A cowboy detective

The Wentz Kidnapping Case—Eight Months among the Moonshiners of Kentucky and Virginia.

My next operation was an educator, as I was thrown among a strange class of people who think nothing of taking human life.

It was about the middle of November, 1903, when manager of the Western Division, Mr. Jas. McCartney, called me into his private office to inform me that I had been selected for an operation after every agency office in the United States had been scoured for a suitable operative to do the work. He then gave me an outline of the operation which was to be conducted through the Philadelphia office, our client being Millionaire Dr. Wentz of Philadelphia, Pa., whose young son Edward Wentz had lately been kidnapped in the mountains of Virginia and was supposed to be held a prisoner in Kentucky for a ransom, although it was feared that the young man had been taken to Kentucky and murdered for revenge.

Mr. McCartney informed me that it was a very dangerous operation and asked if I were willing to undertake it. Of course I replied yes, as I was itching to have some new experiences and to see new country. Then Asst. Supt. “Hank” Geary gave me the large pile of correspondence which had taken place between the different offices on the subject to read over.

Mr. McCartney’s letter to the head officials of the New York office caused my head to expand several inches, for he gave me a great “send-off,” and the replies to this letter were equally flattering. I was thought to be the only man in the agency who could go among the “moonshiners” of the Kentucky mountains and stay there in spite of danger and threats.

On short notice I boarded a train on the U. P. Ry. for Chicago, Ill. Arriving in the smoky city by the lake, I called at our agency office to see the “boys,” including Mr. W. L. Dickenson, Gen. Supt. F. V. Taylor and Supt. Schaumwort.

At night Charlie S. saw me off on the Cannon Ball train for Buffalo, New York, by way of Detroit, Mich., and through Canada to Niagara Falls.

From the train I had a fair view of Niagara Falls and other sights. In Buffalo, New York, I laid over one night. I enjoyed the ride from Buffalo to Philadelphia, as everything seemed different from “out west.”

In Philadelphia I found the cleanest, most good-natured city that I had ever been in, but holy smoke, to use a cowboy phrase, she is slow. Even the girls and the “hurry-up wagon” are not so swift as in other cities. And I found that same graveyard slowness prevailing in our office, from the superintendent down to the office boy.

I turned myself over to the superintendent, Mr. A.M. Pierce, and he turned me over to Asst. Supt. E. E. Eslin, who had charge of the Dr. Wentz kidnapping operation.

When not busy working in the office to familiarize myself with the operation, I was taking in the sights of the city, the most interesting being the building where the Declaration of Independence was signed; also the art galleries were interesting to me.

Chief Clerk Dailey kindly acted as pilot in showing me the sights of the city.

After spending a week in the city of Brotherly Love, I was called to New York City by Mr. Roydel L. Dickenson, who wanted to consult with me about the Dr. Wentz operation. Of course, this just suited me as I wanted to see that city of sky-scrapers.

The day was spent with Mr. Dickenson, he taking me out to lunch with himself and Gen. Manager Mr. Geo. E. Langston.

In advising me about my future work in Kentucky and Virginia, Mr. Dickenson said I was taking my life into my own hands and that he didn’t expect to see me come out of those mountains alive. He said I had no idea of what kind of people inhabited those mountains; that they are a different class from those of Texas and the west; that they think nothing of shooting a man in the back on the least provocation; that they are not the kind of men who will fight it out face to face with an opponent; that the records of the Dickenson agency since 1850 prove this. Therefore, in a serious manner Mr. Dickenson advised me to expect death at any moment. He said it was almost impossible to get an operative located in those mountains, from the fact that strangers do not go in there unless they have business, and in that case they are known by the merchants or have letters to some one there stating the nature of their mission.

He said the main object was to find Edward Wentz if still alive and held a prisoner, so as to get soldiers in there and clean out the country, or if dead, to recover the body. He thought it would be almost out of the question to convict any one in the courts of that country owing to the fact that the Virginia Coal & Iron Co. of which Dr. Wentz is president, had many enemies among the ignorant and lawless element, and because the people are all mixed up and related to each other, so that it is difficult to get an unbiased jury. He felt sure that I wouldn’t be in there away from the railroad twenty-four hours before they would have me “spotted” as a detective in the revenue service, to run down “moonshiners,” or on the hunt for young Wentz, and in that case I would have to use my own judgment as to whether to get out of the country or stand my ground. He insisted that I must not feel backward about leaving the moment that I realized my life to be in immediate danger. But I told him that my stubborn phrenology bump wouldn’t allow me to leave after I once got in there.

