain’t no other rules out here. If something’s to be done, it’s you that’s gotta do it.” Roy took a swig of coffee, dumping the rest on the dirt floor, and walked over to the stove to set water to the boil. "Well, anyway, I just figured you ought to know." Calvin's good eye twinkled. He tipped his hat and left to butcher a pig.
Now, Roy always liked a good case, but Calvin was a bigger gossip than half the Baptist Mission Society, and he'd need hard evidence: reliable sources, missing cash. He hitched up his wagon and headed off to talk to “them that’s sayin’ it.”
Roy arrived in Grand Mesa in the Texas heat, sweating off the previous night and heading straight to the Red Star Saloon. Two beers down and feeling better he asked to speak to someone in charge, expecting the bartender, but was surprised to be tapped on the shoulder by a lacy white glove. She had a heart-shaped face of perfect olive complexion, full red lips, and green eyes that turned his giblets to gelatin as he tried to remember anything at all: names, places, the English language.
“Don’t worry, stranger, I don’t bite." Her perfume encased him like a warm vice, grabbing her hand (in what she expected to be a kiss) and shaking it violently, still unable to pilot his own tongue. She understood.
“So you want to talk to me? About O’Doherty, am I right?”
Roy nodded, untying the knots and remembering how to breathe. She was known in those parts as “Rosemary Dove,” and worked an unspoken profession upstairs in the saloon, which she also owned. She knew all too well about Charley O’Doherty and had the misfortune of spending several evenings in his presence. Leaving out the improper details, Rosemary Dove described Charley as the coward that everyone knew him to be--he drank by the quart and cried himself to sleep every night over his “poor dead mama," in a whore's bed or otherwise. No one really knew what happened to the woman, but it can only be assumed that she died out of regret for the burden she'd brought on the world the day he was born. Still, Rosemary Dove claimed that Charley was no card cheat and any money he had—while he didn’t work for it—came from an inheritance of some sort.
Numbly, Roy listened, awash in the conversation of a beautiful woman. He knew he wasn’t getting anything he needed, but he couldn’t seem to leave either, the way she stroked the backs of his old fingers and asked him questions. "What's it like being a judge? You must have a lot of power and money being in such an important position. Do you have a lot of power?" He wanted to say yes--money, power, prestige, women--though he knew the answer was unquestionably no. One of Rosemary Dove’s regulars swaggered in and demanded her attention, with a stroke of her soft, olive chin. She grabbed the stranger’s hand and headed upstairs, stopping only to give Roy a wink before disappearing behind the door. Unsure of what had happened, Roy stumbled back to his wagon, heart pounding, where he sat and stared off into the distance before heading back towards town.
That night, back at the table, Roy started winning a little. True, his only counterparts were the drunk doctor and a man so old his children had all preceded him in death. Whatever the reason, Roy needed a win; his safe was nearly empty. But he knew that big jackpot lay ahead, if only he could stretch his last few coins a little farther…
In walked Charley O’Doherty, the glint of his last remaining gold teeth catching the lamplight. He snapped his fingers at the bartender.
“Drinks all around, Shawn!” Ambergris and horse shit hung on the air. “I’ve got money to burn and plenty of matches!”
Roy groaned but never said no to a free drink, hurrying through the first before Charley’s generosity ran out. He stared the man down as the dealer dealt a new hand, determined to win. So determined, in fact, that if the game was at all honest he would go home a very rich man. This seemed to cheer him up and he leaned back in his chair, shuffling the cards back and forth, giving the notion of a man with far too many choices.
Sooner than later, all Roy’s hopes lay somewhere beneath the floorboards, the end of his long whiskers soaking up stale beer as he hunched deeper into his cards. Charley kept buying drinks, his budget and success seemingly endless. With every new hand he excused himself to the bar, bringing back glasses full of all manner of amber liquids until Roy couldn't see the numbers on his cards. Pulling himself up--with a little help--he walked home, drunk, broke, and miserable.
