Kentucky’s Famous Feuds
and Tragedies

Authentic History of the World Renowned Vendettas
of the Dark and Bloody Ground

BY
CHAS. G. MUTZENBERG

R. F. Fenno & Company
16 East 17th Street, New York

Copyright, 1917, by
R. F. Fenno & Company

KENTUCKY’S FAMOUS FEUDS AND TRAGEDIES

CONTENTS

THE GREAT HATFIELD-McCOY FEUD.

Origin of the feud.—Fight near the Hatfield Tunnel.—Killing of Bill Staton.—Killing of Ellison Hatfield.—Butchery of the three McCoy brothers.—Murder of Jeff McCoy.—The tell-tale bloody lock of hair.—Quarrel of the Governors of Kentucky and West Virginia.—Official correspondence between them.—Frank Phillips, the daring raider, appears upon the scene.—Capture of members of the Hatfield clan.—Night Attack upon the McCoy home.—Burning of the McCoy home.—Cowardly murder of his daughter Allifair.—Brave defense of old man McCoy and his son Calvin.—Death of Calvin McCoy.—Wounding of Mrs. McCoy.—Heroism of little boy.—Escape of Randall McCoy.—Retribution.—Frank Phillips gives battle to the outlaws.—Death of brutal Jim Vance.—Battle of Grapevine Creek.—List of casualties.—Kentucky and West Virginia on the verge of war.—Phillips, the raider, arrested.—His trial in the United States Court.—His acquittal.—Phillips’ pluck.—Triple tragedy at Thacker, W. Va.—Cap Hatfield and his “boy” in the toils.—Their escape from jail.—Defying arrest.—Battle of “Devil’s Back Bone.”—Destruction of the stronghold with dynamite.—Execution of Ellison Mount.—Conclusion.

THE TOLLIVER-MARTIN-LOGAN VENDETTA.

Introduction.—The two chief causes of the feud.—Politics and whiskey.—Judge Hargis the innocent cause of the political strife.—First blood.—Pitched battle at Morehead.—Murder of Soloman Bradley and wounding of John Martin and Sizemore.—Martin arrested.—Mob violence threatened.—His removal to Winchester jail.—Craig Tolliver and his clan lay plans for Martin’s assassination.—Forged order for delivery of prisoner presented to jailer at Winchester.—Martin turned over to his murderers.—Assassination of Martin on the train.—Intense excitement at Morehead.—County Attorney Young shot from ambush.—His removal from the county.—Assassination of Stewart Baumgartner.—Judge Cole and others charged with conspiracy.—Investigation of the charges.—The Tolliver clan captures the town.—Riots.—Cook Humphrey becomes the leader of the Martin faction.—Treaty of peace at Louisville.—Violation of treaty.—Confession of Ed. Pierce.—Humphrey and Raymond located at Martin residence.—Siege of the Martin home.—Attack.—Craig Tolliver wounded.—Humphrey’s escape.—Raymond’s death.—Burning of the Martin home.—County Judge’s weakness.—Troops sent to Morehead.—Tollivers and others arrested.—Farce trials and acquittals.—Jeff Bowling goes to Ohio.—His finish there.—Humphrey resigns as sheriff.—Conditions in Rowan County.—Humphrey and Sheriff Ramey fight.—Sheriff and son badly wounded.—W. O. Logan killed.—Soldiers at Morehead the second time.—Second treaty of peace.—Articles of agreement to cease hostilities.—Humphrey departs from Rowan County.—Craig Tolliver violates treaty.—Reign of terror at Morehead.—Wholesale exodus of townspeople.—Murder of the Logan boys.—Burning of their home.—Mutilation of the corpses.—The avengers.—Boone Logan to the front.—His interview with the Governor.—Logan declares his intention to retake his fireside or to die in the attempt.—Purchase of arms at Cincinnati.—Surreptitious shipment.—Preparations for battle.—The Battle of Morehead.—Killing of Craig, Bud, Jay Tolliver and Hiram Cooper, wounding of others.—Incidents of the battle.—Troops at Morehead.—Indictment of Logan, Pigman, Perry and others.—Trials and acquittals.—Return of peace.

THE FRENCH-EVERSOLE WAR.

