A cowboy detective

A Hurrah Life among the “Moonshiners”—I Escape Possible Death by a Scratch—The Body of Ed. Wentz Found.

After becoming settled in Whitesburg at the Holcomb log mansion on the main street, I began to study the people. I found that those living in town were an improvement over those of the country.

My spring wagon was discarded never to be used again by me. It was put under a shed for Mrs. Holcomb’s chickens to roost on. I concluded to stick to the hurricane deck of a mule or horse in future.

On making inquiry I found that Ashford N., whose brother lived on Lost Creek, was in the Whitesburg jail serving out a six months’ sentence, by order of the much hated Republican District Judge Morse, who tries to enforce the laws. “Ash” had been convicted of selling liquor in this prohibition county of Letcher, Kentucky. At the jail through the steel bars, my letter of introduction from his brother Pat was presented, and we became fast friends. He let me read his love letters and I furnished the “moonshine” to revive his drooping spirits.

Ashford N. had lived three years in Greer County, Texas, now part of Oklahoma; and I happened to be acquainted in that country which cemented our friendship.

The jail was filled with men, the worst looking and most confident one being Shepard, who murdered a man in cold blood, at the same time wounding a woman and baby, on Big Cowen Creek, a few miles south of Craftsville, on Christmas day, just past. He had shot the man, Riley Webb, while he was warming his hand at a fireplace. Still he was confident of coming clear at his trial, as he had given Attorney Dan D. Field a horse to defend him.

After becoming acquainted with the situation as existing in Letcher County, I could see good grounds for Shepard’s confidence in acquittal, for Mr. Field is a bright lawyer and is related by blood or marriage with nearly every one in the country. Besides, whisky is cheap. I myself with a pint flask of “moonshine” as a weapon, faced a dignified Democratic judge and had a shooting scrape virtually annulled. I showed good judgment though, by presenting the flask of liquor before stating my case, and I assured this acting district judge that my intention was not to bribe him with this flask of corn juice, which was an open lie that could be seen by a less learned man than this Honorable Court.

I did the job to save Birdie H.’s sweetheart a trip to the penitentiary.

I made frequent trips to Collins’ still in Knott County, on the head of Rock House creek, after liquor for myself and friends.

I knew the date when “Doc” and his daughter Emma were to be at Collins’ still to take pictures, so my plans were arranged accordingly.

On that date “Donk” and I marched up to the Collins residence with two empty jugs to be filled, one for myself and the other for Ashford N. who had sent the cash to pay for his gallon of firewater. Miss Emma greeted us at the gate, and my spirits soared upwards. We had come twelve miles over a rough mountain. I made pretense of having to hurry back, but Emma and her father insisted on my remaining all night. So “Donk” was put into the stable and the good time commenced.

We first emptied “Doc’s” bottle of corn juice; then I bought a full one for “Doc” and me, and another of apple brandy for Emma.

The woods were full of rough looking people who came to get liquor and to have their pictures “took.”

After supper “Doc,” Emma and I had the front room all to ourselves. We had started in for the night with two full bottles. Toward bedtime I began to feel the effects of the corn juice, and on the spur of the moment did a foolish trick, which ended all right, though.

“Doc” suggested that I take out a policy in his insurance company for $1000. I told him that I had left Texas suddenly, under a cloud, therefore didn’t dare to have my life insured in favor of any of my relatives there; my idea being to give the impression that I had committed a crime in Texas and had to skip out. Then “Doc” asked if I didn’t have a relative or friend outside of that state who would appreciate $1000 in case of my death. I answered “No.” Here Emma with one of her sweet innocent smiles, asked me to have the policy made out in her name.

I was never known to be a “piker,” or to show that I was not a “dead game sport” when it comes to dealing with pretty girls, so consent was given and the policy was made out with Emma as the holder of the stakes in case I shuffled off this mortal coil.

The danger soon flashed across my addled brain that when I visited the tough town of Donkey, Virginia, I might be considered worth more to Emma dead than alive. Still, I was too “blooded” to “crawfish” now, at the commencement of the game.

There was one redeeming feature in the transaction, it was an accident policy, so that if they tried to kill me and failed, I would get paid for the wounds, myself. The premiums were paid up for two months.

About midnight “Doc” and I retired in the broad-gauge bedstead, while Emma occupied the narrow gauge one near our feet. “Doc” slept next to the wall, so I acted as a barkeeper, the full quart bottle being on a chair near my head.

I had just fallen asleep, when “Doc” dug me in the ribs saying “Lloyd are you asleep? If you ain’t, hand over that bottle.” Then we both took a drink. Soon sleep began to creep over me, but for fear of being awakened again, I thought it best to give “Doc” another drink in hopes of filling him up. But I didn’t know then that trying to fill “Doc” up would be like pouring sand in a rat hole with the other end in China. The bottle was emptied just as day was breaking, then we both got our first good sleep.

When breakfast was called I got up feeling good—no sign of headache which follows the free use of liquor, not pure.

It was agreed that I join “Doc” and his daughter at John Craft’s and accompany them home to Virginia.

Before leaving with my full jugs for Whitesburg, I gave Emma a quart bottle of apple brandy to keep up her spirits on the way home.

Arriving in Whitesburg I made preparation to start next morning for Craftsville.

The Holcombs and other friends begged me not to risk a visit to the head of the Kentucky river in the Potter neighborhood and to the tough town of Donkey, Virginia. They cited countless cases of murders and robberies committed in those places. Miss Lizzie Holcomb especially pleaded with me not to go. She and I had become a little “sweet” on each other, though we did our courting on the sly, as I told her that she was too nice to be seen at public gatherings and out riding with me, as I hadn’t finished sowing my wild oats, and that I might be seen at any time drunk and in company with bad women, which would be a reflection on her character if she kept company with me.