The sound of wagon wheels woke him early the next afternoon, and when he limped to the porch to piss in the dust he saw a whitewashed wagon parked out front of Tanner’s Hotel. Seated in front was a beautiful woman with green eyes. Blind as he was, he could tell they were green, even shaded by a delicate parasol. Down stepped Rosemary Dove. Now, had Roy been a clever man, he might have looked around, tidied up a little, and combed that knot of a beard. Hell, he might've remembered to button his pants. But Roy hanged for a living and hadn’t had a woman’s touch in years. He adjusted his suspenders, grabbed a crust of bread and cold coffee, and stepped out into the sun. Though he desperately wanted to go into the hotel and shake the woman’s hand violently again, he had a man to hang today and he needed the money.
Just before lunch, Roy and a small crowd of onlookers stood around Caius Jones, watching him sweat for his sins. The Father read him his last rights, fed him communion, then turned to Roy. Caius wasn't a bad man, but he made bad decisions with all the wrong people. Blind-drunk one night he thought it might be fun to go round up some horses with a few new friends. In the morning, his "friends" and most of the horses had disappeared, leaving Caius drunk and asleep on the back of a stolen pony. Justice didn't play around with horse thieves. Roy slapped the pony hard, sending Caius Jones swinging into eternity. Ten dollars exchanged hands and Roy headed back to the saloon.
Inside, Rosemary Dove had already made friends with nearly every man in town, who sat fawning in a circle around her with the excitement of a horse race. Roy snuck quietly into the back, feeling important; he knew her first. Hell, they had a bond. True, she didn’t recognize him at first glance, but she'd called him "powerful." It had to count for something. But it wasn’t until Manuel, the barber, started introducing the lot that she looked into Roy’s eyes.
“Well, Roy! I was just tellin’ these boys about you and your big ‘Law North of the Pecos.’” Roy nodded dumbly, unable to correct her. He thought he might even change his sign out front, just to please the angel. “Go on Roy. You tell ‘em about your hangin’.”
Roy looked around the room, aware that every man here knew what he did for a living. He lapsed into a long and heroic tale of capturing criminals and bringing justice back to Texas “even if it means sacrificing myself for the law.” Truthfully, he had never had to “capture” anyone, but simply strung them up, already shackled and weeping to their Maker. The Barber brought in three crooks himself, looking like he wished Rosemary might turn and recognize him standing feebly on the edge of the group.
“Why, Dove!” came the all-too-familiar drawl. Charley O’Doherty reached through the crowd and grabbed Rosemary Dove around the waist, pulling her from the sad lot. He whipped her around a couple of times to the plinking and planking of the old player piano, kissing her on the cheek and then with a little more tongue. The men watched in awe. For as much as they hated Charley, they envied him too.
“Charley, quit.” She stiffened, still smiling, but clearly about as pleased to see him as the rest. “I thought you were going to California.”
“Why would I, when I’ve got gold right here?” He forced his tongue into her mouth again, a lecherous smile beaming out the back of his ass. In a moment the bar cleared out, including Roy, whose ten minutes of fame had passed as he strolled down Main Street looking for something to hang.
Roy walked into that night’s poker game with the few cents he had left. He knew he'd likely lose them, but he also knew that Rosemary Dove would be there. Maybe all he needed was a good luck charm, and having a beautiful woman around was just about the luckiest thing he could think of. Roy wasn't a praying man, but he took a quick glance at the stars and thought good thoughts, winning thoughts, green-eyed thoughts.
Sure enough, Rosemary Dove sat at the table, a feather in her hair and black lace gloves covering her long fingers. She said she didn’t play cards, but could stay up all night for a good conversation and a few mugs of beer. There was something about a beautiful woman drinking a man’s beer that stood Roy’s hair on end. He shuffled his cards. Good hand or bad, bluffing or truthful, Roy began to lose almost immediately. One by one, the other players rose angrily from the table and stormed out of the saloon, and by midnight it was just Roy, Charley O’Doherty, and Rosemary Dove. The latter encouraged him to “give it a shot” or “play it safe.” From time to time she'd pull a mirror from her carpet bag and say, “How do I look, Roy? You think I'm pretty?” Roy could only choke out, “Oh, fine, fine," cheeks burning.
"Shaddup, woman. You know you're pretty." Charley spat under the table, grabbing bits and pieces of Rosemary Dove that Roy couldn't see.
