by H. H. Knibbs
“Joke?” Wilson exploded, “I bet you put him up to it; I know you’ve been trying to scare people out of here so they could go to your place instead—”
The next instant the lie was being hurled, and suddenly their heated talk stopped, and a cold silence fell over the group. Ben had slapped Wilson. The Senate proprietor put his open right hand up to his cheek. The normally red face had gone livid. He glared at Ben, turned, and walked away without another word. Wilson disappeared behind a door and emerged with a shotgun in his hands. He raised it and pointed the muzzle in the general direction of his encounter with Ben.
“Clear the way there!” he yelled.
Panic seized the crowd. Men raced for the doors, leaped through the windows. Others dived under tables or dropped flat to the floors of the concealed boxes, behind the bar, and backstage.
Wilson stood off at an angle to Ben’s right. At the same moment, Mathews, the bartender, came up from behind the counter with his Winchester. He was at an angle off to Ben’s left.
Ben dodged to the left, moving only the upper part of his body, as Wilson’s shotgun boomed. Ben’s feet were firmly on the floor, but he still rested against the table. His right hand flipped aside the edge of the overcoat, plunged downward and came up with his six-shooter blazing, and at the same time Mathews pressed the trigger of his rifle. A bullet ripped through Ben’s overcoat where it bunched near his left hip.
Four shots roared from Ben’s revolver as Wilson aimed to fire again. Wilson dropped his gun and fell to the floor, wounded in the neck, chest, head, and right hand. Mathews shot again with the rifle and when he saw Wilson fall, he ducked down behind the bar, in the same split second that Ben had turned his eyes away from Wilson and toward Mathews. The fifth and last bullet from Ben’s pistol split the mahogany bar close to the floor, plunging through the wood. It struck Mathews in the mouth, tearing through his throat and lodging in his spine at the back of his neck. Wilson was dead before the smoke cleared. Mathews was mortally wounded.
Ben sauntered out of the near-empty saloon. Outside, he walked toward the sheriff’s office. As he wrapped his overcoat about him, the clear and crisp wintry air brought him the faint voices of carol singers:
“Silent night, Holy night, All is calm, All is bright…”
CHAPTER 42
If Ben Thompson needed anything more to claim the title of “The Most Feared Man in Austin,” the Christmas Eve killings in The Senate provided that final touch. At his trial, the jurors were out of the box so short a time that it was said they met themselves coming back with a verdict of acquittal.
Soon after that, a spirit of reform descended upon Ben Thompson. Nobody could figure it out completely. Some attributed it to remorse. Some said the defense lawyer’s oratory, picturing Ben as a latter-day knight in shining armor, may have over-impressed him. His friends knew, of course, of the inner struggle that had always been part of Ben’s character, and which made him a puzzle among the gun-fighters, perhaps the least understood of the so-called Bad Men.
As good a theory as any was that a reform movement had become general over the country. It engulfed state after state in the wake of the uncurbed wickedness of the boom days. The temperance forces were in all-out mobilization against Demon Rum and his infernal associates. Gamblers, drunkards, and other sinners were running over one another in their haste to “take the pledge.” Men who knew evil through intimate association now became the most stalwart champions of the Good and the True, the most vigorous, or at least the loudest, fighters against the forces of the Devil.
In Texas, the reform movement was a logical sequel of the end of the anarchy created by the rule of the desperado. The arrival of the days of law and order foreshadowed the consolidation of statehood into an era of relatively peaceful settlement and development. Rustlers gave up their evil ways and became rangers and city marshals and sheriffs. A notable example was John King Fisher, whose gang terrorized south Texas until he reformed and became an effective deputy sheriff being groomed for the job of sheriff. The guns that had roared with the voice of hell now were being skillfully used on the side of the angels.
