by H. H. Knibbs
Ben fired once more, upward, bringing down the hanging lamp in a flaming crash that scattered burning oil over the two roosters, now gone limp on the blood-soaked sand.
Alone in the yard, Ben spat into the pit, and then walked slowly to the back door of the Western Star. He paused to look inside. The hum of voices at the bar and tables subsided to a dead silence, except for the clinking of bottles and glasses.
Ben scuttled through the hushed room, now covering the area to the left with his pistol, and then the rest of the room as he pivoted. Nobody spoke. Nobody made a move.
Outside, he stepped briskly from the swinging doors, and hailed a hack. He rode around town for a while, and then back to the hotel.
CHAPTER 46
In Austin during the next few months Ben Thompson kept hearing more and more about Jack Harris’ threats back in San Antonio. Some of it may have been fact. A lot of it was hearsay and gossip. Still, the rumors’ were steady and insistent. And unvarying as to the main objective: the extermination of Ben Thompson.
Those who knew Ben Thompson well were not surprised, then, on learning one day that the Austin city marshal had left for San Antonio. Ironically, the purpose of the trip seemed to be a picnic, and Thompson had his boy and girl with him. But there is little doubt that Ben had other things on his mind that day, other matters more absorbing than a picnic. He had business in the center of San Antonio, legal business, he said. So he left the children with a friend in San Antonio and arranged for a hack to pick him up later for the outing at San Pedro Springs.
As he strolled about San Antonio that sizzling day of July 11, 1882, Ben Thompson carried with him disturbing echoes of the reports that had trickled toward him in recent months: that Jack Harris was saying Ben should be shot as if he were a vicious wolf, and that he should not be permitted on the streets of San Antonio…
Almost in direct reply to that kind of warning, Ben Thompson could now be seen very much around the streets of San Antonio. He walked the length of Alamo Plaza. He dropped in at the Menger Hotel for a while: walked through the lobby and the inner patio, luxuriant with palm trees and other tropical vegetation. Then he strolled out again, across the plaza, rounded the corner and headed west along Commerce Street. In that direction, a few blocks beyond, was Jack Harris’ Vaudeville Variety Theater, saloon, and gambling house.
At the corner of Navarro Street, Ben stopped to look over the wares displayed by a dulcero. The itinerant candy vendor flicked flies away from the wooden tray with a short stick that had long strips of paper tied to one end—pink paper, blue, red, yellow, green. Alongside of him, the colors were repeated, mixed, and multiplied in the enormous flower garden of the Antonio Menchaca home: roses, lilies, poppies, gardenias, oleanders, larkspur, anemones, portulacas, and great clusters of bougainvillea…
And on the tray, candies as festively arrayed, a special treat for the children at the picnic: pirulis, cone-shaped lollypops, point upward and stick at the broad end, and covered with colored paper; and the squares of leche quemada, soft and crumbly, made of sugar and milk; charamuscas, spongy, taffy-like candy rolled up with pecans in the center; glazed bars of golden sweet potato and pumpkin candy; pink squares of cocoanut nougat; round flat cakes of queso de tuna and biznaga chunks, each made from different varieties of cactus plants…
Instead of continuing along Commerce Street, Ben now walked south on Navarro and over to Market Street, a block away and running parallel with Commerce to Main Plaza. On Market Street, Ben paused at The Bull’s Head, reminder of his own ill-fated saloon back in Abilene, where Phil Coe was killed by Wild Bill Hickok. He had a few drinks, heard more talk, and remembered other rumors:
So Ben Thompson was really a coward? So Ben Thompson would not fight unless he had the advantage? So Ben Thompson really had no nerve and was much over-rated? Such were the things relayed to Ben, as coming from Jack Harris…
As Ben walked out of The Bull’s Head, a barefooted man shuffled by, on his head an enormous circular basket piled high with bolillos—hard rolls shaped like small loaves of French bread—and pan dulce, an assortment of fluffy sweet rolls and brittle cookies. A woman approached, offering three bamboo bird cages strung on a pole, one containing a canary, another a parrot, and the third a cardinal.