Causes leading up to the war.—Assassination of Silas Gayheart.—The gathering of the clans.—Scouting through the country.—Compromise and treaty of peace of Big Creek.—Treaty violated.—Murder of Gambriel in the streets of Hazard.—Assassination from ambush of young Nick Combs and Joe C. Eversole, leader of the Eversole clan.—Brutality of the murderers.—Pursuit of the outlaws.—Discovery of the ambush.—Escape of Judge Josiah Combs.—Campbell becomes chief of the Eversoles.—Hazard in a state of siege.—Campbell’s tragic death.—Killed by his own men.—Assassination of Shade Combs.—Assassination of Elijah Morgan near Hazard.—Correspondence between the Circuit Judge and the Governor.—Troops ordered to Hazard.—Report of Capt. Sohan and of Adjutant-General Sam E. Hill on conditions in Perry County.—County Militia organized.—Resumption of hostilities on retirement of the troops.—Battle of Hazard.—Killing of Ed. Campbell.—Fusilade continued throughout the day and night and the following morning.—Thrilling escape of Fields and Profitt.—Murder of McKnight.—Court house riddled with shot.—Withdrawal of the Eversole forces.—Wounding of Fields.—Burning of the court house.—“Blanket” court.—Troops again at Hazard.—The “lions” caged.—Murder of Cornett.—Assassination of Judge Josiah Combs.—Exciting pursuit of outlaws.—Wounding of one of the outlaws.—Their escape.—Their indictment, capture, trial and conviction.—Acquittal of French and Fields.—Murder of Dr. John E. Rader.—Execution of Bad Tom Smith.

BLOODY BREATHITT.

The Strong-Amy feud; the Strong-Callahan feud.—Conditions during the eighties; official correspondence between Circuit Court Judge and the Governor.—The murder mills keep grinding.—The beginning of the Hargis-Cockrell-Marcum-Callahan vendetta.—Political contest cases create bad blood.—Hargis assumes office as county judge.—Callahan the sheriff of the county.—Trouble between Marcum and Judge Hargis.—The Cockrell brothers.—Murder of Ben Hargis by Tom Cockrell; killing of John Hargis.—The clans arm.—Dr. Cox assassinated at night while on a professional call.—Marcum informed that he was marked for assassination.—Laying plots for his death.—Mose Feltner, Marcum’s friend in the enemy’s camp.—Marcum gives out a dramatic statement of the many attempts made upon his life.—Murder of Jim Cockrell in broad daylight from the court house.—Escape of murderers.—Judge Hargis and Sheriff Callahan make no effort for their apprehension.—Marcum again warned of his coming assassination.—Murder of Marcum.—Escape of assassins.—The county judge and sheriff spectators of the murder.—Tragic incidents of the assassination.—Reign of terror at Jackson.—Schools and churches closed.—Public pressure forces investigation.—Troops place Jackson under martial law.—Capt. Ewen tells the story of Marcum’s assassination and identifies the murderers.—Ewen threatened with death.—Burning of his home while troops are at Jackson.—Indictment of Judge Hargis, Sheriff Callahan, Curtis Jett, and Tom White for the murders of Jim Cockrell, Dr. Cox and Marcum.—Change of venue to other courts.—Determined prosecution.—Conviction of White and Jett for life.—Description of Jett.—Manufacture of fake alibis.—Confession of a witness convicted of swearing falsely for the defense.—Accuses high officials of Breathitt of intimidation.—Release of the convicted perjurer because of his confession.—Hargis and Callahan escape conviction.—Semblance of order finally restored in the county.—Murder of Judge Hargis by his son, Beach Hargis.—Details of the fratricide.—Caustic dissenting opinion of one of the judges of the Court of Appeals.—Conviction of Beach Hargis for life.—His release from prison.—Assassination of Ed. Callahan, the last of the feud leaders.—Details of the assassination.—Conviction of his assassins.—Comments.

PREFACE

The feudal wars of Kentucky have, in the past, found considerable publicity through newspapers. Unfortunately, many newspaper reporters dealing with this subject were either deprived of an opportunity to make a thorough investigation of the facts, or permitted their imagination to supply what they had failed to obtain. At any rate, the result was distortion of the truth and exaggeration.

Exaggeration is not needed to make Kentucky’s feudal wars of thrilling, intensely gripping interest to every reader.

More than a score of years were spent in the collection of this material, involving tedious and painstaking investigations. The greatest difficulty was experienced in separating truth from falsehood. Often the most vital facts could be obtained solely from the actors in the bloody dramas. The feudists and their relatives proved, quite naturally, partial or prejudiced, and at all times were reluctant to admit any fact detrimental to their side, or favorable to their enemies.

I believe, however, that I have succeeded, with the aid of court records, legislative investigations and official military reports, in my task of producing a strictly authentic history of Kentucky’s Famous Feuds and their attending tragedies.

I trust that the publication of this volume will serve its designed purposes:—to make crime odious; to illustrate the havoc that may be wrought anywhere through the lax, inefficient or corrupt administration of justice; to arouse the people, not of Kentucky only, but of the country at large to the necessity of dealing sternly with crime and faithless officers.

Chas. G. Mutzenberg.

Harlan, Ky., September, 1916.