The Austin manifestation of reform found partial incarnation in Ben Thompson. Ben may have beheld the shining light as a result of his concern about his family. There is some indication of this in a statement attributed to him:
“I have a son, and I had rather follow him to the grave than see him contract the habit of gambling. Yet I continue in that line of life; but, so help me God, I never have and never will assist or encourage any boy, youth, or man to engage in the hell-earning business which I probably will follow until I am dead.”
Ben was not a man for talking when the occasion demanded action. He started his campaign on himself and associates. In the middle of a big binge, during which he and Bill Johnson, another gambler, tried to drink Austin dry, Ben popped into the gambling hall operated by Thompson and a partner, Peter Loraine. At the moment, Loraine was busy dealing faro to a crowd of eager players.
Addressing the startled men around the table, while Loraine gaped in bewilderment, Ben declared:
“I don’t think that set of tools is entirely honest, and I would like to help Mr. Loraine buy another.”
Then he drew his pistol, and as the faro table was rapidly abandoned, it became the target for systematic destruction by bullets. Ben fired into a stack of chips and they showered over the floor. He shot through the dealer’s box, drilled a bullet into the ace on the layout, knocked a few crystal pendants off the chandelier and then stormed into the next room, where a large crowd had been playing keno. The shooting had already spread the alarm there, and when Ben entered, panic reigned. Customers, dealers, waiters, attendants ran and jumped through the nearest exits, doors, or windows. Several went over the balcony, down an awning post, and into a water tank.
Ben pumped bullets into the keno “goose” and exclaimed:
“This game ruins boys, and shall be played no more!”
The spirit of reform (his enemies said it was just plain spirits) now moved him toward cleaning up the rest of the town, after having set an example with his own property. There had been a lot of talk going on about reform. Temperance meetings were the fashion. The newspaper had sharply criticized the police force for failing to do its duty of ridding the city of vice. In concurring with the editorial opinion of the day, Ben decided to go a step further; he would show the police how the town could be cleaned up.
Leaving the Thompson-Loraine gambling rooms, Ben prowled along the sidewalk, shooting out streetlights, and firing at saloons as he passed—high enough not to hurt anybody, just to scare them sober. Meanwhile, the police had been alerted about Ben Thompson’s evangelistic mission, and a squad was rushed to his gambling parlors. They marched in two abreast to take possession, but by then Ben was passing the Raymond House. He saw Abram Simon, who also ran a keno parlor, asleep in a chair on the porch, his head up and mouth wide open.
Ben fired a shot over the man’s head. Roused from his slumbers, Simon leaped out of the chair and dashed down the street yelling for help. He ran straight into the arms of the marching squad of policemen now emerging from their slightly belated raid at the gambling parlor. They placed Simon under arrest, then released him on his word to appear next morning, when he was fined for disturbing the peace.
All through the night, the police seemed to be chasing Ben Thompson, and Ben Thompson seemed to be making noise enough to rouse surrounding counties. He traveled on foot, on horseback, and in a buggy during his round’s. He spread terror in the middle of town, and then went out to the First Ward, the badlands area of Austin. There he shot out the streetlights and then marched up one side of each street and down the other, shooting into the whorehouses and the adjoining dancing, drinking, and gambling resorts. By the time he left, the red light district was tightly closed, quiet as a graveyard.
Somehow the police never caught up with
him. As one reporter wrote:
‘The police heard that Ben Thompson was at the depot, and hurried with all dispatch high on the hill back of the capitol to look for him.”
The capitol, of course, was located across town from the depot.
An editorial summed up the civic achievements of Ben Thompson on his spree of reform:
“Ben Thompson, singlehanded and alone, a few nights ago effected what the combined authorities of the city and county have so long failed to accomplish. Ben’s conscience, apparently, became quickened, and he determined that the keno establishment over the Iron Front saloon should be abolished, or rather demolished. He raided the game… We are glad for the mothers and fathers of young men, the wives and children of those who put money there instead of buying food and clothing… Still such a situation is inexcusable… But it seems that Ben has got all the officers thoroughly bulldozed. It is known that when he is in one of his defiant, reckless moods, the officers invariably give him a wide berth. They actually avoid him and act like craven cowards…
Another newspaper offered this accolade:
“Ben Thompson has some peculiar ways at times, but in the main is a generous, warmhearted man, and it is doubtful if anyone is more popular.”
