The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  Ben kept track of the days by gathering any object he could find—splinters from the broken chair, perhaps, or a piece of cloth torn from the sleeve of his slashed shirt. Each morning as the sun struck the little window, Ben added something to the pile in the corner near the pallet. Each morning he counted them over again, his rosary and his calendar, one by one. This had become a ritual.

  One morning, when he had counted to twenty-six, he fell back on the slimy floor. He was too weak to struggle toward his morning rations under the door slot. His back and buttocks and legs were raw from the grit and from the cold damp of the stones which had eaten into him like some slow acid. His bones ached all the way from his neck to his toes. He was aware of each rib as the pain flashed across his chest. Far into his guts, it cut like a knife, along his backbone to the top of his skull, and then it burned into his eyeballs. Sleep was no longer a continued period of rest at night, but came only in brief lapses of consciousness during the day and during the night…

  Ben now was like a man in a perpetual nightmare, unable to rouse himself from its terrors even by waking. For there seemed to be no waking, and he heard himself mumbling bits of talk from scenes of his childhood. He listened again to the burbling monologue delivered by his father in the bravado of drunken frustration. Then, the gentle, tired voice of his mother, in a sweet and tender melody, “Green Sleeves,” that her mother in England used to sing…

  Then he was walking along the edge of the Colorado River near Austin, he and his father, with their fishing poles. They found a hollow in the bank. There they sat in the shade and dipped their bare feet in the water. They caught bass and big catfish. And he and his younger brother, Billy, tramped up and down the hills of Austin village, offering the fish for sale…

  He played games with the children of the friendly Indians. Their fathers were scouts for the settlers and the army. He remembered what good shots the young Indians were with bow and arrow. During hours under the big oak trees, he learned their trick of putting an acorn in a split branch and backing off ten, fifteen, finally twenty-five steps, and hitting that acorn with an arrow…

  The green-headed ducks used to swoop down over Johnson’s Creek to eat on the acorns that plinked into the water. The wild pigeons crossed the cedar forests and floated down onto the fields of wild rye, then took off across the rolling limestone hills, up and up, and over Mount Bonnell. He remembered the busy squirrels gathering their hoards under the giant pecan trees, and the oily smell of the chinaberry and the spicy retama. And the wild turkeys dancing across the Camino Real. And how he learned to shoot fast and straight at every living thing that might provide food or clothing…

  Ben used to drive the water cart, hitched to a donkey, and came to know the village like he did his own backyard: the west-east streets named for Texas rivers—Rio Grande, Nueces, San Antonio, Guadalupe, Colorado, Brazos, and on up to the Sabine…and the cross streets for Texas trees—cypress and cedar, pine, hackberry, mulberry, walnut, bois d’arc, and cherry…and the stores in the middle of the village—Dutch John’s bakery and Dietrich and Horst’s meat market, and Lamar Moore’s brick building, and the Bull Pen, on the road to the dam (that was the town’s open-air lockup, a stockade enclosed by logs set on end, and with a plank walk for the guards)…and the first solid jail, built by the Mormons who used to come over from Webberville selling white chairs made of hackberry wood…

  Ben Thompson shot Joe Brown because Joe led the other boys in teasing Ben about driving the water wagon, and how it was too bad his father couldn’t get on it. After that came the trial, the town splitting up for and against Ben, and then the pardon won by his lawyer through the help of Colonel Green…

  The trial turned out to be a good thing, for, because of it, the colonel took an interest in Ben. He put him in school, at Professor Swancoat’s Private Academy. There he got to know some of the boys from across the Avenue, and saw the insides of their homes. He envied their superior air of confidence.

