"Jack Harris! What are you doing with that shotgun, you damned S. O. B.?"

           "Kiss my ass, you damned S. O. B.!"

Ben Thompson pulled his six-shooter from his hip pocket and fired through the slatted swinging doors of the saloon. The ball cut along the wall and hit Harris near his heart. He reeled, turned, and started up the stairs as a second shot exploded through the door. He made it to the top of the stairway and collapsed, still holding his shotgun.

Twenty minutes later they brought Harris down on a litter and took him to his house on Soledad Street three blocks away. Dr. Thomas Chew attended him, and heard Jack's statement, "He took advantage of me and shot me from the dark."

Joe Foster asked Harris if he was suffering and heard the weak reply, "Yes. He has got me." A few minutes later he died.
     Time: The evening of July 11, 1882.
     Place: The Vaudeville Theatre on San Antonio's Main Plaza.
     Dialogue: From testimony at the trial of Ben Thompson.

This shooting, one hundred years ago this month, was the culmination of a feud between Ben Thompson, city marshal of Austin, and Jack Harris, owner of the Vaudeville Theatre--men who had at one time been good friends and fought together in the Civil War. And this was not the final episode. Two years later Ben Thompson was gunned down inside this same theater, ending a notorious career of gunslinging on both sides of the law.

The story has many points of dispute. It was told over and over, and who can say now whose version is true? The deaths are the surest facts. But much of the tale can be pieced together from eyewitness accounts (though they are contradictory), published research, and documents.

Jack Harris was born in Connecticut in 1833 or 1834. He ran away from home when he was twelve and went to sea. Ten years later he was a member of the Nicaragua Expedition of filibuster William Walker. During one battle Harris was captured and was in front of a firing squad when rescued by Walker.

Harris turned up next in Texas where he joined a scouting party for the army, then made his way to San Antonio about 1860 and joined the police force. When the Civil War started, Harris enlisted in the Second Texas Cavalry and served in New Mexico, Texas, and Louisiana. It is likely that Thompson and Harris first met during the war and served together for a time.

The only specific story about Harris from this period concerns the capture of a Federal schooner, the Harriet Lane. He and Thompson were probably both in the five-member boarding party which took over the ship and locked the crew below. The "Rebs" spent the night eating and drinking up the ship's whiskey supplies. Next morning, the vessel and its crew were turned over to the Confederate authorities at Galveston.

After the war, Harris returned to San Antonio and rejoined the police force. Texas was in turmoil under the harsh yoke of Reconstruction. The Republican Party controlled, through carpetbaggers and Yankee sympathizers, and the majority--who had supported the South--were made to suffer. The economy was slow to recover. Men who had been uprooted by the war and had learned to fight were restless. It was the heyday of the cowboy before barbed wire and railroads began to narrow his range. Lawlessness was more the rule than the exception.

About 1868, Harris and a police captain named Peneloza bought a saloon on Market Street near Soledad. Four years later Harris sold out and established a new saloon at the corner of Soledad and West Commerce on Main Plaza (where the old San Antonio Savings building is now being remodeled--as of this writing in 1982). First known as the Jack Harris Bar and Billiard Room, by 1874 its name was the Jack Harris Vaudeville Theatre and Saloon.

During these years, Harris was more than a policeman/saloon keeper. He was becoming one of the most powerful men in the city. Many of the elected officials were obligated to him. He never held office himself nor owned property (the Theatre building was leased and his home was rented rooms in a house on Soledad Street), but little went on that he did not have a part in--whether it was business transactions, gambling, law enforcement, or what was known as "the sporting community." Somehow he managed to be involved in it all and friendly with everyone--except Ben Thompson.

The lives of the two men bore some similarity, as products of the same era, but also some solid differences. Jack, who was eight or ten years older than Ben, was a natural politician. Ben dealt in bullets. One account says he killed twenty-eight men, but if you add up all the corpses littering the stories told about his exploits it would seem to be even more.