INTRODUCTION

A brief review of the history of Kentuckians may assist the reader to understand why they, a kind, hospitable people to the stranger, have so long borne the reputation of ready fighters who often kill upon the slightest provocation, and deserve that reputation in a large measure. It is “bred in the bone” for a Kentuckian to quickly resent an insult or redress an injury.

Long before the advent of the white man Kentucky, then Fincastle County, Virginia, had been the vast hunting grounds of the Cherokees, Creeks, Chickasaws and Catawbas of the South, and of the more hostile tribes of Shawnees, Delawares and Wyandots of the North. These tribes, when chance brought them together on their annual hunts, engaged in conflicts so instant, so fierce and pitiless that the territory became known as the Dark and Bloody Ground.

It was indeed a hunter’s paradise. Dense forests covered the mountains. Cane brakes fringed the banks of numerous beautiful streams, while to the west lay immense undulating plains. Forest, cane brake and plain were literally alive with bear, deer and the buffalo; the woods teemed with innumerable squirrels, pheasants, wild turkeys and quail.

The fame of this hunting ground had attracted bold and adventurous hunters long before Daniel Boone looked upon one of the most beautiful regions in the world from the crest of Cumberland Mountain.

These hunters, upon their return home, gave glowing accounts of the richness and fertility of the new country, and excited powerfully the curiosity and imagination of the frontier backwoodsmen east of the Alleghenies and of North Carolina.

To the hardy adventurers the lonely wilderness, with its many dangers, presented attractions not to be found in the confinement and enfeebling inactivities of the towns and little settlements. Daniel Boone visited the new territory. He found that the descriptions he had received of it were by no means exaggerations, and decided to remove thither with his family. After some delay amid many difficulties the first white settlement, Harrodstown (Harrodsburg) was established. Within a few years other stations sprang into existence and population increased with amazing rapidity. Immigrants crossing the Cumberland mountains settled in the eastern and central parts of Kentucky, while those traveling down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, generally located in the northern, western and southern portions of the state.

This invasion by the white man was not accomplished, however, without long-continued, bloody struggles with the savages. To maintain the slender foothold Boone and his companions had gained, required great courage and tenacity of purpose.

The man who shivered at the winter’s blast, or trembled at every noise, the origin of which he did not understand, was not known among those hardy settlers with nerves of iron and sinews of steel, who were accustomed from earliest childhood to absolute self-dependence and inured to exposure and dangers of every sort.[1] Man in this connection must include the pioneer women who by their heroism illustrated their utter contempt of danger, and an insensibility to terrors which would palsy the nerves of men reared in the peaceful security of densely populated communities. Even children of tender years exhibited a courage and self-composure under trying circumstances that at this day seem unbelievable.

The life of the Kentucky pioneer and backwoodsman was one of long and bitter struggle. Hunting, clearing the forest, plowing and fighting were his daily occupations. Every “station” had its conflicts with the savages who fought with relentless desperation when they found themselves gradually but surely driven from their beloved hunting grounds.

These armed hunters and farmers were their own soldiers. They built their own forts, they did their fighting under commanders they had themselves chosen. They fought the foe in his own style, adopted his mode of warfare, and proved generally more successful than bodies of troops who battled under time-honored military tactics.

The Indian understood the advantage of cover, and the white man copied his methods. Thus most of the Indian fights became nothing more nor less than ambuscades in which the side displaying the most skill in placing them, won the victory. Boone, Kenton, Brady, Wetzel—all that galaxy of pioneers and Indian fighters of the early West fought the enemy from ambush.

There were few courts, and the justices presiding over them knew but little law. If the law proved too slow, or courts were too far away, the settlers tried criminals and inflicted the punishment. The backwoodsman was prompt to avenge a wrong. He was grim, stern, strong, easily swayed by stormy passions, and always a lover of freedom, to the core. He had suffered horrible injuries from the Indians and learned to retaliate in kind. He became cruel and relentless toward an enemy, but was loyal to the death to his friends and country. He was upright and honest. These pioneers were indeed cast in the heroic mold. Many of them fell in the struggle; but there was no time for sentiment and wailing. Over the prostrate bodies of the fallen civilization marched triumphantly westward and gave to America one of the most attractive regions, to the nation heroic soldiers, brilliant lawyers, men of science and of art, and a womanhood whose beauty and accomplishments are a byword everywhere.

With the close of Indian hostilities came rapid development of the more easily accessible portions of the state. Intercourse with the East and North obliterated old habits and customs and primitive notions. The fertility of the soil created wealth and with it came comfort. With increasing prosperity came that high intellectual development so essential to a sound, moral public sentiment, respect for the law, and love of peace and order, the foundation stones of a happy social structure. Schools and churches demonstrated their all-powerful influence by the refinement and social purity of the inhabitants. The code duello which had formerly been resorted to almost universally in settling personal differences, was made a crime by law and completely disappeared.

