by H. H. Knibbs
Ben Thompson’s friends asserted that he had neither desire nor inclination to go to San Antonio at that time. They were ready to admit, however, that the spontaneous urge for such a trip might easily have come over the mercurial Austin man in the course’ of soaking up a bit of redeye. This bit could have meant the difference between the filling of a vessel and its overflowing. For, as Ben’s lawyer, Colonel Walton, related, Thompson had been drinking more than usual. He suffered from insomnia, was restless, nervous, and impatient.
King Fisher, as Walton told it, was “anxious that Thompson should accompany him as far as San Antonio, but Thompson did not wish to go.” At last, he consented to go as far as the point where the westbound and eastbound trains crossed. By the time they got to the station, however, the San Antonio train was moving away. They hired a carriage and rode swiftly to the Colorado River bridge, where the train slows. There they were able to board it. At the meeting place of the incoming and outgoing trains, some fifteen miles out, Thompson was induced to extend his trip to San Antonio.”
CHAPTER 50
By the time the Austin train pulled into San Antonio, the news had spread: Ben Thompson was on a whip-cracking bender, the story went, roaring drunk, with hell in his neck. He and King Fisher were coming to town for a good time. That could mean trouble, big trouble, everybody knew. For they remembered the last Ben Thompson visit, less than two years ago; and its bloody climax and the trial came alive again in the busy chatter of the bustling plazas, in the saloons, and at the court house.
Memories were perhaps sharpest at the monte and faro and chuckaluck tables of places like the White Elephant, the Vaudeville, the Silver King, the Revolving Light, and other emporiums of chance—and, around Military Plaza, where Ben had been locked up behind the cracking plaster and crumbling adobe of the jail known as “The Bat Cave.”
It was familiar talk, too, under the cottonwood and hack-berry trees of Main Plaza, whose hard-packed earth Ben had crossed that July day of 1882, taking slow even strides to the Variety, where he and Jack Harris had shot it out. Now, almost two years later, Ben was said to be cutting loose again, and everybody was saying it had to be that way, for other scores remained to be settled. There was, for one, Joe Foster, who was the original cause of the trouble with Harris. And there was Billy Simms who, people said, had gotten a telegram the minute Ben had boarded the Austin train, and Simms had arranged to have every move of Thompson and Fisher watched.
The early evening purple was shading into soft, heavy gray and streaked black of dusk when Ben Thompson and King Fisher left the railroad station in San Antonio. They headed for “El Centro,” the middle of San Antonio, where all the main business was transacted, public and private. There, reminders of the old Spanish settlement, were the string of plazas, one every few blocks; the court house, the city hall, the jail, the cathedral, the stores, and all the gambling houses and saloons of big-time category; and the cabarets that went by the name of “variety theaters,” and in the side streets, the contrasting softly-lighted hallways that led to some madame’s parlor.
As the two men strolled silently in the twilight, Fisher may well have pondered the changes people had noticed in Ben. They did not say that Ben was afraid, although he might well be, for somebody, somewhere, always seemed to be gunning for him, yet never quite getting up the heart to trade lead with him. But wasn’t somebody always, somewhere, also gunning for King Fisher for the many killings of his desperado days, and especially since the fence-cutting war had made many new enemies?
Still, there was something more. What new fury had seized Ben? This cool gambling man, always calculating his chances, even in the life-periling moment of a gunfight ready to give the other fellow odds on the draw: How could he now turn into the town’s bad boy? Maybe it was that Ben had to keep showing people now that he wasn’t scared. Before, in the old days, he never had bothered to prove a fact that everybody already knew.
Although they had much in common, the two men who walked side by side in friendship down Commerce Street that evening of March 11, 1884, could not have been more different. Two things especially they shared: both were quick poison in a gunfight, and both had converted from law-defier to law enforcer. But, while Ben had been backsliding, Deputy Sheriff John King Fisher had stuck it out, and even now, at the age of twenty-seven, was a candidate for sheriff of Uvalde County, and the odds-on favorite to win the election.