Thompson was born in 1842 in Knottingly, England (or in 1844 in Nova Scotia, depending on what you read). The family moved to Austin when Ben and his brother Billy were small boys. As a teenager Ben was a printer's devil, but soon he became an expert gambler--and gunslinger. During the war he served under Colonel John R. Taylor in New Mexico, with Sibley's Brigade and with General Kirby Smith in Louisiana. After the battle of Sabine Cross Roads he was promoted to captain. The pattern of his life was beginning to show. He was alternately commended for bravery in military action and thrown into prison for gun brawls over gambling games. For most of his life Thompson was under a charge of murder somewhere, but his deference to the law and his deft ability to justify his actions after he dutifully turned himself in almost always won his acquittal.

After the war, Thompson was one of the many Confederate soldiers who went to Mexico seeking further adventure. He fought in the army of Maximillian as a captain and even had an audience with the Emperor.

The next years were a series of peripatetic episodes for Ben from Laredo to Kansas, and New Orleans to Colorado. He won a saloon in a poker game in Bryan, ran the Bull's Head Saloon in Abilene while Wild Bill Hickock was marshal there, served two years in Huntsville Penitentiary, guarded a construction crew on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe, ran another saloon in Ellsworth until his brother accidentally shot the sheriff and Ben was jailed briefly by Marshal Wyatt Earp. When he wasn't in trouble himself he was getting brother Billy out of trouble.

He also returned often to Austin to visit his mother and later his wife and children. From time to time he would establish gambling rooms in Austin, and during one of these stints he took under his wing a young printer's apprentice named Billy Simms.

Simms was to form a curious link between Thompson and Harris for the rest of their lives, and was involved in the shooting of both men. He was diverted from printing to gambling by Thompson who staked the youngster to his first monte game, and thereafter employed him at the Iron Front Saloon on Congress Avenue. Simms had a teenager's worship of the heroic Thompson and seems to have continued to respect and admire the man in spite of the events that followed.

It is not clear why Simms left Austin for San Antonio to work for Harris. Some say Thompson was jealous of Billy's growing popularity and forced him out. Others believe it was Thompson's advice to further Simms' career and improve his fortunes. Austin then was a small town while San Antonio was booming. With the arrival of the railroad in 1877, the Alamo City became the leading horse, mule, and livestock market in Texas. Its population was approaching 20,000, it was wide open for gambling of all sorts--cards, horse-racing, or cockfights--and Jack Harris ran the most famous of the many saloons and controlled all the rest. It was a step up for Simms, and it would be in character for Thompson to help his protege broaden his horizons.

Besides, Thompson was changing direction again. In 1879 he ran for city marshal of Austin but lost to the incumbent by 430 votes out of 1,918. Disappointed, he did a tour of Indian fighting with the Texas Rangers and came home with more tales of heroism from the Pecos to the Canadian. In 1881 he ran for the office again and this time was elected.

No one seemed to be lukewarm about Ben Thompson. He had tremendous popularity. No one doubted his fearlessness, his steady aim and nerves of iron. He dressed with sartorial splendor in top hat and fine suits when not in uniform, and had a polite manner and a hearty sense of humor--when sober. There are no tales of dalliance with females or adventures in brothels in his history--only love for his mother and faithfulness to his wife. The first man he ever killed was in a duel in New Orleans when the teenaged Ben was defending a woman he scarcely knew. Partisans said that an unarmed man was always safe in his company and that the men he killed were without exception men who had tried to kill him.

Yet not all Texans approved of him. Some said he maintained his status by the fear of his deadly gun. When he drank, his temper grew touchy and his sense of humor dangerously capricious. Texas Ranger Captain Lee Hall especially despised the man and said in disgust that Austin should be called "Thompsonville" for the misplaced adulation he received. Bat Masterson, who knew him in Abilene, called Thompson the most dangerous man with a gun among all the bad men he knew.

San Antonio at the beginning of the 1880s, as described by Ted Fehrenbach, was "a city only by political definition and optimistic American exaggeration." There was no real separation of business and residential areas, and activity centered around a series of unpaved plazas which were alternately dusty or muddy. There were rank smells from the open sewers, outhouses, manure, fly-crusted beeves in the open butcher shops, food vendor stalls, and a general unwashed multitude. People walking past the store fronts were often annoyed by the ropes stretched across their path. Cowmen had a bad habit of tying a long rope to their horses and taking the end into the store with them to be sure of the animal's presence on their return.

