a chicken. They hadn't yet buried the Chinaman when I got there. I'm
willing to testify it was an artistic job. They turned the old man
over to me, and I took him down to the next station, where an old
alcalde lived,--Roy Bean by name. This old judge was known as 'Law
west of the Pecos,' as he generally construed the law to suit his own
opinion of the offense. He wasn't even strong on testimony. He was a
ranchman at this time, so when I presented my prisoner he only said,
'Killed a Chinese, did he? Well, I ain't got time to try the case
to-day. Cattle suffering for water, and three windmills out of repair.
Bring him back in the morning.' I took the old man back to the hotel,
and we had a jolly good time together that day. I never put a string
on him, only locked the door, but we slept together. The next morning
I took him before the alcalde. Bean held court in an outhouse, the
prisoner seated on a bale of flint hides. Bean was not only judge but
prosecutor, as well as counsel for the defense. 'Killed a Chinaman,
did you?'

"'I did, yer Honor,' was the prisoner's reply.

"I suggested to the court that the prisoner be informed of his rights,
that he need not plead guilty unless he so desired.

"'That makes no difference here,' said the court. 'Gentlemen, I'm busy
this morning. I've got to raise the piping out of a two-hundred-foot
well to-day,--something the matter with the valve at the bottom. I'll
just glance over the law a moment.'

"He rummaged over a book or two for a few moments and then said,
'Here, I reckon this is near enough. I find in the revised statute
before me, in the killing of a nigger the offending party was fined