  …But still his favorite playmate at that time was Billy Simms, a son of the town plasterer, and the two used to go swimming in the cool Colorado River, or gigging frogs in Shoal Creek…

  But soon Ben was needed at home, and his family took him out of school. The colonel said he ought to learn a trade. Ben got a job as a printer’s devil, and soon became an apprentice typesetter. But every chance he had, Ben was out in the woods hunting. He saved up enough to get a six-shooter. Before long he was winning money from the bet-crazy printers who couldn’t believe Ben’s stories of shooting bass when the fish came up to feed on minnows.…

  At the print-shop, too, Ben got his first taste of cards, in the daily poker game after working hours. The next thing he knew he was going along with some of the men to the Golden Ball Saloon. There he tasted whisky, and was introduced to monte. He experienced the trance of “bucking the tiger” at faro. Soon Ben had quit his printing job and was working at gambling full-time. Among the women of the sporting world, he found out about other delights of the flesh, and heard their fascinating stories of far away New Orleans…

  In his guardhouse cell, Ben’s fevered brain fought against the reality of his confinement. He struggled for the soothing memories of hours of pleasure and adventure. Then he was living again through the recent fight with the lieutenant, and the whirring of the sword blade carried him to New Orleans. There he had followed the tall, red-headed girl, Katie, and there he had killed his first man, in a duel with Bowie knives…

  CHAPTER 5

  Ben Thompson’s New Orleans adventure had begun only a few months back. He had hopped the mail-coach to the Harrisburg terminal in East Texas. There he boarded a paddle-wheel steamer that pushed down Buffalo Bayou, through the sweet, heady nighttime fragrance of magnolias, and the sharp growling of the alligators. From Galveston, a larger boat carried him to the cosmopolitan metropolis on the delta of the Mississippi.

  His first day in New Orleans was a mad, fruitless search for Katie. Then he began drinking, and made the rounds of the cabarets. Next morning he came to in a dingy hotel room. His throat was sandy, vision blurred, and stomach gnawing. His tongue felt like a flannel pad. Remorse pulled at his throbbing head and neck like a rawhide hobble. He was stirred awake by a knock. A woman’s voice outside asked how soon he’d be out of the room.

  Ben, fully dressed, pulled himself up from the creaking brass bed, and went through his pockets with eager fingers. Nothing. He was cleaned, flatter than a greenhorn in a Saturday night monte game. Nothing, that is, except a scrap of paper, with a name on it, scrawled in heavy pencil lines. Through the morning-after fog he remembered meeting a printer on a spree. Ben poured water from a white pitcher that ad a big red rose painted on it. He dipped his hands into the white crockery bowl, doused his face and hair, and decided he would hunt up his companion of the night before.

  At the shop, the printer was true to his promise, and agreed to stake him. First he took him over to a corner back of an ink-smeared type case. He handed Ben a bottle, and Ben lifted it to his lips for a long pull of pick-me-up whisky. The printer gave Ben a dollar bill, and suggested that he get a shave and a bath. And, if he felt like eating, some breakfast. By the time Ben returned, he had a job waiting for him. He replaced a typesetter who had skipped after his payday binge.

  In a lucky run at poker Ben got together a little over two hundred dollars. He had wanted to go to San Francisco, and figured this might be as good a time as any. But, somehow, he got the sailing date mixed up, and when he went to the docks the boat was gone. There would not be another for a month at least, maybe two. Ben felt let down, beaten, bitter in his disappointment. He started for the saloons and the faro games. By morning he had lost all his money, and even the gold ring with the oval ruby that he had worn on his little finger.

  Ben boarded a mule car and headed for the print-shop. A festive group of young men, apparently returning from an all-night ball, got on at the next stop. Soon one of the men
left the group and sat down beside a young woman several seats in front of Ben. Ben watched as the man spoke to the girl. She turned away. The man persisted. The annoyed girl stirred, as if to rise, and the man seized her in his arms and kissed her.

  The girl struggled free and crossed to another seat. The man rose to follow, and at the same time Ben stood up and blocked his path. The man slapped Ben hard with the back of his hand, a stinging blow on the cheek and nose. Ben felt blood trickle out of his right nostril, and then his clenched right fist pounded the man’s left eye. The mule car stopped, Ben pulled his adversary off, and the scuffle continued in the street.

  Ben held the man’s coat sleeve with one hand and punched him with the other. In a moment they were rolling in the gravel, arms flailing. Then Ben was astride the man’s chest, his knees pinning the man’s arms to the ground, his hands around the stranger’s neck. After a moment, Ben got up and his opponent remained on the ground. As he dusted himself with his hat, Ben said:

  “And if they ask you, stranger, tell them that’s the Texas treatment for those who don’t respect a woman, and that Ben Thompson gave you this lesson.”