With his last chip and will on the table, Roy asked for two new cards. The dealer passed him the cards, sliding them short before handing two to the other players. Frustrated, Roy reached for the cards, knocking over his half-empty beer, sending broken glass flying into the young dealer's lap.
"God, sorry. My fault. Ma'am, you okay?" Nervous and apologetic, the dealer grabbed a rag and a broom, scooping away the mess as Rosemary Dove stood to check her dress. With all the hullabaloo he might not have caught it, but out of the corner of Roy's eye Charley O’Doherty, swifter than a rat up a drainpipe, reached over and slipped a card from the bottom of the deck.
“Cheat!” hollered Judge Roy Bean. “Goddamn, filthy card cheat!” Charley raised his hands in innocence, looking alarmed at the accusation.
“Roy, now I don’t know what you seen, but you didn’t see nothin’.” And with a smirk, “All those free drinks is makin' you dance with the devil.”
Roy looked around. The dealer stood stock still, a little guilty himself; Rosemary Dove powdered her nose.
“Now, boys," impatient, "let’s not get worked up over a little card game, would you please?” And she rose with her carpet bag and floated toward the stairs. “It’s time for bed I think, Charley. This game's run its course." A wink, again, meant for Roy.
Roy knew himself well enough to know that he had seen what he had seen. Free beer or no free beer, he had sweat himself silly in the Texas sun that afternoon and it would take a lot more than an evening of cards to make him dance with the devil. He marched straight over to the sheriff’s house and banged on the door, hollering, “Yooo, Sheriff! Wake up, you old bastard; I need to hang somebody!”
The term “sheriff” had little meaning West of the Pecos. Badges passed from man to man with trivial more reason than the “last ‘un got kilt.” Sheriff Bigsby, while a big man, was least qualified yet most willing of all the men in town. He'd lost a toe to gangrene in '73 and couldn’t keep up with most chickens, let alone men. Not that he tried. Bigsby preferred the “finer things in life,” which just so happen to be wine, women, and song. If you could find him sober, you’d grab him up quick, rare and temporary as he was known to be. And disliked though he was, people generally treated him well, being that he was the law. Roy, feeling more like the law, himself, didn’t care for Bigsby’s reputation and considered him little more than a squat figurehead.
Sheriff Bigsby opened the door, his bulbous nose poking out into the moonlight.
“Bean, it’s late,” he sighed. “What the hell do you want that can't wait until morning?"
Roy pushed his way into Bigsby’s front room, little more than a lean-to for kicking the dirt off his boots, and replayed the evening’s events, adding unnecessary embellishments--Rosemary Dove’s eyes, gloves, and rosy red lips--until Bigsby threw his hands in the air.
"Stop it, man, I can't hear anymore of this. What do you want me to do?"
“Why, arrest the thief, Sheriff!” Roy said, frustrated by Bigsby’s nonchalance. “I’m the judge in these parts. Give him to me for trial. I’ll take care of the ugly bastard.”
“There’s no evidence, Roy. It’s only you that seen it, and how is that fair if you're the judge?"
"I don't know, Sheriff. What about that goddamn clumsy dealer? He must've seen something."
"Then you'll have to ask him. But don't you dare knock on my door until tomorrow. You hear me?"
Grumbling, Roy rose, bidding the sheriff good-night. In the eastern sky, pastels bloomed on the open frontier, though Roy cared little for the “goddamn sunrise," penniless and duped.
The next day, Roy attempted a citizen’s arrest on Charley O’Doherty. Hoping against hopes that Rosemary Dove would be out, or at least decent, he pounded on the door of the upstairs quarters in the saloon.
Bang! Bang! Bang! “O’Doherty, come out of there right now! I arrest you in the name of the law!” Bang! Bang! Bang!
A sleepy-eyed Charley O’Doherty opened the door, smirking at Roy as he slid on his trousers.
“Whatchu want, Bean? I’m busy.”
Roy grabbed Charley by the wrists and hog-tied them together before pushing him toward the stairs. Rosemary Dove peeked out from behind the door in a mess of unkempt curls that gave away the morning.
“Don’t worry, Dove. He’s an old lunatic; I’ll be back in time for lunch!”