Across the street, Ben stopped in at the place founded by Madame Candelaria, The Fandango, a fashionable dance hall, famed for its music and its food, and because Madame Candelaria supposedly had nursed Jim Bowie in his final illness. She had been, the story went, a witness of the fall of the Alamo, and did not mind at all relating over and over what had happened, her impressions garnished with ever new details as the years rolled by.
From the well of his memory, Ben fished up other rumored remarks about Jack Harris… That professional killers had been promised good pay for the job of assassinating Ben Thompson, that they had been promised a speedy trial, and a guaranteed acquittal…
Now it was but a short walk to Main Plaza. By the time Ben reached the plaza, the cottonwood and hackberry and huisache trees were submerged in the long shadows of the San Fernando Cathedral, directly in front of Ben, straight across the open square. Dust clouds scurried along the hard-packed earth pounded by the hoofs of carriage horses and ground up by the creaking wheels of hacks and wagons, and a file of burros loaded with cornshucks in large sheaves and bundles of firewood and gunnysacks of charcoal. A faint breeze brought the sweet perfume of the huisache blossoms mingling with the wet-hay smell of fresh horse droppings. The brilliant afterglow of the setting sun was wiped away by the blue haze of the densing twilight.
The jumpy cadence of a polka broke across the tableau of the plaza, and Ben’s eyes turned toward the music. It bounced from a balcony, a short block to his right, where a six-piece orchestra played in the flickering glare of oil flares along the railing. At that point of the plaza, Commerce Street met Soledad, a spot that came to be known as The Fatal Corner, for its many killings. It was the location of the Vaudeville, and the musicians were drumming up trade for that place, owned by Jack Harris…and the words of the Ranger in Galveston danced in Ben’s brain to the tune of the polka:
“Jack Harris said he could kill a bird on the wing, so he thought he would be up to taking care of a man standing, even a man who seemed to think that he had a charmed life…
Ben looked around for the hack he had hired to meet him at the plaza, but it had not showed up. He glared toward the corner where the orchestra played on without a halt, going from one melody to another as if in a marathon of music. Ben met an old acquaintance, it was later testified, and ’twas not to be forgot, so they had a drink or two. Then he met another friend, and another, and by that time, entering and leaving various saloons, and letting it be known far and wide that he was about and able, Ben stood diagonally across from the Vaudeville. The walls at the corner were plastered with signs advertising Sim Hart’s tobacco and cigars.
Another friend called from across the street and Ben walked over to join him. They stood now directly outside the Vaudeville, and his friend invited Ben in for a drink. Still, the testimony later insisted, Ben had no intention of going to Jack Harris’ place. He hesitated for a while. Then the decision came quickly: would anyone say that Ben Thompson was afraid to go into the Vaudeville?
Ben and his friend pushed through the swinging doors, one of two sets that broke the solid front of the building, one set at the east end, one at the west. They entered the long passageway, about four feet wide, along the inner wall, separated from the saloon beyond by a wooden latticework partition with two openings, partially blocked by Venetian blind screens, corresponding to the outer doors. At the extreme right was a staircase leading to the theater and gambling room upstairs. Ben and his companion walked into the near-empty saloon and faced the crescent-shaped bar. As the drinks were poured, Ben asked the bartender:
“Where’s that shotgun brigade that’s hunting for me?”
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��Don’t know about it,” the barkeep replied.
Ben drank up, ordered a refill, and said:
“Well you tell Joe Foster he’s a thief, and as for Harris, you can tell him I said he’s a no-good pimp, living off women.”
“They’ll be around later, and you can tell them yourself,” the bartender answered.
Ben finished his drink and went out again to the plaza.
Despite the barkeep’s apparent calm, the appearance of Ben Thompson had provoked no less excitement than if a bomb had exploded in the saloon. Waiters and other employees huddled about the back rooms, and it was not long before the word was relayed to Billy Simms, and to Harris at his home, around the corner on Soledad Street.
Harris usually left the Vaudeville about four o’clock in the afternoon, returning late at night to pick up the money from the box office and other tills about the place. When he heard the news, Harris changed his program at once, and hurried to the establishment.