I was instructed to leave the number of my watch, a description of my pocketknife, key ring, pistol and the prominent marks on my body, including the fillings in my teeth, so that my body in case of death could be identified. I sent these to the Philadelphia office after arriving on the ground, as I had received a reminder to do so from Asst. Supt. Eslin, through the mail.

Before parting with Mr. Dickenson he tried to get me to promise that I would, after finishing this operation, accept the position of assistant superintendent in one of the western offices. It caused a smile when I told him that I didn’t consider there was much honor in being an assistant superintendent. He replied that it was necessary to start as an assistant so as to learn the office work, before becoming a superintendent. He cited the case of my friend W. O. Sayles becoming superintendent soon after being made an assistant, and he said it was through his request that I had been offered the promotion, ahead of Sayles. I finally told him that the position of operative suited me.

During the day I met Mr. Jay Cornbush, manager of the Eastern Division, and Supt. C. D. Hornybill, also young Alman Dickenson and the many assistant superintendents.

It was agreed by Mr. Dickenson that I take an early morning train back to Philadelphia, and that when my operation was finished I could come back and see the sights of New York City. So bidding Mr. Dickenson goodby, he turned me over to operative G. J. H. who had instructions to take me to dinner or to one of the theaters or anywhere else that I might want to go, at the agency’s expense.

A pleasant evening was spent, and after midnight a ferryboat landed me in “Jersey” where a train was boarded for the slow City of Brotherly Love.

Soon after my return to Philadelphia I started for Winchester, Kentucky, with about $400.00 in my pocket and a small trunk containing my cowboy boots, hat, etc. It had been decided best that I go into Letcher County, Kentucky, which borders on Wise County, Virginia, where Edward Wentz was kidnapped, by way of Jackson, in Brethitt county, Kentucky, as if I left the railroad in Wise county, Virginia, where the trouble occurred I would be suspected at once.

In the little city of Winchester I put up with Mr. Hays, who ran a hotel. Here I rigged out in my old cowboy clothes and boarded a branch train for Jackson, the trunk with my good clothes being left with Mr. Hays until further orders. Of course Hays didn’t know where I was headed for.

I found Jackson to be a drunken tough town. The militia were just pulling out after having been there for a long time, on account of the trouble over the assassination of lawyer Marcum, which had ended in many killings.

The next day after my arrival in Jackson, I saw something which convinced me that the human race is slightly mixed with the pig family of animals. An old man on a mule started out of town with two jugs of whisky tied across the back part of his saddle. He hadn’t gone but half a block when the string broke and the jugs fell to the ground and broke. The street was quite muddy and the whiskey lay in pools on the ground. The old man got down on his knees and hands and began to drink from the fiery pools. Soon others came and followed suit. They put me in mind of a drove of human swine.

In Jackson I bought a mule and an old light spring wagon. Then it was two days before I could get the mule shod, as all blacksmiths in town were drunk. The mule stood at one shop all day while a pair of shoes were being fitted. In the meantime I was taking in the dives with a young man from Rock House Creek, up in the country where I was going. On returning to the shop to get Mr. Donkey I found that the smith had made a mistake and put the mule shoes onto a sleepy old grey horse tied to a tree outside the shop. The feet had been rasped down to fit the shoes. That night my mule got out of his stable and “hit” the road for “tall timber.” Next morning I followed his tracks into the mountains and found him shut up in a log stable down in a field. The woman and boy didn’t want to give him up until their lord and master came back from town, but he was taken back to town just the same, as I felt sure they were thieves.

Finally I got started for Whitesburg, the county seat of Letcher county, about 150 miles east.

The first day out I was compelled to wait an hour at a narrow bridge where several wagons had the road blocked, while the drivers were in a saloon near by drinking. I was told that this was a game the saloon man played every day to make business for his place, and that it often caused serious fights.

My route was up Lost Creek through mud up to the mule’s knees in places.