In the mountains, however, development was slow. That section remained isolated and practically cut off from intercourse with the more populous and advanced portions of Kentucky and surrounding States. Only in recent years have railroads begun to spread their iron network through the mountains, tapping the almost inexhaustible coal veins, mineral deposits of various kinds, wonderful forests of timber, until now that section is become the richest in the State.

Education and refinement distinguished the Blue Grass Kentuckian at an early date; he had long enjoyed the advantages of modern civilization, while his mountaineer brother yet lived in the primitive fashion of his forebears, and still remained a backwoodsman. He suffered the same privations and possessed the traits of character of the early pioneers of the Blue Grass.

For long years the mountain section remained a wilderness, with here and there a small settlement. The inhabitants lived the lives of frontiersmen and were generally poor. While many of them owned large tracts of land, its productiveness scarcely repaid the labor spent in cultivation. The great majority of these people were honest, upright and hardworking, but the wilderness, the frontier, unfortunately attracts the vicious, the violent, the criminal, the shiftless, the outcast of better communities. Such characters have a pernicious influence upon those with whom they come in contact, especially upon the young and thoughtless fellows with a taste for viciousness.[2] The mountains of the surrounding states of Virginia, West Virginia and Tennessee offered admirable asylum to fugitives from justice of those States. As like seeks like, individuals and families of that stripe settled near each other, intermarried, and thus formed a dangerous element in an otherwise good population.

Life in the wilderness, the frontier, is apt to bring out the true nature of the man, and his qualities, good or bad, are accentuated. The history of every frontier of this country is the same. The man who leaves the restraining influence of civilization behind him, becomes either man or devil. If there is “dog-hair” in a man, the wilderness, the frontier, will sprout it.

When the wicked element in a community had once gained a foothold, it organized against possible interference. Once organization was complete, all attempts to enforce law and order were promptly stifled through terrorization which intimidated courts and overawed the officers of the law. Under such circumstances the good element has but one alternative—to lie supinely on its back and ask to be killed, or to organize and strike back at the enemy, to destroy the vicious with powder and shot, in open fight, if possible, from ambush if necessary, as their sires fought in the days of the Indian. Herein lies the secret of the long-continued, bloody internecine strifes which have made the dark and bloody ground of the Indian days more dark and more bloody. Herein we find the ready and clear explanation of the fact that many men of unquestioned integrity and honor were thrown into the vortex of bloody strife from necessity, to fight for preservation of themselves, their families, their firesides.

Immigration into these remote mountain regions was almost nil and intermarriage between the settlers became the rule. In this wise the population of any county comprised but very few distinct families. Everybody was of kin to everybody else, and therein we find the key to the difficulties encountered by courts in dealing with crime.

The murderer, if a member of a prominent family, was certain to have kinsmen among the officers. (We may as well use the present tense in speaking of this, for the same conditions exist to-day, though less pronounced.) His “family,” man, woman and child, stand by him, aid his escape or his defence in the court house. If the criminal, conscious of the supporting influence surrounding him, disdains flight and boldly faces trial, the next move is to secure a jury which will acquit him. It often happens that those interested in the prosecution secretly come to an agreement with the accused and his friends to cease prosecution provided he and his in their turn would do the same to them in cases of their own. It is merely a case of “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” Citizens who love peace are loath to antagonize an outlaw clan so long as they or theirs are not directly concerned. They have no desire to assist officers in doing their duty, should these wish to do it. To indict men for crime is often a risky thing.

The criminal who has succeeded in defeating justice grows more bold, continues to pursue his career with an enhanced contempt of the law, until, at last, the cup runs over, and men, good and true, rise above self, and for country’s and humanity’s sake take upon themselves the task of restoring peace and order, and summarily cut short the life cycle of the outlaw.

How far such organized bands of murderers have succeeded in overawing the constituted authorities, is illustrated by instances recorded in this volume, where the law, the government itself, actually compromised with the outlaws, promised, yea, granted them immunity from past crimes, only exacting a pledge of better behavior in the future. If a man had committed but one little murder, he was in some danger of a short term in the penitentiary. If he understood his business, instead of stopping at one assassination, he simply continued his murder mill in operation and the authorities would send special ministers and envoys to “treat” with him as a power entitled to respect. Exaggeration? No![3]

Officers of the law have actually aided in assassinations, or stood idly by while murders were committed in their presence. Investigation has proven that in every feud-ridden section the entire legal machinery was rotten to the core, perverted to the end and purpose of protecting particular men and of punishing their enemies. Is it any wonder, then, that in such times and under such conditions preaching respect for law is breath wasted?