Marching down Main Street, Roy and Charley brought the whole goddamn town into the daylight. Every shopkeeper, barber, bartender, and whore came out to see the ruckus. Cocksure and smelling like gin and women, Charlie winked at the whores up in the windows; he knew them all by name. Roy stared straight ahead as he walked toward the sheriff's house. Bigsby, who'd come out with everyone else, stood waiting for the two men.
“Sheriff Bigsby,” said Roy, somewhat formally, “I, with God as my witness, saw this man steal a card from the bottom of the deck in last night’s game. I aim to try him, convict him, and hang him.”
“Now, just wait a gol darn minute, Sheriff!” O’Doherty spat on Roy's shoes. “I already told him he didn’t see what he seen. I am an honest man, and I play an honest game, God sure as my witness.”
As unwilling as he was to perform his duties on a regular basis, Sheriff Bigsby certainly didn’t know Charley O’Doherty to be an “honest man,” in the eyes of God or anybody else. The idea of him playing an “honest game” was almost laughable, inclining the lazy sheriff to proceed with Roy’s request. He turned to face Charley O’Doherty and read him his rights in the name of the law. Pale, O’Doherty twisted around, searching for his green-eyed alibi.
“Sheriff,” Rosemary Dove cooed, appearing seemingly from nowhere and softly placing her hand on his fatty forearm. “Please don’t do this. I know Charley’s a nuisance, but you can’t convict a man for winning at cards.” Then she turned to do the same to Roy, a soft manicured hand on his lonely arm. In the five minutes it had taken her to dress, coif, and come out smelling like the fresh morning dew, she'd regained her power over the old bachelor judge. Blinking twice he looked away, his only defense.
“Charley O'Doherty, you are arrested in the name of the law. You will be tried in my court at two o’clock to be sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.”
At 2:15 Calvin Miller tied the noose around Charley’s neck, stoic on the back of a deep brown mare.
“Charley O’Doherty,” Roy began, “on this day of September 5th, 1879 you are hereby convicted of cheating in a game of cards and so stealing from your municipality. You are sentenced to hang by the neck until dead and will so be hung.”
With a last check of the tether, Calvin gave Roy the all-clear. And Charley O’Doherty swung into eternity. Several of the whores fainted onto the dirt, because callous and disliked though he was, Charley knew them all, and they him.
As if he'd merely drowned a cat, Judge Roy Bean kicked up the dirt and headed off to the saloon for a beer, ten dollars richer and full of optimism. Behind him, Father O’Connor pulled Charley down from the rope and blessed him before carting him off for burial, Rosemary Dove standing tearlessly to one side. She'd never seemed to like Charley O’Doherty, but certainly never wished him dead.
Over the next few days Roy won back nearly all of his losses. Without O’Doherty around, the games were honest again and real winners won, and real losers lost. Feeling rich, it was Roy who bought the round of drinks for the table now, always glancing upstairs for an open door through which to spread his winnings. Still, Roy Bean had no gumption when it came to women; it was easier growing older, fatter, and richer.
Two weeks after the hanging, Rosemary Dove came downstairs, tight in a corseted red dress that barely covered God's gift to Texas.
“Hello boys,” she grinned, “I’ve had a two-week nap and I’m ready to walk among the living again.” She scooted in next to Roy and asked for five cards, staring at them dumbly as she shuffled them front to back, back to front. “What the hell, Roy, I sure don’t know what all these numbers mean. Is it good to have all the people, or just the red ones?”
A toothless stranger across the table snickered and added ten chips to the pot. Roy felt more protective.
“Shh, Miz Dove. Don’t let nobody know your cards.” Wide-eyed, she understood, pushing a chip out into the middle of the table. Old Toothless won that hand, but then Rosemary Dove won the next two.
"Ah, beginner's luck!" She leaned into Roy and squeezed his shoulder. He hoped the lamplight didn't catch the goose pimples along his arm as it glinted off her gold pendant.
Judge Roy Bean began to clean himself up, to look "right presentable." Confidence came with winning money and the attention of a beautiful woman. Hair slicked back with lard and wearing his only pair of red suspenders--usually meant only for church, which he never attended--he picked a bouquet of the orange poppies that had broken through the cracked clay below the porch. Shaking only a little, he approached Rosemary Dove who sat chatting with Calvin Miller, handing her the flowers.