The road was in the bed of the creek most of the way, as the small patches of level land upon the banks were needed by the poverty-stricken people for farming purposes. Even the sides of steep mountains were used for crops. This applies to the whole mountain regions of Kentucky, as I found out later. I soon discovered my mistake in having started with a vehicle, but I supposed the country was unsettled in places so that I would have to camp out. On that account camp outfit and bedding had been brought along. The whole country is thickly settled, especially along the main roads and creeks. Some days the best I could do was twelve or fifteen miles, owing to the deep mud and large rocks in the bed of the creeks.

Before reaching Hazzard, the county seat of Perry county, I found a man by the name of Pat N., who was a brother to Ashford N., a “bad” man in Wise County, Virginia, who was suspected of having a hand in the kidnapping of Ed. Wentz, as he had been seen near the scene and as it was known that he was a bitter enemy of the Wentz brothers, Ed. and Dan, who had charge of the coal properties in that country. I put up with Pat N. until I had secured a letter of introduction to Ashford N. in Virginia.

Pat informed me that his brother “Ash” had spent three years in Texas, therefore I expressed a desire to meet him.

Pat N. kept a small saloon and store with about $50.00 worth of goods on hand. He had about eight children and I had to sleep with three of the boys. The whole family slept in one little room the size of a Utah chicken house. So with about eleven of us in one room, the purity of the air can be imagined. This is another kind of a bitter pill that a detective has to swallow.

On reaching Hazzard, which is on the Kentucky river, I found court in session, and the little burg was full of drunken men, though no saloons were allowed to run as it is a local option county.

I was advised in Hazzard by many not to undertake the trip alone over the mountains to Whitesburg, as the road was almost impassable for a vehicle, and the country inhabited by an ignorant and vicious people who had been known to murder travelers for their money and valuables.

After leaving Hazzard the road led up the Kentucky river for several miles east, then turned to the north up a rocky, muddy creek, and now my misery began. The higher up the creek we got the worse the road became, and the wilder and woollier the people appeared.

The water in the creek was frozen over, so that in following its bed the mule and rig would break through, causing the air to become impregnated with swear-words. Ten miles of this and “Donk” and I were ready for supper at one of the “shacks” called houses, along the road.

My patience had been tested between Jackson and Hazzard by the fool questions asked me by every man, woman and child met, but it was at the bursting point before reaching Whitesburg, for here even small boys carrying pistols or squirrel rifles would stop me in the road to ask fool questions. They all started out in the same strain: “Say mister, wha’r mought you be goin?” and “Say mister, what mought your name be?” A fool girl about eighteen years old who was wading in mud up to her ankles, got in the seat beside me before she asked any questions. I had invited her to ride to the little store two miles ahead, where she was going. After getting on the seat she turned her good-looking face towards me and said: “Do you live in these parts, mister?” I replied no, that I lived in Texas.

The blood could be seen rushing into her face after it got past the dirt around her neck. Most girls in these mountains keep the dirt washed from their faces, which leaves a dark ring around the neck. Some hide this ring by wearing a high collar, but it’s a safe two-to-one bet that it’s there just the same.

Here the frightened girl begged me to stop the mule and let her out, which I did, though I told her that she need have no fear just because I was from Texas.

The girl beat me to the store by a quarter of a mile. Then the dozen or more men, women and children at the store turned out on the road to see the wild man from Texas, and they wore me out asking fool questions.

This is the part of Kentucky where preachers dare not come on account of the men and boys getting drunk and shooting off their guns, and mouths, too.

In going over the mountain I had to hire two white men and a half-breed negro to help me, as the road was blocked with ice so that we had to climb the side of a steep hill. Two men had to hold the vehicle up to keep it from tumbling over the mountain cliff, while the other man and myself kept “Donk” on his feet, and here “Donk” proved himself sure-footed and a stayer.

Here a small settlement of half-breed negroes lived. A full-blood negro is a curiosity to the natives of these mountains of Kentucky, though they are plentiful in the coal mines over the line in Virginia.

On driving down to the Rock House Creek, which is noted for “moonshine” whisky and tough men, about night, I found everything in an uproar. Most of the people were drunk and on the warpath. A celebration had been held in the schoolhouse. The blood hadn’t begun to flow until nearly night, though the “moonshine” liquor had been flowing all day. The row started over a man cutting a mule’s tail off almost up to his ears. Several men were badly hurt, so it was said. The fight continued far into the night at the house where I had intended to stop, owing to it being a tough place. As a rule I selected the toughest places to put up at, but this night I was advised by two men not to stop at this house or I would be killed before morning, on account of being a stranger, and this house being the headquarters for the drunken gang. So I stopped on the adjoining farm.

