by H. H. Knibbs
But the etymology of monte was the least of the Thompson boys’ concerns in their first formal border venture in this field. Though the bets were small, they saw their stacks of coins growing smaller and smaller. Now and then they recouped, bolstering their morale and their reserve. But the trend was unmistakably downward. Before many drinks had passed the players’ lips, the last bet was paid off. Ben even put up his silver spurs, and the gold cord from his hat, and then his hat. He lost them all.
Thus the Thompson brothers closed up what may have been the shortest lived monte bank in all gambling history. Ben had chosen to beard the lion in his den, in a manner of speaking, among the various and sundry border residents who had cut their eyeteeth on decks of naipes. The game ended quietly and good-naturedly, a circumstance unusual in itself. But the Austin boys harbored a strong feeling that somewhere along the line they had been taken—but good.
Ben’s enterprising spirit now dictated a concentrated self-improvement course. Night after night, for several months running, every spare minute Ben had was spent at a monte game. He only bet occasionally, not having enough of a stake to really follow through. But he made the rounds of the games in Laredo, Texas, and Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, accompanied by Julius Brown, who knew the ropes. The square-faced, dark-haired, ball-chinned, mustache-sprouting trooper became a familiar figure in the saloons and game rooms of the border towns. He studied the techniques and styles of various dealers, and accumulated enough know-how, as it might be termed in a later day, to be classed as an authority.
Ben banked monte for a while, in a more or less friendly game, among a group of Californians who were staying at the home of Fred Riddle in Nuevo Laredo. Riddle had gone out West, made his fortune in the gold fields, and had returned to make Nuevo Laredo his home. But Ben’s real debut as a professional monte dealer took place in a game for the Mexican soldiers who had crossed the Rio Grande to Laredo, Texas, and had joined the Confederate forces commanded by Captain Santos Benavides at Fort McIntosh. These old monte hands would bet high, and stake their clothes when they ran out of money. Some border monte players had even been known to bet their freedom, and had become peons to work out a gambling debt.
When Ben started his first game for the soldiers it was long past payday. A new one was approaching, but the men would not wait. They offered to put up their six-shooters, which were as acceptable a medium of exchange as gold. Ben dealt, Billy was lookout, and Julius Brown was nearby. Ben gave twenty-two dollars in chips for a Colt, eighteen-fifty for a Remington, and sixteen dollars for the self-cocking pistols used mostly by the Federal cavalry. Besides about one hundred dollars in cash, Ben won twenty-three pistols.
CHAPTER 13
After selling and pawning the pistols, Ben and Billy had built up a good stake to bank the next monte game. It was payday and the soldiers flocked into Dick Miller’s saloon in Laredo. Luck favored the Thompsons. Before long, Ben began to suspect that some of the desperate soldiers were trying to steal a card, which is a well-known monte trick. When the dealer hands the pack for a cut, the player “lets one card stick to his hand,” as they say, palming it. Since the play in monte is always that one or the other of two cards in each “layout” will be matched first, the cheating player bets against the stolen card’s denomination, especially if all three of the other cards of the same rank have already been drawn. Then a pair is impossible and a bet on the “palmed” card is a sure thing.
By two o’clock in the morning, Ben had accumulated close to two thousand dollars. One of the heavy losers cut the cards, and Ben saw that he had palmed one. Ben said nothing, but waited, knowing that the course of the betting would reveal the card. Ben drew two cards from the deck to make the next layout, and the next, the betting rocking along without noticeable change. When Ben put down a four and a seven for a layout there was a surge of betting. Nearly every man at the table bet heavily on the seven. That meant only one thing to Ben: a four had been stolen from the deck, and the word had been passed to the players. Two fours remained in the deck, as against three sevens, giving the latter a higher pairing percentage.