The poor innocent girl couldn’t understand why a man of my age and apparent intelligence should want to scatter wild oats over the country. Miss Lizzie was a pure Christian girl, and she had never had her eye teeth cut in the ways of the world. She tried hard to reform me, but the more she preached reform, the worse I seemed to get. Of course it pained me to act against my conscience in this way, but it was “business.” I had started out to graduate in the big Dickenson College, therefore I didn’t propose to be branded as a “quitter,” just for the sake of upholding goodness and purity.

That night the county jailer, Boney Isum, a nice fellow, who had won his spurs and been elected county jailer through the fact of having recently killed a U. S. revenue officer near Whitesburg, brought Ashford N. from the jail to my room at Holcomb’s and with the assistance of the two jugs of liquor we made “Rome howl” until the roosters crowed for the day. Boney Isum loved liquor, and he was a good judge of its purity, as he and his forefathers before him had conducted “moonshine” stills in the face of Uncle Sam and his standing army.

During the early part of the evening, Sol Holcomb spent his time in my room with Boney, Ashford and me, and in order to be in the “swim,” Mrs. Holcomb, Lizzie, the little girl Alberta, and the fifteen-year-old boy Andrew, drank what they called “stugh,” made of whisky, sugar, and hot water.

Next morning with two quarts of liquor in my saddle pockets, I started for Craftsville, where the night was spent with the widow Bee Craft and her family.

Early next day I joined “Doc” S. and his pretty daughter at John Craft’s, and we started up the river for Donkey, Va.

The girl rode behind her father on the large white horse. I carried the photo outfit on “Donk.”

We passed through the noted Potter settlement and put up for the night at Bentleys.

During the forenoon next day, some pictures were “took” as per advertised schedule; that is, advertised by word of mouth, as there were no newspapers in the county.

After dinner we left the extreme head of the Kentucky river and began to climb up the western slope of the Black Mountain range, the top of which is the dividing line between Kentucky and Virginia. On reaching the highest point of the range, “Doc” pointed out the lay of the country. From this black mountain of the great Cumberland range, flow four large rivers, the Kentucky to the west, the Cumberland to the southwest, the Sandy to the north and the Pound river to the eastward. The heads of all these rivers were now in sight and at our feet. It was certainly a grand view of a heavily timbered country settled only on the streams, except in certain spots.

Then we rode into the noted Pound Gap, where two houses, one a residence and the other a saloon, stand. They are on the line of Kentucky and Virginia, and are owned by the notorious “man-killer” Britt Potter, whom I found later to be a nice fellow, though a little bloodthirsty at the mention of the Wright family, who had reduced the male members of the Potter fireside with hot lead.

The saloon had been closed by law since both Letcher County, Kentucky, and Wise County, Virginia, had adopted local option. Then Britt had moved down the river a few miles to where his father Abraham Potter lived. Here Britt is training his little boys to shoot. One of them became impatient one day because there were no Wright boys in sight, so killed his own brother, by shooting him in the head while he slept.

Just after passing through Pound Gap we came to the spot where a few years previous, the whole Mullens family, all but one boy, who was fleet of foot, were ambushed and killed for their money, the old man having just sold his land and was leaving Kentucky.

“Doc” and I climbed the large rock behind which the five assassins were concealed.

As soon as the boy, whose suspenders were cut in two with a bullet where they crossed in the back, spread the news, “Doc” S. was one of the first to join the officers and go on trail of the assassins. They came together in a house, and when the smoke of battle cleared away “Doc” was branded for life with a bullet through his face from one side to the other. In the flight one of the officers crossed the dark river of death, and so did some of the outlaws. The balance were captured and sent to the pen.

A few miles down the mountain side through the tall timber, we came to the first house, owned by “Doc” S.’s brother-in-law, Brennan. Here we “liquored up” and warmed by the fire.

About three miles further, we came to the only Donkey town on earth. It contained only one store and about one dozen houses. “Doc” owned the two-story frame house across the street or road from the store, and a farm south of the swift flowing Pound river.

Mrs. “Doc” S. and the five small children were happy over Miss “Mousie’s” return, she being the oldest child, and her mother being an invalid. In Donkey I found that Miss Emma was known by the name of “Mousie,” although not ratified.

The older boys took our saddle animals to the stable across the river, while “Doc” and I walked a few hundred yards down the river to old man Eli S.’s. Here I was introduced to “Doc’s” father and mother, his brother Gregg and his wife and his pretty black-eyed sister Lillie, whose age was twenty-six. The old man being an invalid, spent most of his time propped up in bed in the front room which faces the main road.

After the old man had been assured by “Doc” that I was “true blue” and all right, the different kinds of liquors, apple brandy, mint brandy, blackberry wine and doctored “moonshine” which would kill a mule as it was full of “lye-ball,” were pulled from under the bed which was the old man’s “blind tiger” and his way of making a living. Then the drinking began and ended when “Doc” and I were called home to supper.

Before leaving old man S.’s I had to promise to be their guest the following night. Here the thought of the insurance policy in favor of “Mousie” came flashing through my memory, and I wondered if they would try to kill me by poison or bullets. I hoped they would use the bullet method, for then I could bring old Colts 45 into play and stand a chance to win some of the insurance money by only getting wounded. Many in Whitesburg and at Craftsville had warned me to steer clear of old man S.’s “blind tiger” which they said was a death trap. Therefore my mind was in shape to expect anything.

We retired early at “Doc’s” and I slept soundly as the door to my room was locked so that no one could get in to play for that thousand dollar prize.

Next day I put in my time horseback riding with Miss Lillie S., and buying sweets, calico and ribbons for the S. kids, including Miss “Mousie.”

That evening I became the guest of Eli S. and his family.