"Thank you, Roy. They're beautiful. You going to come have a drink with me?" Those long lashes.
The game that night went on as always, though Rosemary Dove had returned to just watching. She wore one of Roy’s poppies over her ear, and stroked his beard with her long fingers. The hours passed, Roy sipping whiskey and gin, feeling as happy as he had ever felt in his life. Somewhere the piano played a lively march, his eyes beginning to droop, the room swaying back and forth in two-four time. Like a dream Rosemary Dove's soft hands cupped his face, then his arms, pulling him toward the stairs. He knew nothing but the fresh air she left in her wake. He didn't remember lying next to her, but he did remember the ceiling: wallpaper dotted with red roses, perfect for a woman like Rosemary Dove. He remembered nothing else, unaware of the fire that erupted at the livery stable. Sleeping through the red glow that lit her bedroom windows, the townspeople running with buckets of water, in vain, as the stable burned to the ground.
Roy knew of nothing except waking beneath soft silk sheets, cloudy memories of laughter, touching, music. His head hurt. Someone was yelling. Hobbling downstairs to the bar, Roy peered out the window onto an angry crowd gathered in the street, shouting and pumping their fists. Sheriff Bigsby stood in front, hands raised.
“Now, people, we’ll get to the bottom of this. Your money ain’t gone, it’s just missing.”
“Isn’t that a wonder?” Rosemary Dove appeared from behind the bar, nodding toward the burned livery opposite the street. “Someone set fire to the stables last night, horses and all, poor things. When folks were running to save their stock, someone else robbed the bank.”
Roy blinked, still slightly nauseous from a night of too much whiskey and possible fornication, of which he remembered very little. He had never trusted banks, and so had never ventured to put his money into one. An old mattress had always worked just fine--should he ever have that much money--or a cookie jar, or underneath the floorboards. But no banks meant no poker, and surely the first man to walk into a game with a stack of money would be arrested for arson and theft.
“Any witnesses, Sheriff?” Roy squinted painfully, watching the sheriff pretend to look for clues in the dirt.
“Only God, Judge. One of the whores claims she saw Charley O’Doherty’s ghost run in the livery last night, but I don’t believe I’ll keep that one on the record.”
Now, Roy had never seen a ghost, but he’d never gone looking for one, either. A coward by all accounts, he didn't care for the idea of running into the dead cheat. But even a spook couldn’t win money with a run on the bank. And as the news of Charley’s ghost spread, suddenly everyone had a story. Some saw him in the shadows, others in the back pew of the church “with his neck all crooked-like.” Rosemary Dove scoffed at the whole idea, a God-fearing woman despite her profession. And Roy agreed, more often than not to please her, but sometimes just to convince himself.
As the only man in town with any money, Roy found himself quite popular. People wanted to shine his boots, cut his hair, and sing for him over dinner, all in hopes for an extra penny or half-glass of whiskey. The old tightwad never spent a cent on anyone but himself, unless it was Rosemary Dove. He still wondered what he'd forgotten under that rose-speckled ceiling--maybe a tiny bottle of toilet water and a couple drinks every night and she'd remind him. She could ask him whatever she wanted and he'd tell her almost everything. But even she would never know his deepest secret, buried in a shallow grave of piss-pressed dust.
Roy had never dug up his solid-gold brick, for fear of being shot. But he would never spend it, either. On his poorest, losingest days at the poker table he thought about that brick just sitting there, growing more valuable by the day. Roy’s Great Uncle Felix Bean had struck it rich back in the early days of the Rush, filling a wagon (so they say) full of gold before getting drunk one night and tripping into a rattlesnake nest. As he lay dying, his riches were carted off by any number of transients and horse thieves. Crooks they were, but not without heart, or maybe superstition, leaving the biggest and most valuable piece hidden under his brand-new Homburg hat. His mistress was said to have buried the brick with Felix, but likely dug it back up when his brother moved to town not three weeks later. No, Roy had never told anyone about his precious solid-gold brick, and would probably die without ever touching it, the old skinflint. Still, it made him feel safe just knowing it was there.