Ben had sensed trouble brewing, and he had sent Billy and Julius to get their guns. Now, Ben was alone at the table, and he watched every man keenly. He had a hunch especially about Lieutenant Martin Gonzales, a man about six feet four-or five-inches in height. Ben said he was the tallest man he had ever seen. During the play he had measured Gonzales, an almost automatic reconnoitering for possible gun play. Ben had also studied the room, seeking some corner or projection that would give cover when the shooting started.
He selected a set-off that was partially concealed when the door to the room swung open.
Two fat candles stuck in tequila bottles provided all the light in the room. Between them Ben had placed the canvas bag containing the bank’s gold. Lieutenant Gonzales was leaning over the table so that he almost touched the candles and the bag.
When the betting on the four and seven was completed, Ben gathered the cards and called to the proprietor, Dick Miller, for a new deck. Meanwhile, he picked up all the gold that belonged to him, putting most of it in the canvas bag. He saved out about a hundred or more one-dollar gold pieces, figuring he would spend these first. He had put some of the dollar pieces in his pocket, and still held a stack in his left hand, when he became aware of a buzz of excitement among the players. They had realized that Ben was not making a new deal, but was checking out. Lieutenant Gonzales spoke:
“Mr. Ben, you cannot close the game now.”
“The game is already closed, Lieutenant,” Ben replied.
“Then you will have to give back the money you have taken by cheating these men,” the lieutenant said.
Ben smiled and said he believed the lieutenant must be joking.
“I am in earnest,” Gonzales went on, “and you must return not only the money, but the pistols you won yesterday, for they are government arms.”
“I won the money fair and square,” Ben said, “and also the pistols, and I know they are the soldiers’ personal property.”
“I insist that you comply without delay,” Gonzales answered, and as he spoke, he drew his pistol. At the same time he struck at the candles with his free hand. This was a signal for all other armed men in the crowd to pull their pistols. Fortunately Gonzales had missed one candle, leaving enough light so Ben could observe his closest aggressors. Another lieutenant, Miguel Zertuche, shot point-blank at Ben, who had by now also drawn his pistol. Ben fired, the bullet striking Zertuche between the eyes. With his second shot, Ben got Gonzales in the chest.
Gonzales and Zertuche fell across the table, and at the same time Ben put out the other candle. Then he dropped down to the offset at the door, crouching low. Bullets whistled overhead and he heard them as they smacked against the door and plowed through. By that time it seemed as if everybody in the darkened room was shooting at everybody else.
Soon there was a rush for the door. Ben decided his best bet was to join the confused crush at the door, and he was carried through to the outside. There he was recognized by a man with a shotgun. As the man pointed the weapon and fired at Ben, a soldier rushing from the saloon stumbled against Ben and knocked him out of the line of fire into a big water reservoir. Ben dived, swam under water as far as he could, and emerged near the opposite bank.
As he climbed out of the water, near a big breastwork of cotton bales, he met Billy, who was on his way back to the saloon. He had been delayed because his feet swelled from a new pair of boots. Ben advised Billy to hide out, and the younger brother found shelter on the flat roof of a vacant building. Ben continued along a nearby street, and soon he heard the pounding of hoofs. A squad of infantrymen and four or five cavalrymen approached, seeking out the source of the shooting.
When they drew alongside Ben the officer in charge asked him about the shooting. Ben said it came from a bawdy house in the “district,” and he thought some of the boys were
having a bit of fun with their pistols. The soldiers went on, and Ben tried to get his bearings. He had no idea what part of town this was, but he had decided to seek safety across the Rio Grande. He felt sure he could find refuge at the Riddle house. As he walked along slowly, trying to orientate himself by the stars, he realized he was in the town cemetery. That gave him the direction to the river.
It was almost daybreak when Ben reached the bank of the Rio Grande. The river was running high and swift, and was more than a half mile wide. He still had his six-shooter, a knife, and some of the gold dollars. Ben looked around for a log or a tree limb to help float him over, but in the semi-darkness he could find nothing.