Meanwhile, Ben had returned to the saloon, and was asking the bartender:
“Why doesn’t that shotgun gang show up?”
The bartender’s noncommittal gesture brought this assertion from Ben:
“I’m going to close up this place.”
Outside, Billy Simms, holding a pistol, met Jack Harris and handed him the weapon. The two men then stepped in through the east door and stood for a moment in the space between the outer wall and the inner partition. Through the blinds they could see Ben at the bar, just turning away. As Ben walked out of the west door, Harris entered the east door muttering, “I’m going to’ shoot the head off that sonofabitch.”
Harris went toward the box office where he kept his double-barreled shotgun. At the outer door, Simms intercepted Ben and the two men talked a few minutes, the conversation consisting mainly of Ben’s repeated question as to the whereabouts of the gunmen who were going to get him. Simms left, heading up the steps to the gambling rooms, where he kept his other pistol. As Ben turned to the outer door, he heard someone say inside:
“Jack has got his shotgun.”
Ben stopped, turned, back flattened against the inside wall, and had his fingers around the ivory handle of his drawn .45 Colt revolver, all in an instantaneous reflex. Through the Venetian blinds, Ben saw Harris, half-crouched and half-hidden by the box office doorway. The shotgun muzzle rested on Harris’ crippled left wrist. His right hand was hooked under the trigger guard, and one finger rested on the trigger.
“Hey, Jack, what are you doing with that gun?” Ben shouted to him.
Harris raised the gun toward the sound of Ben’s voice and replied:
“I’m going to shoot you, you thieving sonofabitch.”
Before Harris had finished his sentence; Ben’s silver-mounted pistol blazed and crackled, and the deafening roar of Harris’ shotgun echoed through the near-empty saloon. The shotgun blast went wild, up to the ceiling, where it tore a big hole and sprayed plaster downward in a powdery shower.
Ben’s bullet ripped through the end of a splintering slat and struck the inner wainscoting, cutting a groove along the wall as the lead coursed straight to Harris’ chest, plunging into his body just below the heart. Stunned, Harris straightened up and staggered toward the steps as Ben fired a second shot, which pierced Harris’ neck just above the collarbone. Harris lurched forward and fell face down on the staircase. In a moment, he stood again, and struggled up the steps, now slippery with his blood.
Billy Simms, pistol in hand, was at the head of the steps, ready to come down, when he saw Harris. He put away his six-shooter to help Harris climb up to the second floor, where he lay unconscious, blood bubbling from his side and neck as employees, showgirls, and customers gathered around.
After Harris fell, Ben fired a third shot into the wall, to scare the shotgun gang he felt sure was concealed to ambush him. He wheeled around holding his pistol toward the barroom, edged toward the outer door and slipped out, his back to the wall. On the balcony above him, the orchestra had swung into a march tune. Ben fired a shot into the balcony, and stopped the music instantly. As if wiped away by a magic cloth, the orchestra vanished, seeking shelter through the French doors.
Pistol in hand, Ben edged along the building wall outside, the back of his long coat rubbing against the chalky red paint. In a cautious, side-stepping catwalk, pivoting first on one foot and then on the other, Ben eased himself along the building, and swung sharply around the corner of Soledad Street. He dashed across the street and disappeared into a doorway. Through several buildings en route, and part of the way along the bank of the San Antonio River, he emerged finally at Alamo Plaza, and up to his room in the Menger Hotel.
Ben sent word to a San Antonio lawyer, and early next morning notified the sheriff that he was ready to surrender.
He was placed in jail and charged with murder, and then sent in his resignation as city marshal of Austin.
The court battle for Ben Thompson’s life was a six-months sensation. From the start, it broke out like a war between the cities of San Antonio and Austin. Some men in office only because of Harris’ power, and some who had been more directly associated with the Vice King, found his death a calamity. It became a matter of revenge for many. To others, this was an opportunity to set an example, as well as to get rid of Ben Thompson. In Austin, many felt that their idol had done a public service by ridding the state of such a creature as Jack Harris.