Sifting the matter down, we find that the chief contributing causes of these feudal troubles, wherever they have occurred, or may again occur, are due directly:—to inefficient, corrupt and depraved officials; to a want of a healthy moral public sentiment, through lack of proper education and religious training; to the fact that the law-abiding element of the feud-ridden counties had so long been domineered over by the criminal class and their parasites and supporters in secret, that they are incapable of rendering any valuable assistance in maintaining the law save in few exceptions, and these few so much in the minority that a reformation is not to be hoped for if left to their own resources; that during all the social chaos attending feudal wars the promiscuous, unrestrained and illegal sale of whiskey added fury, fire and venom to the minds and hearts of murderers. It dragged into the terrible vortex of bloody crime many not directly connected with the feud, but who took advantage of the disturbed social conditions, the state of anarchy, to satisfy their own vicious propensities without fear of interruption and punishment.[4]

The clannishness of the mountaineer has been the subject of much comment. The student of sociology must, therefore, be interested in learning that in a great measure the people of the Kentucky mountains descended from the same stock that formed the noted Scottish clans of old. One need only run over the names of the principal mountain families to recognize their Scot origin. The Scots love the highlands, and to the “highlands” of Kentucky many of them drifted. Scotland had her feuds—those of the Kentucky mountains are nothing more nor less than transplanted Scottish feuds, their continuation having been made possible by the reasons heretofore given.

We believe it germane to the matter under discussion to add that not only feuds, but mobs and the like, are, and ever have been, the direct outgrowth of a lack of confidence of the people in their courts. The shameful nightrider outrages in the western part of Kentucky a few years ago, in a section which had boasted of a civilization superior by far to that of the mountaineers, where schools and churches are to be met with at every corner, were the outcome, so it is claimed, of the failure of the law to deal sternly with the lawless tobacco trust, the “original wrongdoer” in the noted tobacco war. If this were true, if this justified the destruction by incendiaries of millions of dollars’ worth of property, brutal whippings, the indiscriminate slaughter of entire families without regard to age or sex, the butchery of little children (for aiding the tobacco trust, no doubt) then, indeed, is the mountaineer feudist also innocent of wrongdoing; more so, for he, at least, never made war upon suckling infants, nor have women suffered harm, except in one or two instances. Nor is the cultured Blue Grass citizen free to censure him, when he calls to mind the outrages of the toll-gate raids, or takes into account the numerous lynching bees, proceedings from which the mountains have always been practically free.

In view of all this we cannot go far from wrong when we say that the law’s delay, the failure to punish promptly, impartially and severely its infractions, must shoulder the responsibility for all social disturbances, and this is true in New York, in the West, as well as in Kentucky.

Kentucky’s Famous Feuds and Tragedies

THE GREAT HATFIELD-McCOY FEUD.

Perhaps no section in the whole United States has ever been the scene of more crime and long-continued defiance of the law than that contiguous to the Tug Fork, one of the tributaries of the Big Sandy river, and which forms the boundary line between West Virginia and Kentucky, separating Logan County, W. Va., from Pike County, Ky.

Many feuds have been fought there, but none equalled in ferocity the bloody Hatfield-McCoy war, during which crimes of the most revolting nature were perpetrated. Indeed, it will be difficult for the reader to believe that the devilish deeds related in this chapter are actually true and did occur in the midst of a civilized country, peopled with Christian men and women, and governed (?) by wholesome laws. Yes, citizens of a common country fought a struggle to the bitter death without hindrance, if not with the actual connivance of those entrusted with the enforcement of law and the maintenance of order, who looked idly upon bloodshed. The flag of anarchy, once unfurled, fluttered unmolested for years. Had the feud broken out suddenly and been quickly suppressed, we should abstain from strictures upon high officials entrusted with the administration and execution of the law. But this American vendetta covered a long period, abating somewhat at times, only to break out anew with increased ferocity. Utter disregard for human life, ruthless, savage cruelty, distinguish this feud from all others and easily give it the front rank.

To add to the horror of it all, came the bitter controversy between the governors of West Virginia and Kentucky, nearly precipitating civil war between the two States, and effectively paralyzing all attempts at concerted action looking toward the capture, trial and punishment of the outlaws, at least for a long time. That the feud is ended now is due largely to the fact that the material upon which it had been feeding for so many years, became exhausted through the pistol, rifle or the knife. But few died of disease, only one was hanged, perhaps the least guilty of them all, for he was a moral degenerate of such little intelligence that under other circumstances he might have escaped the gallows on the ground of mental irresponsibility. The leading spirits of the war were never punished, but rounded out their lives at home unmolested.