In an act of defiance, almost as if he felt that his hours were numbered, Ben removed his coat and spread it on the ground at the river’s edge. From a spare deck of cards, he took out a seven and a four and spread them in a “layout” on the coat, and then pinned them to the ground with his dagger. Before that, he had split his sash to make some strings. With these he now fastened his boots, pistol, and trousers around his waist and entered the river. He slid in cautiously, testing it for speed and depth, and soon realized it would be impossible to swim across. By this time he had walked about a half mile downstream, and decided to go back for his knife. His boots were wet and wouldn’t fit. He had to carry them, and picked his way back barefooted, through thorny shrubs and over broken rocks and river debris, to his riverbank “layout.”
He retrieved the knife, cut an armful of bushes and packed them tight. Then he cut off his boot tops. From them, his pistol belt, and the scabbard he sliced long strings of leather. With these he bound the bushes tightly and lashed his pistol, trousers, hat, and cut-off boots to the bundle. He twisted the sash strings into a rope, which he tied to the bundle, and then plunged into the water, holding to the rope. The bundle buoyed him. It floated awhile, then began sinking slowly. With the rope Ben raised it again and guided across the river’s current. In repeated sinkings and raisings he finally reached the other bank, exhausted.
The first light of day had begun to peep through the clouds. Ben rested only a few minutes, for the danger of discovery was great. He dressed, put on what was left of his boots, and walked rapidly toward the town of Nuevo Laredo. Along the narrow streets, he zigzagged among men and women sleeping on stretched cowhides on the ground. Each group had a dog guarding it, and, as Ben strode through, the animals snapped at him, without a warning bark. They did not cling, but sneaked up, took a bite, and were off. Half-crazed from weariness and this new nightmare, Ben swiped at the animals with his wet pistol. By the time he had run the canine gauntlet, Ben had been bitten in about thirty places. He was raw, aching, and bleeding from waist to ankles, as if a dozen men had been tearing at his flesh with pincers.
At the Riddle home he was welcomed and told to stay as long as necessary. His wounds were washed with ammonia and bound up. He slept the rest of the day. Along, toward evening, Billy showed up. He told Ben that Joe Owens, George Robertson, and Hardin Walsh, a group from Captain Carrington’s command, had recognized him when he had signaled from the rooftop. Joe had traded clothes with him, and Billy came down safely, followed an hour or so later by Joe.
Billy also told Ben about having seen the blood-soaked clothing of the three soldiers strung out on balcony railings in the middle of town, and the buzz of threats to hang Ben. Ben remembered having fired three times, but he had no recollection of Juan Rodriguez, a corporal, who was the third man killed at the monte game fight.
CHAPTER 14
In a few days, with the aid of Robertson, Owens, Walsh, Tom Hill, and Bill Grubles, Ben Thompson got back across the Rio Grande to what he thought was the safety of Carrington’s camp. But there, he was told that if the civil authorities made a demand for him, he would be turned over. He was advised to leave as soon as possible.
For fifteen dollars Ben bought a wild Mexican mule, a totally black animal. He made up some saddle fittings from odds and ends, and had hardly mounted when the mule bucked, and pitched the rider over its head. Ben fixed a forked stick under the mule’s jaw, so it could not lower its head. He got on again, lashed with a quirt, spurred, and shouted, but the mule would not move. Finally, Ben got off and decided to try leading the animal. This worked, but Ben had to walk about ten miles before the mule finally accepted him as a rider. Through mesquite and cactus thickets, Ben and his black mule traveled for hours. They stayed off the roads, winding and twisting through the undergrowth studded with needle-point thorns.
Ben knew the cavalry outfit would pursue relentlessly. He hoped to overtake a party led by Captain William Armstrong, en route to Houston. But when he reached the men, Ben found himself most unwelcome. Captain Armstrong said he would like to help, but he had in tow a group of deserters and some Federal prisoners, and was in no position to put up a fight against a cavalry detail. Armstrong said frankly he would have to surrender him if called on to do so.