The habeas corpus battle began immediately after the examining trial had left Ben in jail without recourse to bail. The county attorney, Fred Cocke, was provided by Harris’ associates with an imposing array of special prosecutors: Judge Thomas J. Devine, Major T. T. Teel, Messrs. Tarleton and Boone, Messrs. Anderson and Anderson, and John Wallace, the prosecutor from an adjoining county. The defense lined up against them some of the top legal talent of Texas: Walton and Hill, Sheeks and Sneed, Wooten and Poindexter, all well known Austin law firms, plus John A. Green, N. O. Green, John Green Jr., and J. Minter of San Antonio.
To the court of appeals and back again, the plea for a habeas corpus writ was denied over and over, all the rulings holding that it was perfectly proper to keep Ben Thompson in jail without bond. Then came another long court struggle in an effort to change venue, on the grounds that San Antonio prejudice would deprive Ben of a fair trial there. In the course of this technical conflict, Ben was interviewed by a newspaper reporter. Among other things, Ben said that he could not see how a jury of honest men could ever convict anybody for shooting “a rat like Harris.” He dwelt on that theme, making a strong appeal to the reform element, then rising to power. Ben spoke of Harris as “an agent of the devil, leading young men to hell.” And he went into detail on the intricate operations of scientific management of a brothel, and the degradation it entailed for those employed there.
After publication of these remarks, a changing attitude developed about Ben Thompson in San Antonio. Enough time had elapsed, nearly six months, so that the first shock of the slaying had been absorbed. There were now many versions of the killing, as many as there were people discussing it. The first accounts of a cold-blooded, premeditated murder had become tempered. The other side of the story was being accepted as a counterweight. And Ben’s statement to the press seemed to be the final straw that swung public opinion. If not for him, at least it was not inexorably against him any longer. He consulted with his lawyers and they agreed to drop the efforts to change the trial’s location.
Ben asked for trial in San Antonio, and after more wrangling, the case was called before District Judge G. H. Noonan for the last week of January, 1883. The old courthouse on Soledad Street was thronged almost continuously from the moment the hearing began on a Tuesday, until it ended Saturday night. The judge delivered his charge before nightfall. The jurors retired, ate their evening meal, and then decided to sleep on the case and discuss it in the morning.
By eight o’clock in the morning, the
jury had sent word to the judge that their verdict was ready. Court attaches were hastily summoned. The sheriff brought the prisoner to the courtroom. Friends who had kept a vigil through the night, waiting for word, spread the news throughout the town. The courtroom was jammed when the foreman stood up to read the verdict:
“We find the defendant, Benjamin Thompson, not guilty—”
A deafening roar of applause drowned out the end of the sentence. Cheers and rebel yells echoed through the courtroom. Ben was turned loose by his guards, and enveloped in a tide of congratulating hands and embracing arms. With his wife and little daughter, who had been sitting through the week-long trial, Ben Thompson took the evening train back to Austin, exonerated, free, but badly shaken.
CHAPTER 47
Ben Thompson returned to Austin as a conquering hero might. Only the triumphal arches were lacking. Great crowds swarmed over Congress Avenue and other approaches to the International and Great Northern Railroad station. Public officials were there—county, city, and state; members of the legislature and ward heelers; businessmen, and other citizens who had backed Ben Thompson, the Reformer; and scores of men and women from all sectors of the sporting world, and a lot of personal and family friends. So many people, in fact, had left their usual occupations to take part in the welcome that it seemed almost like a public holiday.
As the train pulled in, a great roar went up from the crowd, followed by a burst of applause and continued cheers when Ben appeared and stepped down onto the platform. He was engulfed by friends, and led to a waiting carriage, the wheels and sides of which were covered with colored bunting, the horses with festive plumes rising above their ears. But the animals did not share in the triumphal procession up the avenue. A group of men unharnessed the horses and took their places in front of the vehicle. Thus Ben Thompson moved along Congress Avenue, greeted by shouting and laughing onlookers. The march paused at the City Hall, where in a simple ceremony, Ben was reinstated as city marshal amid the renewed cheering from the crowd of admirers. Then he was escorted to his residence.