After the chicken supper we all congregated in the front room where the liquor was stored, and where a fire blazed in the old fashioned fireplace. “Doc” had joined us. Soon Miss Lillie got out her guitar and commenced to play and sing. One of her songs worked me up to a high pitch; it set me wild. It ran thus:

Her sweet, low voice seemed to fit the song to perfection. I couldn’t buy the drinks fast enough to suit myself and to encourage her to play and sing the same song over and over again. I was in an earthly Heaven. The different kinds of liquor helped matters along, and so did Miss Lillie’s meet me in the moonlight glances. Music and singing had not had such an effect on me since 1882 in St. Louis, Mo., when I cut up a fine parlor chair.

I had just landed in St. Louis and bought a new suit of “hand-me-down” clothes. The Jew who sold them couldn’t induce me to discard my cowboy hat and high-heel boots, nor could my sister or her up-to-date husband.

One day while walking down Fourth street a well dressed Southern gentleman gave me his hand and asked if I was not from Texas. Then we had a few rounds of drinks. This gentleman proved to be one of the wealthy ex-slave-owning Terrys of Wharton county, Texas, adjoining the county of Matagorda where I was born. I had heard of the great Terry plantation when a small boy.

Nothing would do Mr. Terry but that I visit his residence. He said that he had just married a young lady and wanted to show her what a real Texas cowboy was like. I went. On our arrival the elegant parlor was filled with elegantly dressed ladies, but no gentlemen.

After being introduced to the ladies, a plush mahogany chair was given me to sit in. I was very cautious and sat down gently so as not to spoil the delicate thing. Here Mr. Terry asked his beautiful young wife to play a few of her favorite pieces on the piano, as I would no doubt enjoy music of that kind after so many years of sleeping and eating out doors. The lady’s sweet singing is what upset me. My mind was centered on the pretty singer, while no doubt many eyes were centered on me.

When Mrs. Terry quit playing and wheeled around on her stool to see what effect her singing had had on me, I came back to my right senses. I found myself sitting on one foot, which was under me on the plush-bottom chair seat. The other foot was up on one of the chair rounds, and in my right hand was a sharp I. X. L. pocketknife with which the chair had been whittled to ruination. The brussels carpet was strewn with mahogany shavings.

I didn’t realize that there was anything wrong until Mr. Terry began to yell and laugh. Finally Mrs. Terry broke into a laugh. The older ladies were too much mortified to even smile. I insisted on paying for the chair, but Mr. Terry wouldn’t hear to it. He said this was worth more than a dozen chairs to him, as his wife had been begging him to round up a real live Texas cowboy and bring him home so she could see what they looked like.

After getting over my blushing, I confessed that it was Mrs. Terry’s pretty face and sweet voice which did the damage.

Whittling on boxes and ranch benches had become a fixed habit with me, hence cutting the chair.

“Doc” went home early. Mrs. Gregg S. had gone to bed in another room, and the old lady had gone to bed by the side of her husband in the room that we were celebrating in.

About 1:00 A.M. Gregg and I were pretty well “loaded,” under the influence of the mixed drinks.

Finally my head began to swim and I became deathly sick. The thought of having been poisoned flashed through my mind. I asked to be shown to my room, so that I could lie down, but my real intention was to slip out of the house and try to find Mr. Gibson’s place in the upper end of the town.

“Nels” Craft had told me that if I got into trouble in Donkey to hunt up his friend Gibson, who was a square man. He had described the house to me.

Gregg conducted me into the adjoining front room and insisted that he was going to sleep with me. This settled the matter in my mind,—it was a sure case of poisoned to get the $1000 life insurance and the money I had with me.

I started to the front door, telling Gregg that I was going outside to sit down and get some fresh air. He said that he would go along too. Then I got mad, and with my hand on the handle of old Colts 45 which was sticking in the waistband of my pants, I told Gregg to stay right where he was and to keep away from me. No doubt if he wasn’t too drunk he could see the fire flashing from my eyes, for I meant business. When I opened the door and stepped out into the darkness, he called to me saying he would leave the door open so I could find my way back by the lamp light.

It had been raining, and the road which followed the bank of the river was very muddy, almost knee deep in some places. It was too dark and my head was in too much of a whirl to see the footpath on the side of the hill, so I kept the middle of the road, and twice fell down in the mud, but I strained every nerve to reach Gibson and tell him that I had been poisoned.

About two hundred yards above “Doc’s” house I came to a place answering the description of Gibson’s. I knocked on the door and a rough mountaineer in his night clothes admitted me to the inside. He informed me that his name was Gibson and that “Nels” Craft was a friend of his. Then he was told my suspicions of being poisoned. He replied: “I saw you out riding this evening and I’m not surprised. You ought to have known better.”

Mr. Gibson held the candle while my muddy boots and outer clothing were being pulled off, and when the pistol was jerked out and placed under the pillow, he gave a jump as though startled.

I then fell over on the cot and he pulled the cover over me. In a moment I was dead to the world.

Soon after daylight, the noise of Gibson’s building a fire in the front room woke me up, and on finding myself not dead from the supposed poison administered by the S.’s, I was ashamed of myself.

My outer clothing was a sight, with the mud still adhering to them, but they were put on.

Before leaving, Mr. Gibson promised that he would not tell of my poison suspicions. He was told that I intended to fix up a story about getting lost and finding his place by accident.

In passing “Doc” S.’s house on my way to the old man’s “Mousie” who was outside splitting kindling for the morning fire, spied me. She came running out to the fence saying: “Oh Mr. Lloyd, where have you been? They are all crazy down to grandpa’s. They have been up all night searching for you in the river and everywhere. Uncle Gregg came after papa to help find you. They thought you fell into the river.”

I explained to “Mousie” of how I got drunk and went outside to get some fresh air, and sitting down on a rock fell asleep, and that when I woke up I took the wrong direction and found myself at Gibson’s house, and was put to bed.

