The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  CHAPTER 23

  In his gambling rooms back of Phil Coe’s fancy new Austin saloon, Ben Thompson gave faro the spotlight. It was by far the most popular of all card games, and was played then all over the country. The gambling-crazy frontier—in San Francisco, Denver, El Paso, Pueblo, Virginia City and Santa Fe—went wild about faro. It got the biggest play, too, in the elegant establishments back East—in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, and the luxurious palaces of chance in New Orleans.

  The popularity of faro was due in large part to the fact that it was an out-and-out gambling pastime, similar to monte. No skill was required of the player, and what’s more, the odds in favor of the banker were the lowest of any card game. In most games, the advantage against the player ran five percent or more. An honest, dead-square game of faro would give the house a break of no more than one percent.

  Some people said Ben Thompson was not clever enough to short-card a faro deal and hence acquired a reputation as an honest gambler. Be that as it may, Ben knew all there was to know about card trickery, and if he happened to be at the playing end, “bucking the tiger,” a dealer could pursue no more unhealthy course than to try to stack the deck on Ben.

  Of course, in Ben’s gaming parlor, as in most, the dealing was done mainly by hired hands, skilled technicians known as “mechanics.” Some of these experts commanded fabulous salaries, and acquired national renown. Their stock in trade was the ability to deal so that the house consistently showed a profit on the week’s business.

  There is nothing to indicate that the dealers in Ben’s place operated under any guiding precept other than the accepted one: “Don’t get caught cheating.” This rule was like the old-time gambler’s boast: “I never won a man’s money except in a square game.” Under semantic analysis, this statement might yield the corollary that if a player was losing, there was no need for the game to be other than honest. But if he were winning, his subsequent play would be no longer with his own money, but with the bank’s. Should the dealer win back the bank’s money by cheating, the original boast could still stand.

  The regular fifty-two-card deck is used for the venerable game of faro. It is placed face up in a dealing box. Only one card can be moved at a time, the top one, and it is not picked up, but merely pushed through a slot by the dealer’s finger. Each time he moves a card, the rest of the deck is raised by a spring from the bottom. Each “turn” consists of showing two cards, the first a “loser” and the second a “winner.” The player places his bets on a table with a “layout” which shows the thirteen denominations, from ace to king. He may play them individually, to win or to lose, or in combination. These “combo” or “strung out” bets were among the biggest sources of arguments. The player may also bet on red or black, odd or even, over and under nine, and many other ways.

  The dealer’s assistant or “lookout” kept a cue board and the player a tab sheet, so that at all times they knew exactly which cards were left in the deck. In an honest game, the dealer’s big percentage came in a “split.” That is a turn in which both the win and lose card are of the same denomination. When that happens, the dealer takes half of all bets, win and lose.

  The smart dealer could cheat by stacking the deck to get more splits than usual. Or he could play a stripped deck, or by inserting an extra card, or with a rigged box that permitted more than one card to go through the slot. A good dealer also could shuffle so that the last turn would be most favorable to the bank. At that point, when only three cards are left, the player may “call the turn.” In that event, he bets on the order in which the remaining cards will show. The odds are long against guessing right, but the pay-off of four to one in the case of three cards of different denominations was always a big lure. A “cat hop” on the last turn was less desirable for the dealer—two cards of the same denomination, and would pay two for one.

  But the possibilities for cheating were not all on the dealer’s side. In fact, that’s why the bank always took the special precaution of stationing the assistant or “lookout” in every game, seated at the dealer’s side to guard against dishonest players. Besides there might also be a house stooge or “pigeon” seated on one of the stools, to keep an eye peeled, and also to keep the play lively. These became known as “stool pigeons.”

  The method of playing a card “to lose” lent itself to the temptation of cheating on the part of the player. To bet a card for “win” the player put his chips or money on it. To play the card to lose, he covered the chips with a button or more often with a penny coin. This was known as “coppering” a bet. The cheater would attach a horsehair with a bit of wax to the copper. If the card showed “win” he would yank the invisible horsehair, pulling the copper off the chips. Professional sharpers might also secretly doctor a faro box with “tells” that would reveal the position of certain cards.