Even if there had been nothing else, the two men’s hats proclaimed the contrast between Ben and King: Ben sported a lack silk topper, the kind affected by the Mississippi River gamblers. King was crowned by a huge sombrero, a Texas twenty-gallon hat that pushed his six-foot-two height closer to seven, so that he towered over Ben’s five-foot-nine, brawny, beefy, but square and compact, the bulldog type as against the lean, rangy Fisher, who brought to mind some cat creature of the wilds, a panther perhaps, or a mountain lion. Despite the city clothes he had worn for the visit to the governor, the black broadcloth suit, white silk shirt, and smooth black high-heel boots, King was still the man of the ranch, the cowboy with a wide bullet-rimmed belt supporting well-filled holsters. One was empty now, but the other hung low on his thigh, renewing his confidence and comfort as his deep-tanned swinging hand brushed against the wear-slicked, darkened cowhide bulging over the six-shooter.
As for Ben, he might be a tenderfoot dude, if you judged by his clothes. His shiny black boots were strapped to the tapered-down blue trousers, and the only sign of a gun was the speck of ivory on the handle that peeked through occasionally where his gold-brocaded silk vest overlapped his trousers top. A tiny pearl showed on his white pleated shirt, when the black string tie wasn’t covering it.
Both men wore mustaches typical of the day, long and tapering. King Fisher’s was a bit straggly and careless, curling naturally, in keeping with the generally easy-going demeanor of the younger man. Ben’s mustache was carefully trimmed and waxed, darkened to jet by the cosmetic, the black further deepened by the man’s complexion as it varied with his mood, sometimes pallid, sometimes florid; and the stubby, muscular fingers, delicate and smooth for all their springy power, that reached up every now and then to stroke his mustache.
As Ben and King approached Military Plaza, a drunken cowboy staggered through a saloon’s swinging doors, lurching out on the sidewalk almost in their path. Ben’s hand darted to his waist and then quickly dropped. The two side-stepped the bulky cowpoke, and Fisher noted that the drunk’s pistol holster was empty. No matter what happened, an unarmed man was still safe from Ben’s bullets.
As Fisher was considering that, it was not like Ben even to reach for his gun in such a casual encounter, Ben’s hand had again swung to his belt. This time the pistol flashed out, Ben not even breaking the gait of his slow but steady walk. Fisher, too, had whipped out his revolver so fast it seemed almost as if the two men were acting on the same nerve-ends. Now, gun in hand, Ben was cool and unperturbed, whereas Fisher tensed with excitement, breathing hard, flushed with anticipation.
In that instant of uncertainty, Ben had already fired a shot, and replaced his revolver beneath his vest, all the while walking calmly along. About fifty paces ahead, a large white dog plunged forward and skidded flat and heavy in a cloud of thick dust. King saw the animal had been shot through the head, and then he looked at Ben. A faint, wry smile formed on Ben’s lips, thin and tightly drawn.
Instead of continuing to Main Plaza, the next square in line, the two men now decided to take in the evening’s theater performance, starring Ada Grey. They turned toward Houston Street, and then headed for St. Mary’s Street, the corner where the Turner Hall theater was located. In the distance they heard lowing and bellowing of cattle; closer, the bleating and bawling of sheep; and nearby, church bells tolling the half-hour past eight o’clock.
CHAPTER 51
At the White Elephant, newest and fanciest gambling saloon in the Southwest, Billy Simms counted the minutes as he
waited for Ben Thompson to show up.
Dapper, Billy Simms wearing a wing-tip collar and pleated shirt, had never been a fighting man, at least in the sense of direct physical combat. He carried a pistol, when he did, more as part of his well-tailored raiment than as a weapon. But he always managed to have able pistoleers handy to take care of that end of the operations in his well-departmentalized emporiums.