Armstrong told him of another party, in charge of an artillery train, pushing along a lower road. Ben decided to try for it. To show his good will, Armstrong offered Ben a good horse and a first-class saddle. Ben declined the offer of the horse, but accepted the saddle. For Ben knew, as would any man who had been brought up around horseflesh, that the mule, especially the Mexican and Spanish variety, was far superior to the horse for endurance and could better withstand a shortage of water and food.
And Ben had a long trip ahead of him, through the rough back country, not sure when he might obtain another mount. Furthermore, he might have to travel through some mountainous country. Over such terrain, the performance of a horse might vary with his breed or his training. But almost any mule, its hoofs harder, with its generally cautious nature, good memory, and judgment of distances and obstacles, could be counted on for a more sure-footed performance over stony roads, along mountain trails, and up and down steep inclines.
When Ben stopped to rest at dusk, he was heartened by his mule’s resourcefulness. Both man and animal were hungry and thirsty, but for the mule this was no problem. He went about cheerfully munching grass and eating cactus pads, despite the thorns.
Ben could contain his hunger, but his thirst was becoming unbearable. He was feverish, and he hurt all over from the dog bites. All around him were thousands of cactus bushes, some in bloom, some bearing fruit, the prickly pear. The flowers were in glorious display, like deep-cupped poppies with petals of silk, and in great variety of translucent color: pale yellow and orange, red, and purple, as if all the shadings of a brilliant sunset had been spread over the bushes.
The folkways of the brush country came to Ben’s rescue. He remembered about cactus poultices. He cleaned some of the broad pads, pounded them to a pulp, and applied them to his worst wounds, finding almost instant relief. Then he sliced open some of the prickly pears, and eased his thirst with the juicy fruit within the thorny peel. Ben lay down to sleep, holding on to his mule by a lariat looped to his wrist.
A babble of noise waked Ben long before dawn: a chorus of bird sounds—singing, chattering, chirping, whistling. He pushed on at once to seek the artillery train. Just at daybreak, as he was heading to the lower road, the mule came to a dead stop. Rowel and lash would not budge him. He froze to the spot, while Ben cursed all four-footed creatures, especially dogs and mules. Then a streak of light came through the dark cloud of his wrath.
Ben dismounted, lay down on the grass, and placed his ear close to the ground. He could hear the faint reverberations of horses’ hoofs, moving at a rapid clip. He knew these could not be from the artillery train. There was no reason for such a contingent to be moving so fast, and in the dark. These were the Laredo cavalrymen. They had not given up the chase. They were closing in on him in an ever-narrowing circle.
Ben affectionately and gratefully slapped the mule’s shiny, sweating rump, and patted the animal’s neck with his open palm. Remounting, he turned the mule at right angles to their previous course, an
d they moved on readily. From that moment, Ben was completely devoted to that black mule. He was convinced that the animal had saved his life. For the rest of his days, nothing would be too good for the mule. Ben decided to put him up to board at the finest livery stable in Austin. That is, if he made it to Austin before the cavalry caught up with him. He was determined to fight it out with them, to the death, rather than be taken a prisoner and returned for a public hanging spectacle.
After making a sweeping arc through the brush, Ben found the tracks of the artillery wagons. He followed them along a trail for two hours, overtaking Captain Gardner about midmorning. Gardner had seven men with him, three of them Negroes. He assigned one of the Negroes as a body servant to Ben, after promising to defend the Austin man against any and all attacks.
At a farmhouse where they stopped for provisions, Ben learned that the border cavalry had been there making inquiries. Late in the afternoon a trooper from that cavalry rode to the artillery train and asked for “Ben Thompson, the murderer.” Captain Gardner said he would talk only to the patrol commander, who rode up shortly while his twelve other horsemen waited in the distance. For the first time Ben saw how many men he would have had to fight singlehanded if he had crossed their path.
The patrol commander repeated the demand for Ben.