  Two strangers who were never identified once tried another favorite trick at one of Ben Thompson’s tables. They staged a fight, and in the course of the melee, one of the confederates removed the dealer’s’ box and substituted a fixed box. The trick was discovered, and the switchers were challenged by Ben. A new fight, this time for keeps, started. Pistols blazed, and both strangers were killed.

  A young friend of Charlie Siringo, the famous cowboy detective, tangled with Ben Thompson at a faro table. Ben was dealing, and the young man, identified only as “Billy,” put down a twenty-dollar gold piece on a card. The card lost, and Ben raked in the coin. The young man claimed he had previously announced he was betting only a dollar on the number. Now he demanded his change. The argument grew hotter, and Ben was adamant in refusing change. Maybe he wanted to teach the young man a lesson, to discourage a gambling career, for Ben had a strong streak of the reformer on this score. The youth’s career was brief. He drew a Derringer and fired pointblank at Ben’s heart. The hammer jammed, and by that time Ben, acting automatically, had shot the unfortunate player through the head.

  Another young man who squared off against Ben in the course of a “lesson” came off much more alive. After losing all his money, the youth boldly charged Ben with cheating. He became so abusive that Ben pulled out his pistol as a warning.

  “Shoot and be damned,” the youth said, “I still say you cheat.”

  Ben presumably had no intention of shooting the man, for his record seems pretty clear as to the principle of not shooting an unarmed man. The youth’s courageous display possibly appealed to Ben. Thompson laughed and then invited the young man to have a drink. He restored the youth’s money, and gave him a lecture about the evils of gambling, then sent him on his way.

  CHAPTER 24

  During the post-war years in Austin, Ben Thompson cemented his friendship with Phil Coe, and renewed his boyhood association with Billy Simms.

  As the operator of a full-scale gambling parlor, in the back of Phil’s saloon, Ben had acquired some stature as a man of affairs. He was in a position to be of some help to Billy, who had followed Ben in his apprenticeship as a printer, and then as a professional gambler.

  William H. (Billy) Simms was born in Austin, and brought up there. He was the oldest child of parents of Irish origin. His father had worked for years as a plasterer, and after the war had gotten a job as a city policeman. Billy and his younger brother, Jimmy, both took up gambling, in common with many other young men of the day. At first it was pretty much of an amateur pastime for them. Jimmy’s budding career ended in an argument over a card game with a young fellow from the hills. The man had risked money he got from delivering a load of wood. In the fight, Jimmy was shot to death.

  Ben Thompson staked Billy Simms to his first professional bank as a monte dealer in Austin, during the days when the legislature was in session. Each session was like carnival-time in Austin. The law-makers came from all over the state, and their stay in the capital took on pretty much the air of a holiday. There seemed to be money in abundance, some of it from the returns in cattle t
rade. A good bit of it reputedly was spread around by the “interests” who were keenly concerned about the statutes being entered on the law books.

  Billy Simms found the gambling business a congenial one for his personality. He was not hampered in his career by erratic outbursts such as plagued Ben Thompson. Billy had no special talents as a pistol-thrower, hence his inclination was to steer wide of any disputes. He had little occasion to make violent changes of locale during his rise in Austin’s sporting world, and he lacked the itch for travel and adventure that took Ben up the Chisholm Trail to the boom towns of the cattle trade. Billy stuck to his last, as an up-and-coming gambler, followed the counsel that guided most tradesmen, kept his customers satisfied, and before long was on the way to a solid place in the business community.