No one would have ever found out about that brick if Judge Roy hadn’t invited Rosemary Dove by the house. He’d tidied up a little hoping she might come, making a fresh pot of coffee to go along with a few hard-tack biscuits. He'd thought of everything except the rotten board in the step that he'd learned to avoid under his weight, and Rosemary Dove nearly took a tumble, catching a dainty satin shoe in the softest spot.
"Watch yourself, Dove," he grunted, reaching for the shoe as she balanced one stockinged foot in the air, "Dry rot, that one." They shut the door behind them, leaving tongues to wag up and down the street.
As was the custom, Rosemary Dove awoke early and left for the saloon, leaving Roy to sleep it off. She stepped to avoid the spoiled board, leaning down to pull at a broken nail stuck wrong-way out of the wood. A cure for tetanus wouldn't come for another decade and she'd seen lockjaw before. Nasty business. As she flicked the rusty nail aside something caught her eye, something wrapped in an old flour sack. Something shining, a direct hit in the deep red sunrise. Real gold. Solid gold. Rosemary Dove knelt to touch the metal, already warm. How odd he was, she thought, looking up at the broken-down shack of an office and home. And an actual goldmine right under his porch. She tucked the cloth back into the dirt, covering it in a mound and resting the weather-worn board on top. And without turning back to look, she left. Roy's reason for keeping this secret would remain as such.
As nomads and drifters came and went, buying and selling snake oil and throwing away their earnings on the rare game of poker and flat beer, money began to filter back into the little Texas town. But no one, not even Sheriff Bigsby, had put a single cent back into the bank. They stuffed mattresses, cookie jars, and cellars full of cash and trade, and any thief worth his salt could see that this town was a goldmine. Anyone without a dog or a gun might as well run broke and naked through the streets. Still, money went missing nearly every day, and nearly every day Sheriff Bigsby followed tracks to the edge of town, shod by an unknown blacksmith. Roy waited impatiently to hang the thief that still had a hold over his nightly poker game, watching, too, the reward increase from ten, to twenty, to fifty, and finally one-hundred dollars. Roy wanted that one-hundred dollars.
The pot had nearly grown stale when a scream went up above the saloon. It was Milly, an older, cost-effective whore, half-dressed and shaking her finger at Calvin Miller, who stood agape in his underwear and bowler hat.
“It’s him that done it!” she shrieked. “I found my necklace in his trousers! He’s the thief!”
Bigsby threw Calvin Miller in the sweatbox, pointing his fat knuckle through the bars.
“You’ll be hung in the mornin’, Miller. You’re gonna swing, and Roy’s gonna do it.”
Calvin Miller wept and pleaded for his life, face-down on the floor of the cell. He said he’d "never burned nothin’ nor stole from nobody.” But law and justice didn't take long in those days in Texas, and just after breakfast Calvin Miller swung into eternity out front of the “Law West of the Pecos.” Roy Bean spat into the dirt before nodding to the Father to cut him down, ten gold coins clinking in his pocket.
As expected, the larceny ceased almost immediately and people began depositing their money back into the bank, filling it like a clawfoot tub, and bringing with it every gambler within wire. Roy lost a little, and won a little, but felt so happy to be back in his old routine that he gladly cashed out.
One night Rosemary Dove asked Roy to take her back to his office. They were both drunk and light on their feet as they stumbled down Main Street, arm-in-arm.
“What is it, Rose?”
“Nothin’, Roy." She handed him a half-drunk bottle from below the bar. “I’m just glad to be with you, is all.” They fell through the front door, giggling and rolling onto the floor as they shared the whiskey, spilling down the front of their clothes. Before long the room began to spin, and Roy wondered if he'd lose another night with her. Probably so. He thought he heard something outside, dragging and pitching in the dirt, but it could be the choking sound of his own breath as he sank deeper into Rosemary Dove’s arms.
“Git up.” Roy squinted, blind in the moonlight streaming in through the one windowpane. There, leaning over him was the ghost of Charley O’Doherty. With a shriek, Roy pushed back into the table, spilling yesterday's coffee and the rest of the whiskey.
“Glad to see me, are ya?” Charley grinned, his eyes wild.
“No, no, no,” Roy moaned. “You’re dead, Charley. Just be dead and leave me alone.”
“Oh quit bitchin’, I ain’t dead. If I was dead, do you think I’d spend eternity breathing in your rank ass?”
