Morco and Sterling left, and Thompson went back to Brennan’s saloon. There, he and Pierce discussed the recent altercation. Morco and Sterling suddenly appeared at the saloon’s doorway and bellowed, “Get your guns, you damned Texas sons of bitches!” Morco had either one or two six-shooters (accounts differ), while Sterling was armed with a shotgun.

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Unable to borrow a gun in Breenan’s saloon, Thompson ran around the back of the buildings to Jake News’ saloon, where he had parked his own guns. Thompson picked up his two Colts and a 16-shot Winchester rifle, then headed to the train tracks, where hopefully wild shots would not wound innocent people. Billy Thompson, carrying a handsome $150 breechloading, double-barreled English shotgun that Pierce had given to Ben, followed his older brother. Still sloshed from too much raw whiskey, Billy ran with both hammers cocked. When he stumbled, one barrel discharged, and buckshot dug into the plank boardwalk at the feet of cattlemen Seth Mabry and Eugene Millett.

Ben Thompson took the shotgun away from his younger brother. As he did so, he heard Mabry or Millett shout: “Look out, Ben! Those fellows are after you!” Ben handed the shotgun back to Billy and took up a position on the railroad tracks. He egged on his enemies by shouting: “All right, you Texas murdering sons of bitches, get your guns!

If you want a fight, here we are!” At that moment, Marshal Norton joined Morco and Sterling, but none of the trio was eager to meet an armed Ben Thompson.

Sheriff Cap Whitney arrived on the run. Norton told the sheriff that he was going to arrest the Thompson brothers. Whitney stopped him, warning: “They’ll shoot you, Jack. I’ll go. They won’t harm me. ” He was right. Both Ben and Billy held their fire as the sheriff approached. Whitney told Ben that the whole thing was a mistake, adding, “Let’s not have any trouble.”

Ben replied that he was not looking for trouble but that he would defend himself and his kid brother if Morco wanted a fight. But then Ben suggested that the sheriff have a drink with Billy and himself, so that things could cool down. The older Thompson said he would have Billy put away the shotgun. Then Fate (damn her!) intervened, to arrange a scenario that uncannily resembled the incident in Abilene when Hickok, after shooting Ben’s old saloon partner Coe, accidentally killed his own friend, private policeman Mike Williams.

As the Thompson brothers entered the saloon with Sheriff Whitney, Bill Langford, a Texas pal, yelled a warning, “Ben, here comes Morco!” Turning, Thompson saw pistol-packing Happy Jack running toward him. Ben jumped into the alley between Brennan’s and a general store. The sheriff called out to Morco: “Stop! What’s the meaning of this?”

Morco had second thoughts about charging his formidable foe. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked the sheriff as he dove for the saloon door. Ben snapped off a hurried shot with the Winchester, but the rifle ball missed Happy Jack and buried itself either in the door frame or an outside post that supported the second-floor veranda. In his classic book Triggernometry, historian Eugene Cunningham called it the poorest shot of Thompson’s career.

Now it was Billy’s turn to get into the action. Still unsteady with liquor, the younger Thompson rushed out and fired just as the sheriff turned to him and said: “Don’t shoot, Billy! It’s Whitney.” The sheriff was too late. Buckshot tore into one arm and shoulder and penetrated his chest, causing a lung to collapse. (Local doctors could do little for him; neither could the post surgeon from Fort Harker. Whitney would die from his wounds three days later.)

As Whitney staggered and fell, Ben shouted: “My God, Billy! Look what you’ve done. You’ve shot our best friend.” In the ensuring confusion, Ben went to his room in the Grand Central Hotel, where he stuffed his pockets with shells and traded his Winchester for a shotgun. Cradling it, he paraded back and forth on the hotel’s famed paved sidewalk, like an Army sentinel, holding the whole town in check until his brother could vamoose.

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