  Phil Coe was nothing less than magnificent in appearance, by all accounts, whether of friend of foe, although the latter were few enough to count on the fingers of one hand. Some less-favored men may have envied Phil his splendid physique that rose to a lean six-foot-four height, and the way many a pretty girl showed her willingness to be won over with little effort on his part. But it could not be said that any man ever hated Phil Coe, nor even developed a strong dislike, for Phil’s charm was as overpowering as his brawn. He attracted friends as a magnet does iron filings.

  During the days of organizing companies and regiments to fight for the cause of Secession, Phil Coe abstained from formal enlistment. He had a deep-rooted abhorrence of any kind of regimentation, could not brook the situation of being under the absolute command of any man. This was part of his training, as a boy in Washington County, where his father and mother settled as colonists on a Stephen F. Austin land grant. They came through the trying days of land clearing, Indian fighting, and three wars. Tyranny was something that could be painfully personal to them, and even a suggestion of it was anathema to men of this stripe.

  As evidence that he lacked neither courage nor patriotism, Phil went along with the cavalry troop that was first organized in Austin. He was ready to take on his share of whatever fighting they might have to do. Of course, this situation was untenable for the company commander, and to make matters worse, the troopers “elected” Phil Coe a lieutenant. They acknowledged him as their superior officer next to the captain.

  Phil was ordered finally to make a choice—either leave the company or sign up on a formal enlistment. He refused to do either, and was put under arrest, marching along at the rear of the company as a prisoner. Ben and Phil spent quite a bit of time together during this period, and laid the groundwork for their later close friendship and business association.

  After the war, Phil drifted easily into a role of man-of-the-world, and men with money bid for his services as a manager, of enterprises they projected. Phil and his friend, Tom Bowles, also a big handsome man, got backing for a saloon and opened one of the best-appointed places in Austin. Phil dressed the part of a gentleman of comparative leisure; he wore a white shirt, diamond stickpin, silk vest, and high-polish calf leather boots, and curled his mustache and trimmed his dark, thick chin-beard to a sharp point. He was described as soft spoken, with an easy, gracious laugh, and elegant manners.

  CHAPTER 25

  Phil Coe and Ben Thompson talked a great deal about going up the Chisholm to the flush trail towns, but before they got around to that, Ben made a memorable foray to the nearby town of Bryan, on the Brazos. Bryan was the trading center for what had been a big plantation area during the war and before. Large herds of cattle were concentrated there later, some for Gulf Coast embarkation, some for the drives to the north. Money was plentiful and was being spent with an open hand.

  At the Blue Wing saloon in Bryan, Ben built up a stake banking a monte session one afternoon. Soon he and five others were in a game of draw poker. It started out as a limited game, but as the hours passed and losers gave way to new players, the bets grew larger and larger. When the pots reached considerable size, even the owner of the saloon, “Big Bill” King was tempted, and took one of the vacated seats.

  “Big Bill” King was a gambling man from way back, and when he got into a game, it was wide open, with the sky the limit. One by one the players dropped out, as the game dragged on through the night. By early morning, Ben and Bill were battling it out between them. Ben had accumulated about a thousand dollars in front of him. Big Bill’s cash was all gone.

  The sun had now come up, and Ben, tired and sleepy, had begun to gather the money stacked in front of him. Most of the spectators had departed, but a few had remained to see the outcome. Among them were Big-Mouthed Ben Hinds; John Watson, who later went to the penitentiary for killing John Eichel in Austin; Dari Gallagher, who was lynched in Oklahoma a few years later; and Bill Johnson, a professional gambler.

  Big Bill insisted on continuing the game. He had his guns and jewelry to put up, if need be, and his I.O.U. was as good as gold. But Ben did not feel like playing and tried to talk Bill out of continuing. Finally, the Bryan man made a flash offer that Ben could not turn down, tired as he was.

  “Tell you what,” said King, “I’ll put up The Blue Wing, lock, stock, and barrel against the money you’ve got showing, and let’s play monte and you can deal—till one of us is cleaned.”

  Ben pointed out that in a set game of monte the dealer will win unless the man betting has a spectacular run of luck. King said he knew it, but he had thrived on runs of luck and would take the risk.

