The Story of the Outlaw by Emerson Hough (read aloud .txt) 📕

It was nervous work, waiting for the killer to come, and Simms could not stand it. He walked down the stairway, and took a turn around the block before he again ascended the stairs to the hall. Meantime, Ben Thompson, accompanied by another character, King Fisher, a man with several notches on his gun, had ascended the stairs, and had taken a seat on the right hand side and beyond the bar, in the row nearest the door. When Simms stepped to the foot of the stairs on his return, he met the barkeeper, who was livid with terror. He pointed trembling up the stair and whispered, "He's there!" Ben Thompson and King Fisher had as yet made no sort of demonstration. It is said that King Fisher had decoyed Thompson into the theater, knowing that a trap was laid to kill him. It is also declared that Thompson went in merely for amusement. A friend of the author, a New Mexican sheriff who happened to be in San Antonio, saw and talked with both men that afternoon. They were both quiet and sober then.

Simms' heart was in his mouth, but he made up his mind to die game, if he had to die. Slowly he walked up the stairway. Such was Thompson's vigilance, that he quickly arose and advanced toward Simms, who stood at the top of the stairs petrified and unable to move a muscle. Before Simms could think, his partner, Foster, appeared on the scene, and as he stood up, Thompson saw him and walked toward him and said: "Hello, Foster, how are you?" Slowly and deliberately Foster spoke: "Ben, this world is not big enough for us both. You killed poor Jack Harris like a dog, and you didn't as much as give him a chance for his life. You and I can never be friends any more." Quick as a flash and with a face like a demon, Thompson drew his pistol and jammed it into Foster's mouth, cruelly tearing his lips and sending him reeling backward. While this was going on, Simms had retreated to the next step, and there drew his pistol, not having his shotgun in hand then. He stepped forward as he saw Foster reel from the blow Thompson gave him, and with sudden courage opened fire. His first shot must have taken effect, and perhaps it decided the conflict. Thompson's gun did not get into action. Simms kept on firing. Thompson reeled back against King Fisher, and the two were unable to fire. Meantime the big Mexican, Coy, showed up from somewhere, just as Foster had. Both Foster and Coy rushed in front of the line of fire of Simms' pistol; and then without doubt, Simms killed his own friend and preserver. Foster got his death wound in such position that Simms admitted he must have shot him. None the less Foster ran into Thompson as the latter reeled backwards upon Fisher, and, with the fury of a tiger, shoved his own pistol barrel into Thompson's mouth in turn, and fired twice, completing the work Simms had begun. The giant Coy hurled his bulk into the struggling mass now crowded into the corner of the room, and some say he held Ben Thompson's arms, though in the mêlée it was hard to tell what happened. He called out to Simms, "Don't mind me," meaning that Simms should keep on firing. "Kill the —— of ——!" he cried. Coy no doubt was a factor in saving Simms' life, for one or the other of these two worst men in the Southwest would have got a man before he fell, had he been able to get his hands free in the struggling. Coy was shot in the leg, possibly by Simms, but did not drop. Simms took care of Coy to the end of his life, Coy dying but recently.

One of the men engaged in this desperate fight says that Coy did not hold Thompson, and that at first no one was shot to the floor. Thompson was staggered by Simms' first shot, which prevented a quick return of fire. It was Foster who killed Thompson and very likely King Fisher, the latter being hemmed in in the corner with Thompson in front of him. Coy rushed into the two and handled them so roughly that they never got their guns into action so far as known.

Leaving the fallen men at the rear of the theater, Simms now went down stairs, carrying Foster's pistol, with two chambers empty (the shots that killed Thompson) and his own gun. He saw Thompson's brother Bill coming at him. He raised the gun to kill him, when Phil Shardein, then city marshal, jumped on Thompson and shielded him with his body, calling out, "Don't shoot, Billy, I've got him." This saved Bill Thompson's life. Then several shots were heard upstairs, and upon investigation, it was found that Coy had emptied his pistol into the dead body of Thompson. He also shot Fisher, to "make sure the —— were dead."

Thus they died at last, two of the most notorious men of Texas, both with their boots on. There were no tears. Many told what they would or could have done had Ben Thompson threatened them. This closing act in the career of Ben Thompson came in the late spring of 1882. He was then about forty-three years of age.

King Fisher, who met death at the same time with Thompson, was a good disciple of desperadoism. He was a dark-haired, slender young man from Goliad county—which county seems to have produced far more than its share of bad men. He had killed six men and stolen a great many horses in his time. Had he lived longer, he would have killed more. He was not of the caliber sufficient to undertake the running of a large city, but there was much relief felt over his death. He had many friends, of course, and some of these deny that he had any intention of making trouble when he went into the theater with Ben Thompson, just as friends of the latter accuse King Fisher of treachery. There are never lacking men who regard dead desperadoes as martyrs; and indeed it is usually the case that there are mixed circumstances and frequently extenuating ones, to be found in the history of any killer's life.

Another Goliad county man well known around San Antonio was Alfred Y. Allee, who was a rancher a short distance back from the railway. Allee was decent when sober, but when drunk was very dangerous, and was recognized as bad and well worth watching. Liquor seemed to transform him and to make him a bloodthirsty fiend. He had killed several men, one or two under no provocation whatever and when they were defenseless, including a porter on a railway train. It was his habit to come to town and get drunk, then to invite every one to drink with him and take offense at any refusal. He liked to be "chief" of the drinking place which he honored with his presence. He once ordered a peaceful citizen of San Antonio, a friend of the writer, up to drink with him, and when the latter declined came near shooting him. The man took his drink, then slipped away and got his shotgun. Perhaps his second thought was wiser. "What's the use?" he argued with himself. "Somebody'll kill Allee before long anyhow."

This came quite true, for within the week Allee had run his course. He dropped down to Laredo and began to "hurrah" that town also. The town marshal, Joe Bartelow, was a Mexican, but something of a killer himself, and he resolved to end the Allee disturbances, once for all. It is said that Allee was not armed when at length they met in a saloon, and it is said that Bartelow offered his hand in greeting. At once Bartelow threw his arm around Allee's neck, and with his free hand cut him to death with a knife. Whether justifiable or not, that was the fashion of the homicide.

Any man who has killed more than twenty men is in most countries considered fit to qualify as bad. This test would include the little human tiger, Tumlinson, of South Texas, who was part of the time an officer of the law and part of the time an independent killer in Texas. He had many more than twenty men to his credit, it was said, and his Mexican wife, smilingly, always said that "Tumlinson never counted Mexicans." He was a genius with the revolver, and as good a rifle shot as would often be found. It made no difference to him whether or not a man was running, for part of his pistol practice was in shooting at a bottle swinging in the wind from the bough of a tree. Legend goes that Tumlinson killed his wife and then shot himself dead, taking many secrets with him. He was bad.

Sam Bass was a noted outlaw and killer in West Texas, accustomed to ride into town and to take charge of things when he pleased. He had many thefts and robberies to his credit, and not a few murders. His finish was one not infrequent in that country. The citizens got wind of his coming one day, just before he rode into Round Rock for a little raid. The