There was great rejoicing on my arrival at old man S.’s place. they felt sure that I had fallen over the bank into the river and was drowned. Their greatest worry seemed to be over the chance of the story getting out that I had been robbed and murdered, and if my body was never found, of people thinking that it had been concealed to hide the crime.

I made up for my misconduct by going to bed like a gentleman that night.

About midnight Gregg and I opened the front door to go outside before retiring for the night. This woke up the old lady and in an excitable voice she called out: “Oh, Gregg, come back here, don’t you take Mr. Lloyd off and lose him again.”

The chances are the S.’s don’t know to this day the true story of my getting lost in Donkey.

It shows how a man’s mind can be worked up by hearing false tales about people. While the S.’s were handling liquor contrary to law, I had no fear of being harmed by them after learning their true natures.

After this I made other trips to Donkey, and Gregg and I rode out to “moonshine” stills in the wildest part of the mountains, and so far as the S.’s were concerned, I felt perfectly safe.

On one of these trips to Donkey I saw “Doc’s” courage and “Mousie’s” cooking tested.

“Doc” and I had walked down to old man S.’s to “liquor up” a little when we heard much shooting up at the store. Soon a man came down to tell “Doc” to keep hid out as his most bitter enemy was drunk and hunting for him to kill him on sight. It was this enemy who was doing the shooting at the store. He and his partner had just come down from their “moonshine” still on the Black Mountain with the intention of wiping Donkey off the face of the earth, just because “Doc” S. lived in the place.

“Doc” had left his pistol at home and he couldn’t get to it unseen without a long walk over the hills. He asked for the loan of mine so that he could face this enemy and give him the opportunity of putting him out of business. I loaned “Doc” my old Colts 45 as I was anxious to have her tested in a hand-to-hand battle by some one else besides myself.

With the pistol in his hand held behind him under his coat, “Doc” started for the store and I with him. In front of the store there were several men. One of them stood on the edge of the store platform facing “Doc’s” house. In his hands he held a Winchester rifle, and around his waist was strapped a large pistol. He had been firing the Winchester rifle into a dirt bank just under “Doc’s” door yard, so as to bring “Doc” out of the house.

The wild and woolly “moonshiner” had just reloaded his rifle magazine with more cartridges when “Doc” and I stepped upon the store platform behind him. Just then “Mousie” stepped into the side yard and the “bad” man fired a bullet near her. “Doc” stepped up almost to the fellow’s side and in a cool, low, voice told him that if he shot again he would kill him. The fellow turned his head slowly around and saw “Doc” by his side, but he made no effort to bring the rifle around towards his bitter enemy. There both stood like statues, neither saying a word. The suspense was a strain on my nerves, as I wanted to hear old Colts 45 talk while a brave man’s finger was on the trigger.

At this moment Ike Potter and four companions from Kentucky, rode up, and seeing the situation, Ike Potter called the “bad” man by name and asked him to step out to him. This he did. A few words were spoken. Then the “bad” man walked in the mud by the side of the horsemen and all disappeared down the road. When below old man S.’s the shooting began again. Two days later we heard that this “moonshiner” was in jail for shooting up the county seat, Wise, Va.

When “Doc” handed me back old Colts 45 after we had entered his home, I imagined that I could see the poor pistol shedding briny tears over the chance she had missed of showing her abilities, when it came to puncturing human flesh; for I had been a cruel master and for twenty odd years had kept her in restraint.

Now about “Mousie” and her cooking; I had been to the railroad towns of Glaymorgan, Wise, and Norton, Virginia, and I had promised Miss “Mousie” to be back in Donkey on a certain day, sure. She had agreed to get me up a swell supper with her own hands.

On my way back to Donkey on the appointed day, I stopped at Pound, two miles below Donkey, where there is a postoffice, and there found “Doc’s” oldest boy and the fat white horse. The boy and I rode home together. He could talk of nothing else but the good things “Mousie” was cooking for my supper. He said she had been baking pies and cakes all day.

But holy smoke and little fishes, what a deceitful world this is. I had to look pleasant and pretend that “Mousie” was the best cook in the world. Besides, I had to fill my stomach with pie, cake and biscuits which would have taken a week to digest, had it not been for the goodnight kiss received before retiring. Still, the poor girl did her best, which couldn’t have been worse from an indigestion standpoint.

I felt satisfied that the people around Donkey, Craftsville and the Potter settlement had nothing to do with the kidnapping of young Wentz. Furthermore, I was satisfied that he was dead, as I had got it from Ashford N. and Mrs. Lottie H., both of whom no doubt knew what they were talking about. Ashford had assured me that he was dead and would never bother Kentuckians again, and Lottie said she knew that he had been killed for the cruel way in which he and his men had treated her and Birdie, and for killing her half brother Daniels, though she didn’t know what had been done with the body. She said the parties who had done the job kept the matter to themselves; that all she cared to know was that he had been killed.

On top of Black Mountain, at the head of the Cumberland river, on the road leading from Whitesburg to Stonaga, Va., several citizens of Letcher County, Ky., had owned saloons which were run in defiance of the laws of Wise county, Va., and Letcher county, Ky. These saloon buildings were built on the line of the two states, half in Kentucky and half in Virginia, so that when officers of one state would try to make an arrest the saloon fixtures and goods were moved into the opposite end of the building over the state line.

One of these saloons had been run by Lottie H., her sixteen-year-old daughter Birdie, and her half brother Daniels, with the help of her nineteen-year-old son Jim.

Another saloon at the same place had been run by my fat friend Monroe W. who had lately married Lottie H.’s oldest daughter.

The other saloon had been run by Ashford N.