Next day a severe snowstorm was raging, and about 3:00 P.M. a man who was on his way from Rock House to Whitesburg where he lived, gave me a couple of drinks out of his jug of “moonshine” whisky, which he had bought at a still. He gave me his name as Sol Holcomb, and invited me to come and put up with him in Whitesburg, as his wife sometimes kept private boarders. He described the house so that it could be found easily.

After dark I drove up to the log mansion owned by Sol Holcomb. Then I had another drink out of the same jug, but now the bottom had to be tipped high up in the air in order to squeeze a drink out of it.

At the supper table I told Mrs. Sol Holcomb, who tipped the scales at 250 pounds, and her pretty twenty year old daughter Lizzie, who weighed only an even hundred pounds—that Sol had saved my life by stopping me on the road in a blinding snowstorm to let me sample his liquor.

I didn’t tarry long in Whitesburg, but continued on up the Kentucky river, eighteen miles to Craftsville, where I had had some “fake” letters sent from Galveston, Texas, by my cousin, Miss Jeanette McKay.

In Philadelphia we had selected Craftsville post office as a good point for me to head for, as it was in the heart of the tough district where the Potter-Wright feud has been going on for years, until nearly all the male members of both parties had been killed.

On reaching Craftsville I was somewhat surprised, for I expected to find a little town or one store at least. There was nothing here but old widow Bee Craft’s house and farm, and the young wife of old lady Bee Craft’s son Tom was the “whole cheese” in handling Uncle Samuel’s mail. Once a week she would have to strain her nerves in going over about one dozen letters and a few dozen papers, mostly Fireside Companions from Portland, Maine. The mail sack would be dumped out on the floor and sorted over there. All mail addressed to Craftsville would be put in the garret until some one called for it.

The next day was Christmas eve, and “Nels” Craft, a son of the widow Bee Craft, came from his place half a mile below on the river, to find out who wanted to send for Xmas “moonshine,” as he was going to a still that day. Tom Craft and I both sent for a supply. That night we all, including the old lady and her adopted daughter Miss Lou, rode down to “Nels’” place to eat supper and drink “moonshine.” “Nels” and his brother-in-law, Tilden Wright, had returned from the still with the liquor.

On the way home after midnight Tom Craft made the air ring with his shouts and yelling. He was loaded with “moonshine” inside and out. Miss Lou rode behind me on “Donk” and helped to hold me on, as I was a little bit loaded myself, though my early training in Texas prevented me from yelling in the presence of ladies. The cowboy “Comanche yells” were almost choking me though, in their eagerness to escape, but by force of will-power they were held back.

Next morning was Christmas, and young Wiley Craft rode down from his father’s place half a mile above, to tell me that he had caught the fat ’possum for which I had offered a reward of fifty cents the day before.

On the previous day I had gone up to John Craft’s with Tom to see the pretty girl from Donkey, Virginia, who had just arrived with her father “Doc.” They were taking tintype photos and canvassing for a life insurance company in Detroit, Michigan. This seventeen-year-old girl, Emma, was certainly a “peach,” when it came to the bloom of youth and beauty painted on her cheeks.

In Philadelphia, Donkey, Va., had been given to me as the toughest little spot on earth, and a likely place to get some information about young Wentz. Therefore I concluded to fall in love with Emma, even though I was old enough to be her father, so as to have an excuse for visiting Donkey, Va.

The ’possum was part of the scheme. I returned with Wiley Craft to see Mr. ’possum and have Emma take his picture before I got on the outside of him, for Mrs. John Craft had agreed if one was caught, to cook him with sweet potatoes for my Christmas supper.

I found the opossum to be young and fat. His picture was “took” and he then went into the pot.

Miss Lou had gone up to John Craft’s early in the day with her sweetheart, Bennie, who had a bad case of lovesickness, to join the crowd of young folks who had congregated there.