Military Plaza held the center of city and county government and the tables of the famous Chili Queens. Main Plaza thrived on saloons and small businesses. Old San Fernando Cathedral separated the two as an island of sanctuary in the midst of the riot.

A third of the population was foreign-born, with a large German and Alsatian contingent. There were a few mule-drawn streetcars, the electric company had just been chartered, and the first telephone exchange opened in 1881.

Life in the plazas was as active at night as during the day. Tourist season lasted all year round for the soldiers and cattlemen who drifted in and out of town. Saloons and brothels provided girls for dancing or bedding, with plenty of gunshops, gambling tables, and rotgut whiskey to keep it all going. The "variety theaters" each had their own band, which would parade down the street to attract a following, then play in front of the theater until the show started.

Jack Harris' establishment was the most popular in town. There were gasoline torches over the entrance and the band blared and drummed furiously on the balcony above to get up a crowd by curtain time. The ground floor on the corner extending back along Soledad was occupied by Simm Hart's cigar store. On the second floor was the 101 Club, which was Harris' gambling room. A stairway led up to the club from Soledad Street behind Hart's store. The Vaudeville Theatre was adjacent, facing on the plaza, with a door through from the second floor "drinking balcony" to the game room.

Across the front of the theater building was a hall about four feet wide, separated from the street by two sets of slatted, swinging doors. A stairway on the right led to the balcony and boxes. Through a matching set of inside doors was the saloon with its big crescent-shaped bar. The ticket office was by the stairs, and entrance to the lower floor of the theater was past the bar.

A typical program would begin with a chorus line of dancing girls. Then a soulful soubrette crooned sentimental ditties which made strong men cry in their beer and throw half-dollars on the stage. There was usually a minstrel act, perhaps a pair of Irish comedians doing slapstick, jugglers or club swingers and contortion teams, a song-and-dance man, Dutch yodelers and wooden shoe dancers, a black-faced banjoist, and occasionally a skating or bicycle act.

As the show ended, the chairs on the main floor were hastily removed, and Barney Mitchell, the "floor man," shouted, "Get your partners. Let 'er go, professor." The orchestra hit a rhythmic tune and the dancing began, with frequent trips to the bar for refreshment. For the more serious types on the horseshoe balcony, girls in short skirts brought drinks to the tables, and it was only a step into the gambling room if the wagering urge hit.

The location came to be called "Fatal Corner" for all the deaths centered there--as many caused by love as hate. More than one lovestruck cowboy spurned by a dancing girl left a suicide note full of jealousy and passion. Sometimes it was the girl who did herself in for love of a traveling man who moved on without her. After the shootings of Harris, Thompson, King Fisher, and Joe Foster, the appellation was a natural.

The Vaudeville entertained many infamous visitors. There was Billy the Kid and Sam Bass, Kid Curry and Butch Cassidy, Judge Roy Bean and John Wesley Hardin. Frank and Jesse James spent a season in town, splurging their spoils at the theater and club.

According to Frank Bushick's Glamorous Days in Old San Antonio, "the property was the principal corner of the town. It had been occupied since 1706 when the land was granted by the King of Spain to the Arocha family. From the Arochas it passed to the family of Thad Smith. Jack Harris leased it from Sarah B. Smith and Francisco Ximenes, and it was later purchased by the National Bank of Commerce."

The old two-story building was one of the first erected in the city. It burned in 1886 and for a time the site was occupied by the Elite Restaurant and Hotel. The restaurant was accorded by many the best in Texas, and the hotel featured names of states rather than room numbers. Bushick says, "A swell stranger was generally assigned to 'New York' or 'Massachusetts' and the rubes were sent up to 'Arkansas' or 'Oklahoma.' The soused guests were put away in old 'Kentucky.'"

So to this famous site in 1880 came Ben Thompson of Austin for a bit of gambling among old friends. There are, of course, several versions of the incident that followed, but all agree that Harris was not present. Evidently Ben lost heavily and drank in proportion, with growing wonder if the game was honest. The dealer was Joe Foster, close friend and employee of Harris.