Since the days of Ben Thompson’s murder trial, Billy and his new partners, Aleck Reddick and Sam Berliner, had built the White Elephant, on the north side of Main Plaza, a short block west of the Vaudeville. The White Elephant was advertised as “the most palatial emporium in all the West,” and wherever ranch bosses or cowboys met, it was the talk of the day, way out to El Paso and Denver and even up to Laramie and San Francisco. From the barroom, flanked by restaurant and billiard parlor, a grand staircase led to the gambling rooms upstairs. The steps were covered with heavy red carpeting, and the mahogany banisters curved away from the landing to form two sub-staircases at opposite ends of the balcony, with an enormous oval gilt-frame mirror between them. With all its elegance, however, or because of it, the White Elephant still never attained the popularity of the Vaudeville.
For the trial of Ben Thompson, Billy Simms had hired some of the best lawyers in Texas to serve as special prosecutors. He owed at least that much to his friend and benefactor, Jack Harris. But it had not been an easy decision for Billy to take an active part in the efforts to convict Ben Thompson. For both Harris and Thompson had been close to him, and both had been good to him in their fashion, even if later he had found Ben hard to get along with.
All this Billy, now a Big Bill in San Antonio, could remember now.…
Simms was joined by two of his bartenders, Jim McLaughlin and Canada Bill, and a vaudeville actor billed as Harry Tremaine. The four men walked along to the front entrance, and stepped outside. Over to the left, a little way down the block, Simms saw his other partner, Joe Foster, whose fight with Ben Thompson had ended in the killing of Harris. With Foster, at the entrance of the Vaudeville, was Jacob Santos Coy, a special policeman on guard duty there, and Alfredo Casanova, a constable.
To the right, separated by a narrow street from the cathedral wall, stood the two-story adobe building that housed the Silver King. It stretched from the Commerce Street opening of Military Plaza to the same street’s opening on Main Plaza. A group of men waited there, also expectantly, glancing now and then toward the White Elephant and then turning back to face Military Plaza.
A deep conflict had stirred within Billy Simms. His loyalty to Harris had been under constant assault by his strong feelings about Thompson. He had, of course, resented being forced out of Austin, and the patronizing and domineering attitude of Ben on other occasions. Still, it seemed that it was Ben who had pushed him along to better things, even if unwittingly. He had gotten him out of the rut of a printer’s job. He had staked him. He had done him still another favor by scaring him to San Antonio and better fortune. And he had finally made him the kingpin by eliminating Harris.
Another light went on down the street, a large red glass globe. Waco Carrie’s parlor had opened for business. The soft breeze brought a faint tinkle of piano keys.
Canada Bill stepped out and said:
“We just got word that they left Turner Hall, and might be heading this way.”
“What time is it?” Simms asked.
“After eleven,” said Canada Bill.
Ben Thompson and King Fisher, near Turner Hall, hailed a hack. They had left the theater, said Tom Howard, the manager, before the final curtain dropped. Between acts, they had sauntered over to the Iron Front saloon and had had a few drinks. They decided to go to the Vaudeville Variety.
Who suggested that they go to the Vaudeville? The question remains unanswered. More than one version had it that Ben had a strong urge to go to the place. He had not set foot there for twenty months now, since the day that he shot down Jack Harris. One cause for the urge, it was stated, lay in supposedly repeated warnings by Joe Foster, intended for relay to Austin, that Ben was not to set foot in the place again.
On the other hand, Colonel Walton contended that Ben was a reluctant companion for the visit to the Vaudeville, and that he even objected when the suggestion was advanced. Walton’s story was that Thompson was eventually “over-persuaded” and that the inducement was a promise that King Fisher would attempt to patch up the difficulties between Ben and Joe Foster.
At any rate, they did go to the Vaudeville, and it was about eleven o’clock. From the mass of conflicting testimony, including the directly contradictory versions given by eyewitnesses, it was impossible to distill any completely unimpeachable account of the events at the Vaudeville that night of March 11, 1884. The circumstances surrounding the coroner’s inquest remained suspect, and the conduct of that inquiry and the final verdict were challenged directly and publicly.