  Ben’s slightly battered condition brought a barrage of questions from the printers at the shop. When he told them about the incident, they warned him to be on guard. They were sure he had not heard the last of it.

  About a week later, two men showed up at the print-shop, looking for Ben Thompson. They said they represented Emil Latour. He was demanding the customary satisfaction. Ben could choose the weapons.

  From the printers, Ben learned that Latour was one of the best-known duelists in New Orleans. He was an expert swordsman and pistol shot. But, they also pointed out, he scorned and shunned hand-to-hand combat. He preferred to take care of a rival without touching him except by way of a bullet or a saber point. This was Ben’s cue to stand off Latour, if he felt so inclined. He could close the incident, or force the New Orleans man to a type of fighting he disliked.

  After further consultation with his friends at the shop, Ben sent back word that he was ready to give satisfaction. The weapons would be Bowie knives with ten-inch blades, and the encounter would be in an enclosed, unlighted room.

  Latour’s seconds brought his protests, and gave indications that all the man really wanted was a harmless satisfaction on the field of honor. But Ben did not trust him and was wary of a trap. Eventually, Latour accepted Ben’s conditions, and the appointment was made for eight o’clock one morning in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town.

  The printers, meanwhile, had gotten in touch with a group of river boatmen. They were ready to help anyone in opposition to Latour, for he had, not long ago, killed two of the boatmen in a sword fight. The boatmen were at the place in full force next morning, about fifty or sixty of them. It was fortunate for Ben and his handful of printers, for Latour had brought along a large crowd of admirers. The boatmen assembled in a column between the printers and the Latour men. They left a clear channel to the river, for use as a ready avenue of escape should Ben be the winner. As a further precaution, they had dyed Ben’s face with walnut stain. Thus he could lose himself, if need be, among the swarthy boatmen.

  Ben and Latour were blindfolded. Each was escorted into the dark room by two men, who left them in diagonally opposite corners, then slammed the door and locked it from the outside. Inside, Ben later related, he removed his blindfold. He remained still for several minutes until his eyes got accustomed to the dark. He saw the shadowy figure of his adversary, waiting in the corner.

  Ben edged cautiously away from his corner, his back to the wall. Latour had also removed his blindfold. He watched Ben, and waited, on guard with his knife extended. Nearing the other man, Ben leaped across in front of him. Latour thrust his knife toward the wall, missed, and was off balance a moment, but quickly recovered. He stood in a fencing stance, holding the Bowie knife as if it was a sword. To counter him, Ben had no choice but to do likewise.

  The two blades clashed and sparked in the dark. With the assurance of a practiced swordsman, Latour forced Ben to back up, and pressed hard in pursuit. Ben was flat against a wall when Latour made another hard forward lunge and thrust. It would have slashed right through Ben’s middle, but the Texan at that instant wheeled away from the wall, to give himself more arm room.

  Ben moved into the center of the room, swinging his widespread legs from the hips. Latour pivoted with knife extended, and again sought out his foe. Ben saw that his only hope lay in bringing the fight to close quarters. He feinted a blow toward Latour’s neck. His opponent raised his knife in a parry and counter-thrust. Then, Ben swung back his shoulders, jumped up, bringing his boots clear of the floor and hurled himself, feet forward, at Latour’s legs. The boots caught Latour at the knees and he staggered, off balance.

  On the floor, Ben scuttled around rapidly and grabbed Latour around the legs in a tight-grip tackle. But the force of the impact caused Ben to lose his grip on his knife, and it clattered across the room in the darkness. As Latour toppled, Ben released his hold on the man’s legs. The adversary’s knife came slashing downward, just missed plunging into Ben’s back, and sliced a deep gash along Ben’s shoulder. With both hands, Ben seized his opponent’s right arm, in which he held the knife, and forced it upward, over Latour’s head. Then he slammed it hard against the wall, at the same time hooking his right leg under the other man’s left knee. Latour stumbled, and they both fell to the floor, rolling over and over.