Ben was finally to the extremity of putting up some jewelry--probably a watch with diamonds in the fob--as security so he could continue playing. Ill-feeling remained on both sides when the game was over. Thompson always insisted Foster had cheated, which Harris resented. And there were charges that Ben had over-inflated the value of the jewelry while betting it and undervalued it when redeeming it, wielding his guns to enforce his point and leaving the "house" in the hole.

Harris told more than one man that Ben Thompson was no longer welcome in his saloon, and the stories were quickly spread back to Austin to Ben's ears. He issued counter threats about coming back to San Antonio to clean out the Vaudeville, and his words carried loud and clear eighty miles south. For all his helling around, Ben's puritan streak was strong. His enmity against Harris now included charges that Jack "lived off the produce of whores" and his references to the saloon and theater were to "that whorehouse."

In 1881 the Legislature made an excursion to Laredo, probably to celebrate the railroad line just opened to that border town. Ben went along, stopping in San Antonio on his way back. He ran into Jack in the Green Front Saloon and some remarks were exchanged as Jack made it clear his old friend had better not come to the Vaudeville, and Ben told him what he was going to do about it. It was the following summer before he did it, presumably due to the pressure of his new job as city marshal and ex officio police chief of the capital city.

On July 11, 1882, Ben Thompson set out for San Antonio with a dual purpose. He had received word that a criminal with a $1,000 reward on his head might be in Alamotown, so he decided to combine the business trip with fulfillment of a promise to his two children who had been begging to visit friends in San Antonio. When they arrived, Ben left the children with the friends and began casing the town for the felon.

Whether he went to the Vaudeville looking for Harris or for the wanted man is a moot question. The theater was a logical place to look for a man on the run--and everyone in town was telling Ben about Jack's latest threats. However, on his first sortie into the saloon, there seems to have been no inquiry for the missing man. Jack was not there, and Ben told Barney Mitchell, the barkeep, to tell Joe Foster and Jack Harris he was going to come back and "close this damned whorehouse."

Thompson wandered around town. The owner of a gunstore on Main Street, who had had a drink with him about 2:00 p.m., sold him some cartridges about six o'clock--five centerfire .44 Winchester shells which would fit a Colt pistol for 10 cents. It was 6:30 when he got back to the Vaudeville, stopping to talk to men along the way.

Billy Simms met him on the street and tried to talk him out of his obvious intention, and hurried on to warn Harris. Ben stopped to talk to policeman Jacob Rips, then to Leon Rouvant, a jeweler whose store was on Main Plaza. Rouvant and Thompson went in the saloon together and had a drink, then Thompson left.

Simms had gone upstairs, buckled on his guns, and gone to get Harris. Jack evidently entered through the back door on Soledad and came down the saloon stairs just after Ben left. He went to the ticket office and got a shotgun and took up a position inside the slatted door near the stairs. By now it was dusk and the lights were lit inside. The man at the lunch counter in the saloon said Harris must have stood there about ten minutes, for a customer was served lunch in the interim.

Thompson walked cautiously toward the door of the saloon and paused to let two ladies pass along the sidewalk. He spied Harris inside. The shouted remarks were exchanged. Before Harris could even raise his shotgun, the bullet hit him and he fell.

Fearing pursuit, Thompson trotted down the street and made his way by back routes to the Menger Hotel, and next day turned himself in to Sheriff T. P. McCall and Police Captain Phil Shardien. He was held in the City Hall--the structure in Military Plaza known as "Bat Cave"--for six months while the citizens reviewed the story from every angle and the newspapers had a field day.

The San Antonio Light called it "a disgrace to our city and to the state of Texas," and cast aspersions on a city which would have a desperado such as Thompson for its marshal. There was also a strong suggestion that better police efficiency in San Antonio could have prevented the killing. The death of Jack Harris was called "a very serious loss to the gambling fraternity" and the strong control he exercised on it "and its kindred occupations." He was commended for "his liberality, shrewdness, and tact [that] made him the real leader of the Democratic party. . . Jack held his influence unimpaired for years, and at the time of his death was looked up to by the leading citizens. He never intruded his opinion upon the party, never created any contests unnecessarily, never asked for anything himself, but he dictated in a very quiet way who should receive the favor of the party. Thus he obtained for his fraternity almost an immunity from the law. There is no city officer, and hardly a county officer, that does not owe his office to this man's influence and sagacity, from the mayor of the city down, and from county judge to the court bailiffs."