The Wentz Company owned the coal mines at Stonaga, Va., about three miles down the mountain side from these above mentioned saloons. Dan and Ed Wentz, sons of millionaire Dr. Wentz, of Philadelphia, Pa., were in direct charge of these mines, and they objected to these saloons being located so near, on account of their employes being made drunk.

One night a raid was made on the saloons. In the fight which followed the town marshal, King, of Stonaga, was shot and killed, and so was Lottie H.’s half brother, Daniels. The liquor was destroyed and the buildings sawed in two. The half in Kentucky was left standing while the other part was hauled away or burnt up. Lottie H. and her daughter Birdie were marched through the mud afoot, and placed in jail at Wise, Va. And for this crime against blue-blooded Kentuckians, Ed. and Dan Wentz were doomed to die, though after Ed. was kidnapped Dan kept out of the way, so that he couldn’t be caught unawares.

This is the story told me in confidence by Lottie H. She gave me the full details of the fight from beginning to end, all except the manner in which Ed. Wentz was put out of the way, and this she claimed not to know, as her friends who had the matter in charge kept it a secret.

While Lottie didn’t confess it as a fact, she gave me to understand that Monroe W. and his money were leading factors in the plot, and that was why he tried to run me out of the country; that he supposed I had just come from Virginia to run down the Wentz mystery, and that when he found that I had come from Jackson, Ky., he thought maybe I might be all right, though she said he was always suspicious and uneasy and advised her not to associate with me for fear she might let something drop, as I might be a detective on the Wentz case.

I had become so “solid” with Lottie H. that Monroe W. and his gang couldn’t break our friendship. I had confided in her as to a killing of two men in Texas in which fight I took part, and I had let her read all my Texas and New Mexico letters on the subject. While I had hoped that she would let the secret out of my being an outlaw, she didn’t do it. She was just as true as steel to me and kept her promise not to give me away.

Lottie H. had a farm two miles below Whitesburg on the Kentucky river. She was a fairly good-looking middle-aged woman of more than the average intelligence. With her lived Birdie and Jim with his young wife Ollie, and a younger son and a daughter Mary.

Lottie H. was a sister of Sheriff Ed. Callihan of Brethitt county, Kentucky, who soon after was arrested for bloody murders committed in and around his home town of Jackson.

Many were the murders committed through this honorable officer of the law, as told to me by Lottie H. He had formerly been a member of the noted Hatfield gang of the McCoy-Hatfield feud notoriety.

I was given the details of a late cold-blooded murder committed through sheriff Callihan of Brethitt county. He owned a big mercantile establishment in the country east of Jackson. A man started a store in the same neighborhood, and in order to get rid of this store sheriff Callihan hired his brother-in-law S. to kill the owner.

One day S. with some picked witnesses drove up to the opposition store in a wagon and raised a fuss about a log hook which had been borrowed. S. shot the man dead.

There being some uncertainty about the result of the trial in Jackson, the jury had to be bought at quite a cost to Lottie H.’s brother. S. came clear, and later appeared on the scene in Virginia where Ed. Wentz was kidnapped. After the kidnapping of Wentz he married Lottie H.’s daughter Birdie. He had “shook” her and returned to Brethitt county just previous to my arrival. From what I could learn he had a hand in getting away with Ed. Wentz.

I put in much of my time at Lottie H.’s drinking, dancing and having a big time. I also kept up my carouses with Ashford N. in my room in Whitesburg, through the assistance of the jailer, Boney Isum.

In order not to disturb the sleep of the Holcomb family, I had Mrs. Holcomb fit me up a room in a log cabin away from the main residence. Here Ashford N. kept his jug of liquor and often slept with me, the deputy or jailer coming after him in the morning.

Ashford told me all about young Wentz passing him in the road near Kellyville, Va., on the morning of his disappearance, but he wouldn’t say that he had a hand in getting away with him, though he indicated as much and seemed to want to impress me with the fact that he did.

A good deal of my work now was over on the head of the Cumberland river, where I used to get “moonshine” fresh from the illicit stills. I had gained a “foothold,” and “moonshiners” were not afraid of me now.

On one of these trips to a “moonshine” still with Ashford N.’s chum, Brown, who lived over on the Cumberland river at the foot of the southern end of the Black Mountain near where that bunch of saloons were cut in two, I secured some information about Ed. Wentz. I learned that he was dead, and that he had been taken from his horse alive by three men.

Brown and the few people in his wild out-of-the-way neighborhood were very bitter against the Wentzes and their company for having gobbled up vast stretches of valuable coal and timber land, and their interference with the liquor traffic.

In riding over the mountains with Brown in search of pure “moonshine” I was told many blood-curdling tales of murder in which Brown had figured, and from others I found he had told the truth. He was honest enough though to acknowledge that the people of these mountains didn’t give enemies a chance to fight for their lives; hence they are generally shot from ambush, which he thinks is the proper way. He himself has been shot clear through the body, and he showed me the wounds.

I traded my mule off to Brown on this trip. While on the way to a “moonshine” still he pulled out $40 and offered it as boot between my “Donk” and his small three-year-old blue-roan pacing stallion. I accepted and saddles were changed.

In this trade I won a prize, for he was the swiftest natural pacer and the best piece of young horseflesh that had ever been straddled by an ex-cowpuncher.

As to searching for pure “moonshine,” I will state that much of the “moonshine” in these mountains is doctored by adding “lye-ball,” pure concentrated lye. With one gallon of pure “moonshine” liquor and one ball of lye, about three gallons can be made, and only an expert can tell the difference, though one’s stomach soon finds it out.

Through the teachings of the S. boys, in Donkey, and Ashford N., I had become an expert in knowing the difference between the pure and the adulterated liquor.

Towards spring, Ed. Wentz’s body was found by accident in a wild heavily timbered country three miles from where his horse and saddle had been found on the night of his disappearance. It was found near Kellyville, Va., on the eastern slope of the Black Mountains directly over the mountain from the head of the Cumberland river in Kentucky.