The region along the Tug Fork is mountainous, and has not until recently come in touch with the outside world. Its inhabitants for many years knew nothing of schools, or churches. Ignorance prevailed to a truly astonishing degree. Courts exercised no authority; their decrees were laughed at and ridiculed. If a man thought himself aggrieved he sought redress as best suited him. The natives tried cases in their own minds and acted as executioners, using the rifle or the knife. When trials, in rare instances, were resorted to, they more often fanned the flame of hatred than smothered it.

The contending factions in this internecine strife lived on opposite sides of the Tug Fork, a narrow stream. Randall McCoy, the leader or head of the McCoy faction, resided on the Blackberry Branch of Pond Creek in Pike County, Kentucky. Near him, but on the opposite side of Tug Fork, in West Virginia, lived Anderson Hatfield, who had adopted for himself the nom-de-guerre of “Bad Anse” or “Devil Anse,” the controlling spirit of the Hatfield clan.

Both families were large, extensively related throughout the two counties and composing the greater portion of their population. The McCoys and Hatfields frequently intermarried and thus it happens that we find McCoys arrayed on the side of the Hatfields and Hatfields friendly to the Randall McCoy faction.

While the feud proper did not break out until 1882, it is necessary to go back further. For the enmity between the Hatfields and McCoys dates back to the Civil War, during which the former maintained an organized company of raiders, ostensibly for the purpose of protecting property against invading marauders of either army. The McCoys supported a similar force on the Kentucky side. These bands frequently encroached upon and entered each other’s territory, resulting in clashes and bad blood, though both factions adhered to the same political party. After the war the older heads tried to maintain a show of friendship in their intercourse, but the younger generations allowed their passions a free hand. Difficulties grew in frequency; still no lives were lost.

A few razor-backed, long-legged, sharp-nosed porkers are the indispensable adjunct of well-regulated mountaineer families. In those days the farmer marked his hogs and turned them loose in the woods. They soon fattened on the abundant mast and were, late in the fall, driven home to be killed. If one of those marked hogs happened to turn up in the possession of another, woe unto him. Vengeance was visited upon him swiftly, though not as severe as in the case of rustlers in the West. A circuit judge of Kentucky once remarked, very appropriately, that a hog seemed of more value in his district than a human life. There was truth in this bit of sarcasm. More men have been acquitted of murder in Kentucky than of hogstealing. It seems ridiculous that a few of the unseemly brutes should have become the innocent promoters of a feud, but it is true. Innocent or not, the facts are against them. Sometime during the seventies one Floyd Hatfield, afterwards known as “Hog” Floyd, drove a number of hogs from the forests and confined them in a pen at Stringtown. A few days later Randolph McCoy of Kentucky passed the pen in question and upon examination of the animals claimed them as his property and demanded their delivery to him, which Hog Floyd refused to do. McCoy brought an action for their recovery. The trial was held at Raccoon Hollow, a little village some miles down the valley. Deacon Hatfield, Floyd’s relative, presided. The McCoys and Hatfields attended the trial in force. Every man was armed. During the short trial many things occurred that convinced those acquainted with the characters of the men composing the factions, that bloody hostilities must result. Randolph McCoy made an impassioned speech to the jury, openly charging several Hatfield witnesses with perjury. Among those so accused was one Stayton who, incensed by the charge, attempted to strike his traducer, but was prevented by Randolph McCoy’s son. McCoy lost his case. The Hatfields exulted, jeered and sneered; the McCoys returned home grumbling and threatening.

Fists and rocks now gave place to the rifle and repeated long-range shooting matches occurred between the factions. When meeting in the forests, they treed and fought for hours with their old-fashioned muzzle-loaders and cap and ball pistols, without any appreciable result.

In 1880 occurred the first battle in which blood was drawn. It happened about a mile below the Hatfield tunnel, between Bill Stayton, Paris and Sam McCoy. They had met by accident. Stayton rightly guessed that the boys would show him no mercy after the many injuries and insults they had received at his hands. Instantly he leaped behind a bush, broke off the top of it, rested his gun in the fork of two limbs, took careful aim and fired. Paris McCoy fell heavily to the ground. Although severely wounded in the hip he managed to regain his feet and shot Stayton in the breast. The two then came together in a fierce hand to hand combat. Having thrown down their empty and useless rifles they fought with their hands and teeth, ferocious as wild animals. Paris’ cheek was frightfully bitten and lacerated. Weakened from loss of blood and suffering excruciating pain from his wounds, he was about to succumb to the superior strength of his powerful adversary, when Sam McCoy, armed with a pistol, came to his rescue. He had been afraid to fire while the men were locked in their deadly embrace. Now came the opportunity and he sent a ball crashing through the brain of Stayton, who fell back and instantly expired. The body was found some days later.