The Austin Statesman was raging on the other side of the fence, denouncing Harris and praising Thompson as a crusader. Newspapers across the state editorialized on one side or the other. A righteous element of San Antonians tended to feel the town was better off without Jack Harris, and Thompson's lawyers played toward these citizens. The grand jury returned an indictment on September 6 and the defense was granted a continuance until January to prepare its case for the trial. A change of venue was considered, but as anger cooled and sentiment began to change in Thompson's favor, he opted for trial in San Antonio. After five days of testimony, the jury brought in a verdict of not guilty on January 20, 1883.

There was a noisy demonstration by Thompson's friends in the courtroom, and the reception on his return to Austin was so clamorous it provoked the displeasure of the Statesman as highly inappropriate. The citizens took the horses from his carriage at the station and pulled him up Congress Avenue behind a brass band, accompanied by the leading citizens, state and local officials, while people on the sidewalks and others leaning out windows waved hats, canes, and handkerchiefs. It was a bit much for a gunslinger.

In the aftermath, Ben couldn't seem to get back into stride. He resumed his duties as marshal but the six months in jail had made a difference. His old resiliency was lacking and a restlessness persisted. Resigning his job, he took an extended trip with a friend to Laredo, along the Rio Grande to the coast, then over to New Orleans. On his return he opened a new gambling saloon which his fame made an immediate success, but it did not revive his spirits. The illness and death of his mother added to his depression.

Friends noticed the change. His drinking was heavier and more frequent, he was irritable and easily offended. Instead of the courteous, affable man he had been, Thompson was now arrogant and overbearing. Suffering from insomnia, he spent most nights roaming the town, shooting off his pistol with a perverted sense of humor. The feud with Harris was extended by statements from Joe Foster that Thompson had better not ever come back to the Vaudeville. Billy Simms was executor of Harris' estate and was running the saloon in partnership with Foster. In both cities there was the feeling that a tension held which would be broken only by more gunfire.

John "King" Fisher became the innocent victim of the situation. Fisher was another of those young men who had started on the wrong side of the law and reformed. In his case the change was said to be for the love of a virtuous woman, and he had become acting sheriff of Uvalde County and a staunch family man. In his earlier days, King Fisher had been jailed in San Antonio by Texas Rangers, and Joe Foster had taken him meals in his cell in Bat Cave, befriending the young man in many ways. Fisher had also known Thompson for some time, and after an incident when they nearly came to the draw of pistols they had settled their dispute and become friends.

On March 11, 1884, King Fisher traveled to Austin on business for Uvalde County and for some reason dropped in on Ben Thompson. They passed several hours talking and drinking. Their decision to go to San Antonio is still a puzzle. Ben may have planned to go only as far as the train crossing fifteen miles out and return to Austin. But he continued to drink on the train, causing a ruckus with porters and passengers, while Fisher restrained him as much as possible. One theory has it that Fisher was trying to mend the feud and was planning to get Thompson, Foster, and Simms together to bury the hatchet.

When the two men arrived in San Antonio it was early evening. They strolled along Commerce Street, then swung over to Houston and St. Mary's to the Turner Hall Opera House. Ada Gray was playing in "Lady Audley's Secret." Ben had seen it the night before in Austin and wanted to see it again. They visited the bar at intervals during the performance. Leaving before the last curtain, they stopped at Gallagher's Saloon, then took a hack to the Vaudeville. Jacobo Santos Coy, and Constable Alfredo Casanova were in the theater and on the watch.

About eleven o'clock, Thompson and Fisher arrived. Billy Simms greeted the visitors and everyone seemed friendly. They had a drink at the bar, then went upstairs to the balcony and sat at a table--Simms, Thompson, and Fisher, with Jacobo Coy close by. Joe Foster was sitting at the front of the balcony, watching the stage show below. According to Albert Curtis in Fabulous San Antonio, "the Lillian Russell soubrettes, dressed in glittering green and red Chinese costumes, were executing an exotic oriental dance, while from the orchestra the weird strains of chopstick music seemed destined to provide a macabre setting for the impending tragedy."