Our Asst. Supt. Estin of the Philadelphia office hurried to the spot to view the body before it had been moved. He found that young Wentz had been shot through the heart and placed on top of some logs in a reclining position. Down the hill from the body lay his pistol with one chamber empty, to give the idea of suicide, and also his eye glasses, hat, etc. Mr. Estin informed me later, that it would have been impossible for Wentz had he shot himself, to have reached the spot where the body was found, he having been shot through the heart. Estin also said that the body had no doubt been placed where it was found at least a month after he had been kidnapped; for when he disappeared the forest leaves had just begun to fall, and under the body the leaves were plentiful, showing that his body had been put there after the leaves had fallen.

Furthermore, after the young man’s horse had been found, Dr. Wentz and his son Daniel had hired hundreds of men who scoured the woods for ten miles square in the neighborhood of where the horse and saddle were found. The coal mines at Stonaga had been closed down and all the men turned out to search for the missing man. They were divided up into gangs and walked abreast through the thick woods, so that every foot of ground could be searched. It was done systematically. Mr. Estin says that men who were in this searching party claim that they remember going over the spot where the body was found, and had it been there they couldn’t have helped seeing it.

The body was in good shape, with the exception of the right hand being cut off. The hand was never found, and here hangs a tale.

Shortly after young Wentz’s disappearance his father began to receive mysterious letters offering to free Ed. Wentz for certain sums of money up into the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Finally a letter came from San Francisco, Cal., that if a large sum of money was not put in a certain place and an advertisement put in the personal columns of the San Francisco Examiner, stating that all was O. K., his son would be killed and his right hand sent to him to prove that their threat had been carried out.

The chances are that young Wentz had been held alive for a month or so in hopes of a ransom from his father, and when their scheme failed they took him to the spot where the body was found and fired a bullet from his own pistol into his heart. Then laid the body on the limbs of the dead tree where it was discovered by men hunting cows. The hand may have been cut off with the intention of sending it to Dr. Wentz, but later decided to be a dangerous thing to do, as it might lead to detection. Again, the hand may have been lost before the time came for sending it.

I found out that Lottie H. had relatives living thirty miles from San Francisco, Cal. She kept up a correspondence with them. I had seen their letters; hence if Monroe W. and his gang had young Wentz secreted in the mountains they could have had that threatening letter mailed in San Francisco by their relatives. One of these male relatives came to Whitesburg from California after my arrival on the scene, and I became well acquainted with him.

There is one thing sure,—if the gang above referred to didn’t commit the crime, then Lottie H. and Ashford N. wanted to leave the impression on my mind that they did, and were therefore revenged.

Dr. Wentz would have paid any amount of money for the return of his son alive, but he had received other mysterious letters which had been run down and found to have been written by “cranks.” Besides, the time allowed in the letter referred to above was too short, considering the great distance from San Francisco to Philadelphia, to meet the demand before the time set for the killing and the cutting off of the hand.

After the body of Ed. Wentz had been taken to Philadelphia for burial, I made frequent trips into Virginia along the railroad which skirts the foot of Black mountain, from Stonaga, through Appalachia, Kellyville and Norton, and Wise, the county seat.

Near Kellyville lived a man named Hubbard, and his family, and they were thought to know something of the crime, as young Wentz’s horse and saddle had been found in the road leading to Kellyville by two young men who were stopping at the Hubbard place.

Hubbard was known to run a “blind tiger,” selling liquor against the law and keeping a hard gang around him. Therefore I worked on Hubbard and his two daughters; and here I became acquainted with one of Ashford N.’s brothers who was in the “moonshine” liquor business.

I satisfied myself that Hubbard and his family had nothing to do with the murder of Wentz, but not so with the brother of Ashford N.

In working on the Hubbard girls I bumped into some more cooking of the M. S. brand.

Ashford N. was always glad at my return to Whitesburg, for it meant a jolly time with plenty to drink in my log cabin.

Finally, Ashford longed for liberty. He still had about two months to serve behind the bars. He decided to break jail, and my influence was used where it would do the most good in pushing matters along.

The night for the escape was planned. It was agreed that I leave some liquor at Dicie F.’s on Big Cowan Creek, as “Ash” might be dry when he reached there on the way to Brown’s place.

Dicie F. was the woman wounded Christmas day by Shepard when he shot and killed Riley Webb. She lived in what was called a tough neighborhood. Jailer Boney Isum had introduced me into society over there. A relative of his had one of his wives living next to Dicie F.’s. She was a tall muscular young woman with two healthy babies and the regulation low water mark on her neck. She split her own rails and put in her own crops. All she asked of her lord was that he visit her once in awhile to see how the crops were getting on. Her lord’s main wife and half a dozen children lived eight miles from this girl, therefore no danger of hair pullings.

Boney Isum had only one wife anchored, and she lived at the jail.

In these mountains nothing is thought of a man having half a dozen “wives.” One fellow of the Brigham Young build, who lives at the head of the Kentucky river, has seven women, and all have raised large families, and all have the stamp of being chips from the old block. It would be a safe wager to bet that one-third of the population of these mountains are of illegitimate birth.

When Ashford N. broke jail he put in the first night down at Lottie H.’s, and the next night at Dicie F.’s; thence to Brown’s place. No one suspected me of being on the inside. He could serve me better by being a free man. My plans had been laid for the future, when a full confession of the Wentz murder was almost certain.

During the winter I had made three trips out to civilization, once to Bristol, Tenn., once to Knoxville, Tenn., and the other time to Huntington, West Va. These trips were made to meet Supt. Bearce, or Asst. Supt. Estin to get a new supply of money. My horse would be left in a livery stable at Norton, or Appalachia, Va.