After helping Mrs. Craft put the ’possum into the pot I went into the large front room to drink “moonshine” with “Doc,” John Craft and others, and to watch the young folks play a new kind of a kissing game.

A large number of couples would form a circle by holding each other’s hands. This circle of young men and women would revolve round and round until one of their number snapped his or her fingers at some one in the audience. Then the one snapped at would jump up and catch the snapper and by force kiss him or her. I noticed that the kissing was always on the cheek, and when Miss Lou snapped at me, while I was talking to “Doc” about “Donkey” town, I warned her not to do it again, if she did it would wind up in a western kiss which is generally planted where it will do the most good. I also told her that I was a little too old to get into their game, although this was a lie, as at that very moment I was dying to get into the game just long enough to kiss Emma once, and thereby lengthen my life about five years.

In passing, Lou snapped at me again, and the tussle began. I went at it in a systematic manner and when her head rested on my left arm and her face was turned up towards the ceiling, the kiss was planted on her lips where it did the most good, to one poor sinner at least. Then I had to get inside the ring and choose a girl from the circle. Of course Emma was the victim and it was soon over, as sweet things seldom last long, at least not long enough.

As Mrs. Bee Craft and Tom’s wife were getting up a fine turkey dinner, I had promised to be back there at noon. I felt sure of finding a drunken crowd there on my return, as they had begun to arrive before I left.

On getting “Donk” to start, Lou insisted on riding behind me in spite of the protests from her lover Bennie. I tried to persuade her to let Bennie take her home, as he had brought her, but she wouldn’t have it that way, so there was nothing for me to do but be “blooded” and take the chances of an assassin’s bullet later.

On reaching home the mule was put into the stable and fed, after Lou had been helped off at the front gate.

Loud swearing could be heard in the house, which showed that the “moonshine” was getting in its work.

On stepping onto the porch, Tilden Wright, one of the noted feudists whose father and older brothers had lately been killed by the Potter gang, came out of the dining room and met me face to face. With his right hand resting on the handle of the large pistol strapped to his waist, he said in an angry and insulting voice: “Say, Lloyd, how would you like to have your —— brains scattered all over this floor?”

I knew there was war in the air from the way Mrs. Tom Craft, who had followed Wright out of the dining room, looked. She was pale and trembling. Therefore my hand went up to my breast to the shirt front which was open, before answering. Then looking Wright in the eyes with a good-natured smile I said: “Why, Tilden, it wouldn’t feel very nice to have my brains scattered on the floor, and besides it would cause a lot of extra work to clean them up.”

Then I asked the cause of his anger and found it to be the Virginia girl, Emma, whom he said I was acting a fool over, when there were prettier girls in Kentucky than she; that his sister-in-law, Miss Victoria Craft, was a prettier girl than Emma. I asked him why he didn’t trot out Miss Victoria so I could get a look at her and decide the matter for myself. He replied: “Why damn it, you saw her last night at Nels’ party,” I told him he was mistaken as Victoria’s mother was sick so that she couldn’t attend the party at “Nels’.” He studied a moment and replied: “That’s so, her mother was sick last night. I’ll bring her up tomorrow and you’ll say she’s a prettier girl than Emma.”

Then Wright took his hand from the pistol and started staggering into the large front room where the gang were.

Had Wright pulled his pistol he would have been surprised when old Colts 45 came out from under my left arm where it was concealed in a “Wess Harding” shoulder scabbard. The day being warm, I was in my shirt sleeves, hence he could see no pistol and thought me unarmed. My shirt was kept unbuttoned from the collar down, in order that my hand could reach the pistol quickly. At nights I slept with it under my arm.

On going into the dining room I found a crowd of strangers eating at the table. Most of them were drunk and noisy, and eyed me with suspicion as the old lady seated me at a vacant place.

“Mose” Craft who owned a “moonshine” still, and who had run “moonshine” stills all his life, was at the table eating, while two men kept him in his seat as he wanted to go into the other room to renew the fight with “Nels” Craft, his cousin. “Nels” was being held by other men in the front room. Broken dishes and blood were scattered over the dining room floor. The fight had been a fierce one; and others besides the cousins had taken a hand. Pistols and knives had not been used owing to the efforts of the women folks and old man Joe Craft, who was quite sober and acted as peace-maker.