There was calm conversation at first, then someone mentioned the death of Jack Harris and the tone changed. Ben asked for Joe Foster, and when he stepped back to their table offered to shake hands with him. Foster quietly refused. Ben's temper flared. Coy testified that Ben slapped Foster's face with his left hand and pulled his gun with his right. Coy grabbed for the gun, caught the barrel, and hung on as Ben pulled the trigger several times. One of these shots may have caused the wound in Foster's leg. All agreed that Fisher's gun never left its holster, though he was as quick a draw as Thompson. Simms drew his guns and may have fired. Joe Foster had a gun out also. Coy received a wound in the hip of which he was not even conscious until later.

Thompson, Fisher, and Coy all went down together, the first two dead by the time they hit the floor. There is not even agreement as to how many bullets were in the bodies. Curtis quotes the medical testimony that Thompson was shot twice and the holes "could have been covered with a silver half-dollar," but all other accounts claim that Thompson's body took eight bullets, five of them in the head. The autopsy performed in Austin supported the conclusion that the shots, some of which were from a Winchester rifle and others from a .44 caliber pistol, had been fired from above and the left while Thompson was standing; and that there must have been several assailants since any one of the bullets to the head would have dropped him instantly. Fisher was said to have been shot thirteen times.

King Fisher's body lay beside Thompson with his arm across Ben's chest. Austinites saw it as Fisher's last attempt to protect his friend. San Antonians thought it was an effort to protect Joe Foster from Ben's gun because Foster was a more worthy man to die for than was Thompson.

The cursory hearing and prompt verdict of the coroner's jury left many questions in the public's mind. Joe Foster and Jacobo Coy were declared to have fired the fatal shots in self-defense and no indictments were brought.

The circumstances attracted newspaper coverage throughout Texas and across the nation. The Daily Capital in Austin, on March 15, estimated that at least 10,000 columns of space had already been devoted to the event, including a front-page story in the New York Times. Texas papers editorialized on both sides and every angle.

Joe Foster's leg was amputated above the knee, and he lingered only a few days before dying. The wound in Jacobo Coy's hip partially crippled him. Billy Simms provided financial assistance until Coy's death in 1907.

Charges of assassination were made by all the friends of Thompson and Fisher but nothing was ever proved. Frank Bushick, in his book published in 1934, provides what is as near the final word as we are likely to get. Bushick was editor of the San Antonio Express from 1892 to 1906, and city tax commissioner for many years. He was told by "sporting men in the know" that the real slayers were "three hangers-on at the theater, a bartender named McLaughlin, Canada Bill, a gambler, and an English Jew variety performer named Harry Tremaine." These men were posted in a box overlooking the balcony and told to fire if there was trouble. They all left town immediately after the shooting.

Jacobo Coy's testimony included the statement, "The parties who were shooting were behind us"--and the Justice let it go without question. Simms said, "After the first fire another pistol was drawn, and just as this pistol was drawn Fisher said: 'Don't you draw that, you S.O.B.'" But when a juror asked who drew this pistol, Simms declined to answer and the Justice sustained his objection.

Bushick's analysis seems plausible: "The men Thompson was after knew of his purpose. His audacity this time ran counter to his generalship. They knew he was coming. They were up against the most expert shot and dangerous man in the country. In such a desperate situation they wisely arranged to defend themselves with all the advantage they could devise." And the "sporting community" and local officials stuck together to terminate the inquiry as expeditiously as possible.

It is only with later perspective that these episodes can be seen as the closing events of an era. The character of San Antonio did not change abruptly, but the day of the gunslinger and the shoot-out was fading. The continuing migration to Texas of solid, hardworking, ambitious family men would sober the structure of society. The coming of material improvements would alter the way of life, and the next generation would find new directions and more subtle ways of settling differences.

But stand at Fatal Corner some evening, about thirty feet back along Commerce Street from Soledad. You are at the east entrance of the Vaudeville Theatre and you are in the line of fire between Thompson and Harris, and Ben is saying politely, "Step aside, please. There's going to be trouble here."

Then the exchange of loud challenges, and the shots ring out. . .

If you listen closely, perhaps you will hear the shots--still echoing a hundred years later, as the past still exists in the present.

Story copyrighted by Alice C.Geron and Gary W. Yantis, 1982 and 1998