Suspicion at once pointed to the two McCoy brothers. Paris promptly surrendered himself to the authorities, and was given an examining trial before Magistrate Valentine (Val) Hatfield, who released him from custody. Sam McCoy fled to the hills, but after eluding the officers for a month or more was captured by Elias Hatfield, indicted by the grand jury of his county, tried and acquitted.

In the summer of 1882 it happened that a relative and friend of both factions ran for office in Pike County. The clans met on election day, August 7th, to work for their man.

It was the custom then, as well as now, although the law has placed serious restrictions upon the practice, to supply voters with copious quantities of whiskey. A candidate who failed to do his duty in this respect was certain to lose many votes, if not the chance of election.

On the occasion in question “moonshine” liquor was plentiful. Both the Hatfields and McCoys and their adherents imbibed freely and during the day grew boisterous and belligerent. The immediate occasion for beginning a fight was furnished when Tolbert McCoy approached Elias Hatfield, commonly known as “Bad Lias,” and demanded payment of an old debt. A quarrel ensued and the fight was on. “Bad Lias” got the worst of it.

The fight had attracted the attention of the friends and kindred of both men. Officers attempted to separate them without avail. Then “Big” Ellison Hatfield took a hand. Enraged and on fire with copious drinks of whiskey, he challenged the victorious Tolbert McCoy to fight a man of his size. Hatfield was a powerful man. Straight as an arrow, he stood six feet six in his stocking feet, and weighed considerably over two hundred pounds. The fight now went against McCoy from the start. He resorted to his knife and during the struggle stabbed Hatfield repeatedly and with frightful effect. Again and again he plunged the cold steel into the body of his adversary. Though horribly slashed and losing much blood, Hatfield yet retained strength. With a final effort he threw McCoy upon the ground, sat upon him, seized a large jagged stone, raised it on high to strike the fatal blow, when Phamer McCoy, who had been patiently waiting for the opportunity, fatally shot Hatfield with a pistol.

It was also charged by the Hatfields that Randolph McCoy, Jr., a youth of fifteen, had stabbed Hatfield once or twice.

As soon as Phamer McCoy saw the effect of his shot he dropped the weapon and sought safety in flight. He was pursued by Constable Floyd Hatfield and captured. Tolbert and young Randolph were also immediately arrested. The wounded Hatfield was removed to the house of one of his kinsmen.

The prisoners remained on the election ground under heavy guard, for some two hours. Then they were taken to the house of Johns Hatfield for the night. Tolbert Hatfield and Joseph Hatfield, two justices of the peace of Pike County, Kentucky, Mathew, Floyd and other Hatfields had charge of the prisoners. The father of the three, old Randolph McCoy, remained with them through the night.

Early on the following morning the officers proceeded with their charges on the road to Pikeville, the county seat. Scarcely had they traveled half a mile, when they were overtaken by Val Hatfield, the West Virginia justice of the peace, and “Bad Lias” Hatfield, brothers of the wounded Ellison. They demanded of the officers that they return with their prisoners into the magisterial district in which the fight had occurred to await the result of Ellison Hatfield’s wounds. The officers complied with the demand. Randolph McCoy, Sr., remonstrated, but was laughed at for his pains. He then started alone to Pikeville for the purpose of consulting with the authorities there. That was the last time he saw his three sons alive.

After being turned back by Val and Bad Lias Hatfield the prisoners were taken down the creek. At an old house there was a corn sled. Val directed the three brothers placed in it, and in that manner they were conveyed to Jerry Hatfield’s house. Here Charles Carpenter, who, together with Devil Anse and Cap Hatfield, Alex Messer, the three Mayhorn brothers, and a number of other outlaws, had joined Val Hatfield and the other officers at the old house, procured ropes and securely trussed and bound the prisoners. In this condition they remained until they were murdered.

At noon the crowd stopped at the Reverend Anderson Hatfield’s for dinner. After the meal was over, Devil Anse stepped into the yard and there cried out: “All who are friends of Hatfield fall into line.” Most of those present did so from inclination or through fear.

From there the prisoners were taken to the river and across into West Virginia to an old, dilapidated schoolhouse. Here they lay, tied, upon the filthy floor.

Heavily armed guards at all times stood sentinel over the doomed brothers. Cap and Johns Hatfield, Devil Anse and his two brothers, Elias and Val Hatfield, Charles Carpenter, Joseph Murphy, Dock Mayhorn, Plyant Mayhorn, Selkirk McCoy and his two sons, Albert and L. D., Lark and Anderson Varney, Dan Whitt, Sam Mayhorn, Alex Messer, John Whitt, Elijah Mounts and many others remained at or about the schoolhouse, awaiting news from the bedside of Ellison Hatfield.