On finishing my dinner I concluded not to go into the front room where the drunken mob were, but to “hike” back to Emma and the ’possum and sweet ’taters.

I was just leading “Donk” out of the stable, which was a hundred yards from the residence at the foot of a mountain, when I heard Tilden Wright calling: “Lloyd, you —— where are you?” Then looking towards the house I saw Tilden Wright and “Mose” Craft searching for me. They staggered around back of the house and when out of sight I led the mule back of the stable and let down a rail fence. When inside the pasture the fence was put back in place. Then “Donk” was mounted and a run made up a small gulch, thence a short climb up the mountain side to a thicket of timber and brush. Here I dismounted and lay down to watch developments. I was high up above the house and could see Wright and Craft searching for me. When they searched the stable and found my mule gone, they began calling me all kinds of names. Then they began shooting down the timbered lane through which I was supposed to have gone. They then went to the house and I had a good laugh all by my lone self, at the way they had been fooled. Had they found me the chances are it would have ended in bloodshed, for later “Mose” Craft, who is a fine fellow when sober, apologized to me and said they had got it into their heads that I was a spy from the revenue office in search of “moonshiners,” hence he and Tilden trying to find me to raise a “racket.”

A climb over the mountain and the letting down of two more rail fences and the fording of the Kentucky river, brought me to John Craft’s where I joined the lively crowd and had my nerves quieted with a few more young kisses. This time one of John Craft’s daughters started the ball to rolling by “snapping” her fingers at me. She wanted no doubt, to try the experiment of a western scientific kiss.

During the middle of the afternoon, Joe Craft and four other men brought “Mose” Craft and his fighting “jag” up to our place so as to get him away from “Nels.” They had been fighting again.

Here I received some new lessons in human nature, which differed from anything which I had ever seen before.

The house was full of young ladies, and some who were not so young. “Mose” Craft stepped into the door and opened up with the most vulgar language that the human tongue is capable of uttering, and he topped it off with a vulgar song. In my native state, he would have been filled so full of lead by angry fathers, brothers, and sweethearts, that it would have required an extra team to have hauled his body to the graveyard. The girls and women all ran to the kitchen as soon as possible. Mrs. John Craft soon had “Mose” in bed and asleep.

Gee, but I did enjoy that ’possum and the sweet potatoes.

I returned to Mrs. Bee Craft’s late at night and found the old lady and Miss Lou sitting by the kitchen fireplace. The balance were in bed or had left for their homes.

Mrs. Bee Craft had drunk her share of the “moonshine,” hence she was in a talkative mood. She told me all about her oldest son, who is now married and living a peaceful life in another part of the state, having lived an outlaw life for years in these mountains, on account of killing revenue officers who were trying to stamp out “moonshining;” and of how her husband was burned to death while drunk in the house of two “bad” women.

In speaking of her enemies, the old lady used language which caused me to blush on account of Miss Lou, who was present. But Lou didn’t seem to mind it, so from that time on while in these mountains, I did not waste any more blushes.

Old Lady Bee Craft turned out to be, in my estimation the most honest and motherly woman in this mountain region. I had a chance to learn her true nature.

The next day Miss Victoria, Tilden Wright’s sister-in-law, came to the widow Bee Craft’s, and I took her and Lou up to John Craft’s and had their pictures “took.”

Miss Victoria was a nice, good-looking girl, but as a beauty she couldn’t travel in the same class with Miss Emma.

A couple of days later I bade the Crafts goodby for the time being, and started for Whitesburg in my spring wagon. Tom Craft advised me not to start as the river was frozen over at two of the bad crossings, and if the mule and rig broke through the ice I couldn’t get them back onto the ice, as the water was belly-deep to a horse. In the eighteen miles to Whitesburg the river had to be crossed about a dozen times. I thanked Tom for his advice, but told him that out west we never crossed a bridge till we got to it, and then if the bridge was gone, we crossed anyway.

At one of the crossings my mule and wagon broke through in deep water, and I scared “Donk” by yelling and whipping so that he split the ice wide open. He would make a jump up on the ice, and then when it broke through, he would try, try again. Finally he was on the run, splashing water all over me until I was as wet as a drowned rat. Once he slipped on the ice and went down into the water on his side, but he came up running.