While in Knoxville I went to see the saloon building which is now used as a restaurant, where “Kid” Curry made such a brave fight, shooting two officers.

While in the mountains of Kentucky and Virginia I learned all the tricks of beating the Government in the licensed still business. I visited several stills so as to get onto these tricks, which are many.

I had made arrangements to start a licensed still in partnership with Lottie H.’s son Jim. The site was selected up in the head of a gulch on the Lottie H. farm. When this news leaked out Lottie said that Monroe W. objected and swore it shouldn’t be started. After this I received private warnings through friends to keep away from Lottie H.’s or I would be killed; but I never could find out who made the threats, or whether they were made on account of the Wentz matter or love for Lottie H. and her daughter Birdie. A wealthy and influential citizen was “dead stuck” on Lottie, and since my arrival on the scene she had grown cold towards him. He often came to see her while I was at the house, and he wouldn’t speak to me. His son R. was in love with Birdie. It wasn’t known for certain which I loved the more, as I played “sweet” on both; therefore these threats may have come through jealously.

On two occasions I suspected a trap laid for me, but I was too “foxy” to put my foot into it.

A fellow known as “In the Woods” Brown had tried to lead me into the trap, so I suspected. He had once made an unsuccessful attempt to assassinate merchant Jim Fraser and when caught, confessed that he did it for $50. But it was said that all of his attempts had not proved failures.

While in Whitesburg my reports were all mailed to different addresses in the far west, and all my mail came from that country. We were lucky in having an honest intelligent young man, Samuel Collins, for postmaster in Whitesburg, otherwise my mail would have been tampered with, for he told of the inducements offered him for some of my mail. These inducements had been offered when I first came to the country, and I suspected Monroe W. as being the gentleman who had tried to “work” young Sam Collins. Of course the postmaster didn’t say that he had been offered money, but that certain parties were suspicious of me and wanted him to let them have access to my mail.

During the month of May when my plans were ripe for starting the whisky still with Jim H., I had been requested by our Philadelphia officials to give my opinion as to whether convictions could be secured against the murderers of young Wentz, if convincing proof was secured. I gave it as my opinion that it was a waste of money to try to convict any of these people, owing to the fact that most of the settlers and their offspring are related either by blood or marriage, and of the further fact of the bitter feeling against the Wentz company.

A good deal of this hatred had been brought about through the Wentz’s arresting men for cutting bee trees and trespassing on company land.

In the meantime while waiting for money to start the still, I was learning all the ins and outs of the still business.

It was Jim H.’s and my intention to establish our liquor warehouse on top of Black mountain on the lots owned by his mother. Then we would have Ashford N. and a few men of his stamp peddle liquor on the sly among the coal miners in Stonaga and the other coal camps nearby. I had also visited Middlesboro, Ky., to learn the licensed still business. The Ball brothers, there being four of them, were friends of Jim H. They owned a still and four saloons in that town. Since then, these Ball brothers have gained notoriety on account of killings, the state militia being called out to capture them in their mountain stronghold.

One day I had been up the river to Sam W.’s place, drinking “moonshine” and having a big time, Sam W. being one of the “bad” man-killers of the country.

I arrived back in Whitesburg about sundown. Lottie H. was in town on her mule. She asked me to ride home with her as there was a drunken crowd in town and she was afraid to go home in the dark. We started, and I noticed R. and some of his drunken companions watching us as we rode across the river, R. being a married man who was in love with Birdie H. and jealous of me, no doubt.

On reaching Lottie H.’s home I ate supper, after which Lottie and I sat on the porch talking. Birdie and her younger sister Mary had gone to bed. Lottie tried to persuade me to stay all night, but I refused under the pretense that I could sleep late in the morning in my own room and thereby get rested after my “big time” up the river. But the truth of the matter was, I smelled a “mice” from the way R. and his gang had acted when Lottie and I rode out of town.

It was about 10:00 P.M. when I bade Lottie goodnight and rode across the river into the main road. The night was cloudy and dark, and my route lay along the river bank in the shadow of tall trees.

After going a quarter of a mile I saw the outlines of four men afoot in the road coming towards me. On seeing me they jumped over a rail fence and ran to a clump of bushes in the field on my right, and hid. I rode slowly past this thicket with my hand on old Colts 45. A few hundred yards further up the road I met Lottie H.’s hired man Day, coming from town on a mule. I told him of the four men hiding in the thicket. Next day in court Mr. Day testified that he had met me, and of being told about the four men in the thicket, and of how he had just got to bed when R. and three drunken companions came into his room and wanted to know where Lloyd was. On being told that I had gone home R. said that must have been I who went up the road when they hid. That then, he said, the gang went into the room where Lottie H. and her two daughters were in bed, and demanded to know where Lloyd was. They were told that I had gone back to Whitesburg. Then the gang commenced raising Hades. Soon after this, Lottie H.’s nephew Jim D., who was a deputy sheriff, dropped into Lottie’s on his way from his sweetheart’s place down the river. Here a battle began, one against four, and when the smoke cleared away the deputy sheriff lay mortally wounded with a bullet through his body, while two of R.’s companions were wounded from bullets fired by Jim D.

Early that morning I was back to Lottie H.’s and did all that was possible to relieve the suffering of the wounded deputy sheriff. At midnight he died, and from that time until morning the scene was affecting to even calloused nerves like mine, for the dead man’s brothers, Jesse and Bob, cried all night.

After we had all been singing religious songs around the bedside of the corpse, old grandma H. got me to one side and said: “I didn’t think we would have to lay poor Jim out so soon, but I did expect your death before this. I know what I’m talking about. You have been marked for death quite awhile. You have been warned several times but you won’t leave. Now you take my advice and get out of this country just as quick as you can. I can’t tell you all I know, but I don’t want to see you killed.”