  A deed to the property was prepared by Colonel Henry Coffield, a young lawyer, and converted to a thousand dollars worth of chips. Ben began dealing; King betting on the cards to be turned up. All afternoon was like the morning, the winnings up and down. Night fell and still they played, and by now as many men as could get into the room had crowded around, and the whole town talked of nothing else but the big game. Side bets were being placed in the bar and outside as to the outcome of the play.

  By daybreak of the second morning, after Ben had been playing steadily for about thirty-six hours, King was down to two hundred dollars. Ben made his “layout“—spread out the cards for the bets: a seven of hearts and a six of spades. King looked at the clock on the wall, pointing to seven straight-up. He pushed his whole stack of chips on the seven-card. Ben turned up the winning card: a six of clubs.

  “An hour too late,” King said. “The Blue Wing is yours.”

  Ben was host to the town at an all-day champagne party. Within two days, the saloon was a minor part of the business. Ben fitted up every available part of the building with card tables, and Bryan had a full-scale gambling establishment going around the clock.

  A week or so later, while Ben was out, five men rode in from one of the cow camps. Bill Johnson dealt a faro game for them. They lost heavily, drank steadily, and accused Johnson of cheating. They had Bill backed up against the wall, and were ready to finish him off, when Ben walked in. One of the men recognized him, and cautioned the others not to make a move for their guns. They talked instead. Ben made a compromise settlement with them, and the men left, apparently satisfied.

  But late that night, after the place had closed for the weekly cleaning, the men broke in. They smashed every container in the place—barrels, demijohns, and bottles. They broke up all the furniture, ripped apart the bar, shattered every mirror, and dumped the cigars in the flood of whisky and sawdust on the floor.

  Already deep in debt for outfitting the place, Ben could not raise the cash to revive the crippled Blue Wing. He turned it over to his creditors, and left for Austin.

  After a few months there, Ben and Phil could no longer resist the lure of the trail. Returning cattlemen piled fabulous story upon story about the rivers of gold flowing in the Kansas loading centers reached by the railroad. Of one they talked more than any other: Abilene, a boom town among boom towns.

  CHAPTER 26

  In 1871, Ben Thompson pinned back the ears of The Fighting Pimps. That name summed up his contempt for the law
men of the trail towns in general. Of all such, the officials of Abilene, Kansas, drew his scorn more than any. If there was one he looked down on especially, that man was Abilene’s marshal, James Butler Hickok, known in legend and lore as Wild Bill Hickok.

  The year Ben’ Thompson and Phil Coe opened up there, Abilene was at the peak of its glory as a cattle trail market station. The town was an island of ramshackle wooden structures and caked mud in a sea of wide-spreading horns and tawny hides. Half a million or more cattle pounded the trail to Abilene in 1871. They pressed in on all sides, shimmering in the summer dust or drenched in the big rains that came that season. Rocking rumps and heads rolled like the waves across a field of ripening wheat in the wind. Bulging cattle cars were being lined up day and night in long trains to carry the golden harvest of beef to Chicago, where they would bring up to fifty dollars a head.

  The Bull’s Head, where Ben and Phil held perpetual open house, was a fair-sized swirl in the cesspool of sin and corruption known as Abilene. It took its name from The Bull’s Head on Market Street in San Antonio, rendezvous of the sporting life gentry there. Here, too, Ben and Phil catered to the Fancy Dans and the Gay Ladies. For they also had their moments of relaxation and recreation, after arduous hours of providing the same to cash customers ripe from lonely weeks on the cattle trails.

  The Thompson-Coe establishment was also a favorite among the Texans, who made up the biggest percentage of free and easy spenders. For one thing, it was owned by Texans, and that meant a lot. And Ben Thompson was no ordinary Texan, but a man who had made his mark among the permanent residents of the trail towns. And the Yankees who ran most of the business houses respected him, at least for his skill with the pistol and rifle, if for nothing else.