Soon after this, we passed Monroe W.’s house by the side of the road, and being wet, I concluded to make an effort to stay all night. I wanted to make Monroe’s acquaintance anyway, as he was one of Wentz’s bitterest enemies and suspected of having a hand in kidnapping young Wentz. He had been in the “moonshine” liquor business all his life and was considered a king-bee among the “moonshiners.”

The hired man informed me that Monroe W. was down in a pasture after some cattle, and wouldn’t be back for an hour. He also informed me that Monroe W. was not in the habit of taking strangers in to put up all night. This I took as a hint that I had better be going on as it was late in the evening.

Just about dark, after I had started up a steep grade to go over a high ridge into Whitesburg which lay two miles further down the river, a 250 pound piece of middle-age humanity rode up behind me on a large bay horse and commanded me to stop. I did so, then he rode up by the side of the wagon and in an angry voice asked: “What in the h——l are you doing in this country?” I told him that we were going to Whitesburg, providing the Lord was willing and the mule held out. He replied:

“We don’t want your kind of people in this country, so you had better hit the road and go back where you came from, and you want to go d——d quick, too. You will be lucky if you get back.”

I asked why they didn’t want me here. He replied:

“You are a d——d detective that’s why.” I asked what a detective would be doing in such a country as this. He replied: “That’s all right, we’ve had your kind of people here before, spying around to catch moonshiners. You had better turn that mule around and hit the road back if you know what’s good for you.”

Here I looked back down the road and saw two men on horseback coming in a slow walk. They were a quarter of a mile away, at a turn in the road. I concluded that they were into this scheme to run me out of the country, so I started to get mad and my stubborn bump began to work.

The mule was started ahead, and I told the big mountaineer that I was going to Whitesburg in spite of h——l and highwater. He replied: “Well by God if you do, you and your d——d outfit will go into the river.”

Here I became mad “proper,” and said: “You cut-throats may shoot me from behind a tree up on the mountain side, which I am told is your favorite way to assassinate people, but you can’t scare me. I’m going to Whitesburg, so turn your wolf loose.”

He put spurs to his horse and started up the steep grade on a trot ahead of me saying: “Well by God if you do, I’ll have you thrown in jail till we can investigate you.”

I hallooed back: “All right, you’ll find me at Sol Holcomb’s.” At this he jerked his horse up and said: “What in the h——l do you know about Sol Holcomb? You have never been in Whitesburg!” I replied: “The d——l I haven’t; I just left Whitesburg two days before Christmas.”

He then started off again, saying: “All right, I’ll just have you thrown in jail anyhow.”

As it soon became dark, I lost sight of Monroe W. and the two men following behind.

It was plain to my mind now, that this big man who proved to be Monroe W. had never heard of me being in the country, and when his hired man described me and told him I wanted to stay all night at his place he concluded that I had just come from Virginia, from whence they had been looking for detectives. And a month later, after I had become “solid” with his mother-in-law, Lottie H., I found out that my guess was right, for she said that Monroe W. thought I was a detective sent from Virginia to work on the Wentz case, but that when he found out I had already been to Whitesburg and had driven overland from Jackson, Ky., he tried to pass it off as a joke as though he just wanted to frighten me.

It was over an hour after dark when I drove into Whitesburg, and when I went into the little “shack” of a post office, Monroe W. and a man whom I later found was one of his chums, were there ahead of me.

I asked for my mail and a letter was handed out. It was just the one I wanted, and I knew no others would come at that time. Just as I received the letter Monroe W. stepped up and asked to see the post-mark on it. I replied, certainly, if it would do him any good; so the letter was handed to him. He then took it to an oil lamp in one corner where he and his chum examined the post-mark which was Galveston, Texas. This was one of the “fake” letters which my cousin Jeanette McKay had copied from one I sent her. Later, after I had taken Monroe W. into my confidence, I let him read the contents of this “fake” letter.

Had I not mentioned the name of Sol Holcomb, showing that I had been in Whitesburg before, there is no telling what might have happened, for if the two riders seen following behind were into the play they could have taken a cut-off bridle path after getting over the high ridge, and have joined Monroe W. without my seeing them. Then if so disposed, they could have waylaid me and thrown my body and the outfit into the river, far below to the left.

Thus did Christmas of 1903 pass into oblivion, along with the one spent on the L X ranch with Hollicott and his demijohn.