Grandma H.’s oldest son was the father of Lottie H.’s children. He had been dead a couple of years.

One of R.’s wounded companions made a confession on being arrested, and said that R. had furnished him with a pistol to go down to Lottie H.’s and help raise a fuss with me, so as to “do me up;” that he went by R.’s house to get the extra pistol as he had none of his own, while R. had two.

I continued to visit at Lottie H.’s as though grandma H. had not given me the friendly warning.

Soon after, I received instructions from Asst. Supt. Estin to sell my horse and outfit and meet him at a certain hotel in Washington, D. C. In the letter he stated that the operation would be closed as it was decided that a conviction could not be had, no matter how strong the proof.

After selling the horse and outfit, my friends were bade goodby for a short time, as it was pretended that I was going to return after a short visit to the World’s Fair in St. Louis, Mo.

I had made many warm friends in Whitesburg, among them being Sam Collins the postmaster, and a young lawyer, Wilson Field.

There are some good people in these mountains, and others not so good. Their worst fault is their reckless regard for human life. They think no more of killing a man than of killing a wild beast. At least twenty murders were committed in these mountains during my short stay.

They also need education in their mode of living, especially in their home life, wherein one wife is not considered sufficient for one man. Also, they need bath-tubs. I failed to see one bath-tub in the counties of Letcher, Perry and Knott. Possibly they are afraid of wearing out should they wash too much.

One morning Mr. B. whose weight is 300, and who is said to never have done a day’s work in his life, although past middle-age, he being a king-bee of the “moonshiners’” brigade, and I were to start early on a squirrel hunt. On reaching his house he informed me that he couldn’t go hunting as this was his bath day; that his wife kept track of it and was now heating the water. He said he always took a bath regularly every six months; that some people didn’t believe in bathing so often, but he did. Out in the back yard his little delicate wife had two large kettles on the fire, as though it was hog-killing day.

Another curse of this country is the marrying of first and second cousins.

I was glad to get away from Whitesburg, for two reasons one of which was to get beef to eat. I had not seen or tasted a piece of beef in Kentucky during my over seven months’ stay, that is, away from the railroads. I was also anxious to get away from the sound of banjos. Nearly every household has from one to half a dozen of these instruments, and nearly every child can pick the same tune. Some few can pick as many as three or four tunes.

Regardless of my wild-oat sowing habits, pure-hearted virtuous Lizzie Holcomb gave me a goodby kiss, with a hope that I would reform and quit scattering oat-seed broadcast over the land.

Before shaking the dust of the Kentucky mountains from these pages, I will state that should any reader of this book wish to see a dying man smile, he or she ought to be present when the last breath is just leaving me, and then mention Mrs. Sol Holcomb and the first four-legged monkeys which were ever in Whitesburg.

A couple of Italians brought two trained monkeys to Whitesburg. They were dressed up in human rigging and performed on the main street which contained only five stores and the overgrown court house. The town turned out to see the monkey show. It was a circus sure enough, but all the monkeyshines were not performed by the little “monks.” There were others.

There were old gray headed men and women who had never seen a monkey before. When it was all over Mrs. Sol Holcomb came into the sitting room of her house, perspiring like a “nigger” at an election. She said: “Lor’ bless my soul, I didn’t know befo’ that monkeys was human beins! I jess wouldn’t of believed it.”

Good-natured, easy-going little Sol Holcomb smiled and said: “Why Bess, they ain’t humans, they are jest animals.”

Here Mrs. Sol got up on her high horse and with her strong right arm bared to the elbow and pointed towards her hubby said: “Now look a here Sol, don’t you dare tell me them ain’t humans, for I knows better. They are jess as much humans as any black nigger or you either, Sol!”

I spent three days in Washington, D. C., on leaving Kentucky, and there took in the sights. In Philadelphia I stayed two days settling up the affairs of the Dr. Wentz operation. Then Mr. Roy L. Dickenson phoned for me to come down to New York City. I arrived in New York City on that morning, and most of the day was spent with Mr. Royder Dickenson. He showed me through every nook and corner of the large block owned and occupied by the Dickenson agency. I also visited with the other high officials, and the many assistant superintendents, too numerous to mention. That night I went to a theater at the agency’s expense.

Next day my old Denver friend, executive clerk Mr. C. K. Hibben, showed me some of the great sights of the city, and I took in Coney Island on an excursion steamer.

Mr. Dickenson gave me permission to take in the World’s Fair in St. Louis, en route to Denver. But he requested that I go from St. Louis to Chicago to Visit Mr. W. L. Dickenson, as he might want to see me, though I suspected this was done for my own pleasure to give me a rest.

En route to St. Louis one night and part of one Sunday were spent in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, which gave me an opportunity of seeing part of that smoky city.

In St. Louis I took in the World’s Fair with my sister and her family.

While in that city I also visited the Dickenson agency under the supervision of Mr. Wooster, whom I already knew.

Then I took the back track for Chicago to meet Mr. Wm. L. Dickenson. He had no business for me, except a desire that I go out to his residence and ride his new $500.00 saddle horse and give my honest opinion about him, also that I take a look at his half dozen fine bull terriers. The horse I found to be a “dandy.” He was certainly the finest gaited large horse that I ever straddled, but for real heavenly delight he couldn’t hold a candle to the little blue-roan sold in Kentucky by me for $60.00.

While in Chicago I enjoyed the visit with Mr. Dickenson and the superintendents and their assistants.

Shortly after my return to Denver, Supt. J. S. Kaiser received a letter from Mr. W. L. Dickenson requesting that I make out a bill for my personal expenditures while taking in the World’s Fair several days, and the agency would pay it. I did as requested, and it pleased me, as this is something employers seldom do.

Thus did the most interesting operation of my eighteen years’ connection with the Dickenson agency end. I had been gone from Denver eight months.