  Ben now had Latour’s knife hand gripped by the wrist. The two wrestled for a long time without changing position, both on their sides. Rallying his full strength, Ben brought up his knees as in a jackknife dive and rammed them hard into Latour’s abdomen, winding him for an instant. In that split second, Ben swung his right arm clear and with both hands forced Latour’s knife arm hard down against the floor. This broke Latour’s grip and the knife fell free. Ben seized it and plunged it into his opponent’s heart, upward under the ribs. He turned the blade firmly in the soft, yielding flesh, then swiftly drew it out and stood up. Latour shook in a convulsive spasm, half-raised himself, and then fell back flat, limp on the floor. Ben reached down, felt the warm blood pulsing from the wound, soaking the man’s shirt, and then staggered to a tiny crack of light showing at the door.

  He pounded on the door with the knife handle, and in a moment it opened. He stumbled into the arms of two of his fellow printers. At the same time, the boatmen engulfed them. Ben felt himself moving along in the crowd. He was aware of being lifted, of being set down in the bottom of a small boat, and then he passed out…

  When he opened his eyes again, Ben was in a small room, lying on a cot. He thought he smelled garlic. Then he decided he was dreaming, since that same odor came from the melting metal in the print-shop. He blinked and looked around. Two swarthy young men entered. One introduced himself as Carlo and his companion as Jim.

  They told Ben the police wanted him, but that he was safe in their house. Latour was dead. The boatmen had brought Ben to the Sicilian quarter. It was useless for the police to hunt him here, but they were guarding the waterfront nearby.

  Carlo and Jim had a plan to get Ben safely through the police guard.

  That night the two men left the house and got into a skiff at the waterfront. The police saw them, approached, questioned them, and then permitted them to row across the river to Algiers. There they remained for several hours and came back about midnight. The next night they repeated the visit, and the police watched them closely. For five nights in a row they did the same, and by then the police waved them on without close inspection.

  Meanwhile, Ben did not stir from the house, and on the sixth night, the two men came in and told Ben the way had been prepared. They stained his skin dark again, until it was the color of Jim’s. They gave him Jim’s trousers and gaiters and knit wool cap, and his short, dark coat. He put them on, and left the house with Carlo.

  At the w
aterfront, the police looked on as they got into the skiff. But they had gotten used to the two men rowing over each night, and hardly gave them a second glance. At the other bank, in the village of Algiers, Carlo took Ben to a small shack, where he met Antonio. Ben and Antonio changed clothes, and Antonio rowed back with Carlo, while Ben mounted a mule that had been hitched outside for him.

  Ben rode down the coast for two days and two nights, avoiding the main roads, and eating from the sack of cheese and bread and sausage that Antonio had hung on the saddle-horn.

  Deeper into Texas, Ben swung back out of the thicket trails, and on the Houston road he overtook a wagon train. He hired out as a flank guard, and at Harrisburg, he took the stage for Austin…

  CHAPTER 6

  On the floor of his guardhouse cell, Ben Thompson was breathing hard in the excitement of recalling his knife duel. That fight now merged into his battle with Lieutenant Naigler only a few weeks ago… Two close calls from death…and both had come as bitter resentment had surged within him.

  Now he was back in Austin again, in the nightmare of his delirium, and he was telling Billy Simms about his harrowing experience in New Orleans. Billy had gone to work as a printer’s apprentice. Ben went back to his old typesetting job, and for months worked at the place, supporting his mother and brothers and sisters.

  But the lure of the gambler’s life had sunk its hooks deep into Ben’s ambitions. And it was strengthened by what he had seen of the sporting life in New Orleans, and of the people whose money came the so-called easy way.

  Ben was almost ready to return to the adventurous life of a gambler when the tide of events swept him into the bigger excitement of the Civil War… Sam Houston was back, elected governor by the Unionist party, but popular feeling was swinging swiftly toward Secession.

  By then, Ben, still a youth in years, was a full-grown man in the realities of frontier life. He had joined the crowds at the State Capitol the morning when the officials were to be sworn to the Confederacy. He watched as Sam Houston steadfastly refused to take that oath. Then came the mustering of the Texas Cavalry, and he had signed up with Colonel John Baylor’s regiment, which was scheduled to go to New Mexico… The women clustered around Henrick’s store to tell their men farewell… Ben blinking away sleep while he strapped on the pistol he had won at cards, a pistol he had tested by shooting at pecans tossed up as high as he could throw… Then the march toward New Mexico, and the temporary stopover at Fort Clark…