CHAPTER 43
With the reform movement riding high, it was inevitable that in logical sequence of his vice-banishing expedition, Ben Thompson would be drawn closer to the forces of law and order. One thing led to another. Before long, Ben had been persuaded to follow in the footsteps of quite a few other noted gunfighters and bad men: to seek the role of community keeper of the peace. The next city election was approaching.
After a series of conferences, Ben decided to make the race for city marshal. Over the signature of “Your Obedient Servant, Ben Thompson,” and drafted with the aid of some of his lawyer friends, the following circular appeared:
“To the Good People of Austin:
“I have been solicited by a number of old citizens, who have known and been kind to me from my boyhood, to become a candidate for the office of city marshal. No man, from the highest to the humblest, can successfully charge me with dishonor or dishonesty. I can truthfully say, without boasting, that I have always been the friend of the defenseless, and most of the difficulties attending the independent life I have led were incurred by the sensitive love of fair play and an irresistible impulse to protect the timid and weak from the aggressions and wrongs of the overbearing and strong. I am thoroughly acquainted with the character of Austin and the magnanimity of her citizens. I have a family of interesting children growing up under my hands, for whose welfare and happiness in society I have an abiding solicitude. I now beg to repeat in this public manner the promise I have made to my friends in private, that if honored with the confidence of the people, in their selection for the important and responsible post to which I aspire, my whole time and attention shall be given to the discharge of the official duties which pertain to the place, and no good and law-abiding citizen shall have occasion to regret the choice, provided it shall be within the compass of my ability or fidelity to the high and delicate trust to prevent it; upon these terms and conditions, I invoke the support and suffrage of my fellow citizens.”
Support of the city’s press was indicated by such comment as “He is a kindhearted, whole-souled man” and “A young man beloved by all who know him, fearless and honorable, well and favorably known, and will serve the people faithfully.” One editorial has been cited as a classic in endorsement that seemed extravagantly eulogistic until its underscored words were carefully observed for their irony:
“Ben Thompson is a very popular banker in this city, and in that capacity was brought into intimate relationship with a large portion of the male citizens of the capital city. His business associates, as well as his prominence as a peace and order-loving citizen have endeared him to all. There can be little doubt as to his election. Austin will not lose this splendid opportunity to distinguish herself.”
The incumbent marshal, Major Ed Creary, had been in office for a long time. He had strong backing among the men of substance, and was an experienced campaigner and a practiced politician, affable, and well-liked. He also had the solid support of the so-called “floating population” which was able to muster several hundred votes.
Creary ran as an Independent Republican and Greenbacker and received 1,174 votes. It was regarded as something of a tribute to Ben Thompson that he brought in a total of 744 votes, running as a Democrat, while the third candidate, another Republican, got only seventy-five votes.
Ben was disappointed that Austin had decided to pass up the chance of the clean-up he had in mind. But he took his defeat stoically, and left town on an extended tour of Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, and Nevada, returning to his trade as a gambling man and doing very well at it. On his swing back to Austin, some months later, he stopped over at San Antonio. He dropped in, of course, at the Vaudeville Variety, to see his long-time friend, Jack Harris, who happened to be out at the moment.
One of Harris’ dealers, Four-Eye Joe Foster, was at his usual spot—at the bank of a faro game. Foster, a dreamy-eyed man who wore glasses with extra-thick lenses, was one of the best known professionals in the business. His long, bony, and eminently adroit fingers, and his shrewdness at sizing up players had placed him at the top rank among faro bank “mechanics.” Jack Harris regarded him as indispensable, trusted him implicitly, and would have as soon parted with his right arm—which was his good arm—as lose Foster.