CHAPTER 52
Billy Simms greeted Ben Thompson and King Fisher inside the Vaudeville. This is the version of what happened, as reported in the Austin Statesman, quoting two men, Alex T. Raymond and John R. Sublett, identified as eyewitnesses: “Hello, Ben, glad to see you,” Billy Simms said. Ben introduced King Fisher, who shook hands with Simms. Policeman Santos Coy arrived, and shook hands with Thompson and Fisher. Then Billy Simms spoke again, saying:
“I’m awful glad to see you here, Ben, and I hope we can forget the past and be friends in the future.”
“I want to be friends and I have come here with my friend, Fisher, to talk the matter over and have a perfect understanding,” Ben said, and added, “I have a perfect right to that, haven’t I?”
“Yes, Ben,” said Billy, “that is right and I know we can all be friends.”
“I have nothing against you or Foster, but also I am not afraid of you,” Ben said, “and I am here surrounded by friends, but I want to be friends and I have come here to talk it over.”
“That is all right,” Simms replied, “Come upstairs and see Foster.”
Ben and King went upstairs. Billy and Santos Coy did not go with them, but in a little while joined them in the balcony and sat down beside them. After a few drinks and some pleasantries, Ben turned to Simms and said:
“Billy, I thought you brought me up here to see Foster. I don’t want you to be playing any games on me. I did not come here to make any fuss, and don’t want any, but you must treat me fair.”
“It’s like I told you, Ben,” Billy said, “I’ll go and tell him.”
Fisher interposed, stating: “I want to make you fellows good friends before I leave. I invited Ben here. You are all friends of mine and I want him and Foster to talk it over like gentlemen, and bury the past. Ben is willing, and I want Foster to meet him halfway.”
“All right,” Simms said, “I’ll go and get him.”
Billy then went into one of the theater boxes above them, and came out with Foster. Both walked down to Thompson, who did not rise, but extended his hand to Foster, at the same time that Fisher said:
“I want you and Thompson to be friends. You are both friends to me, and I want you to shake hands like gentlemen.”
Foster ignored Thompson’s hand, and said:
“I cannot shake hands with Ben Thompson, nor can he and I be friends, and I want him to keep out of my way.”
At that moment, Simms and Santos Coy stepped to one side, about two feet from where Thompson and Fisher sat. Thompson and Fisher sprang up, and before they got to their feet a volley “that sounded as though there were a dozen carbines was fired from a box a little to the left and considerably above” and both men went down instantly. Neither Thompson nor Fisher drew their pistols, nor did they have time to do so.
Thompson fell on his right side, and just as soon as the volley was fired from the box, either Simms or Santos Coy rushed up and drew Thompson’s revolver and bent over, putting the muzzle close to hi
s ear, and fired. He then fired two other shots into Ben’s head and body and the other man shot Fisher “in a similar manner.” Foster tried to draw his revolver, but it caught and “he gave it an angry jerk, bringing it out, but the jerk discharged it, and the ball struck him in the leg and he fell.”
As against this version, Santos Coy testified that prior to the shooting, Fisher had said, “Mr. Thompson, you told me we were going to have some fun, so never mind talking about past times,” and that Ben had replied, “Be easy, we’ll get to it pretty soon.”
Both Santos Coy and Simms testified that Simms came over to Ben and King at their seats. Simms said Ben was talking in a rambling manner about Jack Harris, and then Ben stated:
“Joe Foster is the —— who ought to have been killed,” and then turned around suddenly and said, “Ain’t that him?” When Simms said, “Yes,” Ben replied, “Tell him I want to talk with him.”
Foster got up, Simms related, and walked over adjusting his eyeglasses with both hands. When Ben offered his hand, Foster ignored it and then, Simms said, the following conversation took place:
Thompson: “Do you refuse to shake hands with me?”
Foster: “I’ve said, Ben, that I can’t shake hands with you, and all I ask, Ben, is to let me alone and I told Billy to tell you I never would put a straw in your way. The world is wide enough for both of us.”
Thompson: “You wronged me, and I killed Jack Harris without cause. Don’t treat me this way. Don’t force me to extremes. I’ll bet you money you’ll be sorry you didn’t shake hands with me. I’ll live a long time yet, Joe Foster, and I’ll make you leave this country. I’ll expose you as a thief.”