Roy tried in vain to push himself up against the wall, his eyes shifting back and forth, calculating. He'd watched Charley O’Doherty hang by the neck until he was dead. He’d seen the life fade from his blue eyes as he jerked at the end of the rope. He’d seen the Father cut him down and cart him away to be buried. Hadn't he? God, he couldn’t remember now. But he'd hung. He had hung.
Charley smiled down at Roy, spitting a wad on the leg of the old man's trousers. “It’s too bad Calvin had to hang,” he sighed, "he sure’s been a big help. If it wasn’t for that meat hook he tied around my chest, I would’ve broke my neck.”
Roy’s eyes widened and he stared up at Charley. So Calvin Miller, the gossiping butcher, had helped Charley O’Doherty escape the gallows and hoodwink the entire town. But what about the Father? Surely he could tell the difference between a corpse and a swindler.
“Oh, Father O’Connor?" Charley licked his lips. "Mama always said Seamus had the best chance of all of us to cheat the devil. Looks like that's two of us now."
And slowly the walls came down. Seamus O'Doherty, not "Father O'Connor." And the bartender, Shawn O’Doherty, the clumsy young dealer, Patrick O'Doherty. How many more O'Dohertys had filtered in quietly under the radar?
"It had to be, Roy. How else would we ever pull off the biggest heist West of the Pecos?" They'd walked away with nearly $50,000, and with no one looking for them, neither dead nor complaining about keeping their money in a coffee grinder like the rest of this God-forsaken town. And in the end they hung Calvin Miller for a mere one-hundred dollars, just to clear the trail. They'd given the old whore, Milly, thirty to stay silent.
“Why are you here?” Roy slumped lower under the weight of realization.
“Well, Roy,” Charley cleared his throat, "there's just one more thing I need and then I'll be out of your hair. Say, what’s that old lump of rags shoved under your porch?”
Roy froze. He had never told anyone about the gold brick, and never planned to--not a wife, or mistress, or bastard child (if it should ever come up). Roy wondered whether it was better to lie or try and run, leaving Charley to dig up the brick. But as the big man stood over him gnawing on too much tobacco, Roy knew it wouldn't do any good to fabricate a story or play dumb.
“Take it,” Roy huffed, rolling to his knees. “You can have it, just leave me be.”
“You know I can’t do that, Roy. You’ve seen my pretty face.” Charley’s smile froze and he stared into Roy’s eyes.
Judge Roy Bean jumped to his feet and started for the door, only to run into “Father O’Connor.” Roy had never realized how large the priest was, always so godly and meek. A freckled fist slammed his face, breaking his nose, and he barreled backward into Charley's arms, ready. Seamus leaned in, all trace of piety gone from his Irish face, and grabbed Roy by the collar. It took the strength of both men, but they dragged him out front of the Law West of the Pecos to his very own gallows.
“No, please, NO!” whimpered Roy, hands clasped at his chin.
“Stop screaming, you old maid. You want to wake the sheriff?”
He did. He definitely wanted to wake Sheriff Bigsby. But suddenly limp, all Roy could think of was his dear, sweet Rosemary Dove. Where was she? She could sound the alarm, but would they string her up, too? He couldn't let that happen. They tightened the noose around his grizzled neck. In the distance he could see Patrick pulling the brick from beneath the rotten wooden steps, unwrapping it, and with a whistle tossing it into a gunny sack.
Roy struggled to stand, delaying the inevitable, the other end of the rope tied to the saddle-horn of Shawn's big brown workhorse. Charley brushed it softly, snapping his fingers quietly in the horse's ears. Then there she was, Rosemary Dove, running - no, walking toward him, green eyes shining in the moonlight. She stared up at Roy.
“Rose, run!” screeched Roy, kicking at her with the toe of his boot. "They'll kill you, too." But Rose just smiled, shaking her head as she backed toward the men.
“Ah, I see you've met my wife.” Charley twirled Rosemary Dove, dipping her back for a long kiss. He reached one hand back and slapped the mare.
Judge Roy Bean swung into eternity at the end of his own rope. He could smell her perfume.
Ellie is an author, editor, and small-business owner, and works with filmmakers, podcasts, and journalists all over the world. She lives with her family just outside of New York City.