To while away the time while waiting for Harris, Ben sat down idly to buck the tiger at Foster’s table. Ben lost consistently. Soon he was raising the stakes in an effort to recoup, and at the same time trying to figure out whether Foster was manipulating the cards. Before long, the money involved had taken the game entirely out of the friendly class. Two hard-bitten professionals were pitted against each other and playing for keeps. Ben lost all his cash. Then he began putting up his jewelry on pledge of later redemption at the accepted value.
Ben had entered on a course of desperate playing, doubling bets when he should have pulled, failing to hedge with spread-bets against the straight card plunges. Ben had thrown all the rules overboard. Whatever Foster may have been able to do to the cards, if anything, no longer had any meaning. Ben played wild, and it paid off. Ben kept right on winning now, and when he was ready to quit, he had all his cash back and most of his jewelry. Foster pointed to the two rings Ben had put up for chips, and now called for their redemption.
“You still owe the house five hundred dollars,” Foster said.
“This is a crooked game, and I was framed,” Ben answered, “and you’ll never collect it.”
“That’s a lie!” Foster said. “You’re going to pay what you owe.”
Foster reached for his pistol, but his hand stopped in midair as Ben’s .45 came down on him. Foster’s six-shooter did not leave its holster. Ben backed out of the room, keeping Foster covered, and left town without seeing Harris.
When the report of the incident reached Harris, it appeared that Ben Thompson had put one over on him. Some said that the rings he left were not worth anything near the money he got for them. In any case, Harris had no choice other than to accept Foster’s version. He could not let it be admitted that a dealer in his house was cheating, even if it were true. That would be fatal for business. On the other hand, Ben had his reputation in the profession: he did not “run over” games by force, and had never been accused of cheating. Harris put the best face he could on the incident, and backed Foster to the hilt. Men in the place testified later that they had heard Harris denounce Thompson as a thief, and that he had loudly threatened to kill Ben on sight.
That’s how things stood between Harris and Thompson in 1882, when Ben was elected city marshal during his second campaign for the office. True to his promises, Ben cleaned up the town in short order. He fired the whole police force, twelve officers
all told, and announced he would keep order singlehanded. The boys and girls of the less reputable professions did not like the situation particularly, but they accepted the authority of the Thompson pistol and banked on his personal understanding of the sporting world.
Thus, Ben became the acknowledged Boss Man. He was too realistic to try to put the demimonde out of business entirely, but he did keep it in line. The operators out there continued to make available their various forms of recreation to those who sought them out. But they stuck to their end of town, and there was no rough stuff, no rolling, no clipping of clients. During Ben’s tenure as city marshal, not a single murder or assault to murder case developed in his jurisdiction.
The good citizens of Austin were, of course, highly pleased at his performance. Ben’s popularity reached a degree nigh onto hero worship. He wore his uniform, his policeman’s cap, and his star, with the same elegance he had radiated as one of the best-dressed men in Austin. And his handlebar mustache was as carefully waxed.
In San Antonio, Ben’s friends heard, unbelievingly, of his transformation. Still, it seemed to be true, for he was no longer to be seen around his old haunts in the Big Town. If it occurred to anybody that he might be staying away because of Jack Harris’ and Joe Foster’s threats, it was soon dismissed as an implausible notion. Everybody knew that the only possible effect of such warnings would be the speeding-up of a showdown.
CHAPTER 44
As city marshal of Austin, Ben Thompson reached the high point of his career. Prestige, power, and public recognition had all come before as fruits of the skill with a pistol. Now he had all this, and respectability, too: the association, the partnership, with the good citizens who were concerned about their families and their community. All these elements of civil society, which he had defied in aggressive defense of his independent and individualistic course, were now his allies and comforters and champions. Ben had full authority to use his six-shooter. But such was his reputation in that area that he was able to enforce the law without resorting to the persuasion of a trigger. For his was a pistol all Texas feared, and Austin was no exception.