Along toward night arrived the mother of the unfortunate prisoners, and the wife of Tolbert McCoy, to plead with the jailers for the lives of the sons and husband. The pleadings of the grief-stricken women fell upon deaf ears; they had no other effect upon these hearts of stone than rough admonitions from Val Hatfield and others to “shut up, stop that damned noise, we won’t have no more of it.”

Night had fallen. The women were told to leave and thrust from the house into the inky darkness. It had been raining hard and the creeks were swollen. Wading streams, drenched to the skin, the miserable women felt their way through the dark, stumbling and falling along the road, or trail. Along about midnight they arrived at Dock Rutherford’s house. Bruised, shivering, ill and shaking from exposure, fatigue, grief and terror, they could travel no further, and were taken in for the night.

Morning came and again they hastened to the improvised prison of their loved ones. There they were viciously taunted with the uselessness of their endeavor to obtain mercy. They were told that if Ellison Hatfield died of his wounds, “the prisoners will be filled as full of holes as a sifter bottom.”

Along about two o’clock Val Hatfield curtly commanded Mrs. McCoy to leave the house and to return no more. She pressed for the reason of this order and was told that her husband, Randolph, was known to be at that moment attempting to assemble a crowd to rescue his sons. “Of course, you know,” sneered the heartless wretch, “if we are interfered with in the least, them boys of yours will be the first to die.”

Mrs. McCoy denied the truth of the report, but her protestations were in vain. The two women saw themselves compelled to abandon the utterly useless struggle to save their loved ones and departed. It was the last time they saw them alive.

All along throughout their confinement the brothers had shown a brave spirit. Now they lost all hope of rescue as from hour to hour the band of enemies increased until a small army had assembled.

Through the open door they saw them sitting or standing in groups. Some were idly playing cards; others singing ribald songs or church hymns, whichever struck their fancy; all of them were drinking heavily. They heard an animated discussion as to the manner of death they should be made to suffer in the event of Ellison Hatfield’s death. Some had suggested hanging; then one proposed that they make it a shooting match, with live human beings for a target. The idea was adopted by acclamation.

Along in the afternoon of the 9th of August, the third day since the wounding of Ellison Hatfield, the assembled band was suddenly startled and every man brought to his feet by the sounds of a galloping horse. Instinctively they realized they were about to have news of Ellison Hatfield. The stir among their guards had aroused the attention of the prisoners. They easily guessed its portent. It was not necessary to tell them that Ellison Hatfield was dead. His corpse had been brought to the home of Elias Hatfield, who, together with a number of others that had been waiting at the bedside of the dying man, now augmented the Hatfield forces at the old schoolhouse.

A mock trial was had and sentence of death passed upon the three McCoy brothers. These helpless, hopeless creatures, tied to one another like cattle about to be delivered to the slaughterhouse, were now jeered, joked and mocked. They were not told yet when they must die, nor where. To keep them in uncertainty would only increase their suffering and that uncertainty lasted to the end.

It is nine o’clock at night. They are taken to the river, placed on a flat boat and conveyed to the Kentucky side. Within 125 yards of the road, in a kind of sink or depression, the three doomed brothers are tied to pawpaw bushes.

Around them stands the throng of bloodthirsty white savages, reared in the midst of a Christian country, and from which every year go missionaries and fortunes in money to foreign lands to make man better and rescue him from savagery. But somehow this region had been overlooked. Not one voice is raised in pity or favor of the victims, an unfortunate man, a youth and a child.

The monsters dance about them in imitation of the Indian. They throw guns suddenly into their faces and howl in derision when the thus threatened prisoner dodges as much as the bonds which hold him will permit.

Alex Messer now approaches closely to Phamer McCoy and deliberately fires six shots into different parts of his body. This is not an act of mercy, to end the man’s suffering. No, he has taken care to avoid the infliction of any instantly fatal wound. Messer steps back, views the flowing blood and pain-distorted face and—laughs.

Ellison Mount, supposedly the most savage of them all, now proves more merciful. He carries a long-barreled, old-fashioned hunting rifle; he throws it to his shoulder, takes careful aim, and blows out the brains of Tolbert McCoy who, immediately before the shot fired, had thrown his arm to protect the face. The bullet penetrated through the arm into the head.

Only the little boy, Randolph McCoy, Jr., is left unharmed, as yet. Will they spare him? Some favor his release, one or two demand it. But this idea is hooted down upon the ground that he is as guilty as the others, and even if he were not, now that he knew the assassins of his brothers, it would be utter folly to leave such a dangerous witness alive to tell the story. “Dead men tell no tales,” cries one of the heartless wretches, and impatient of the useless delay, approaches the boy and with a double charge of buckshot blows off his head.

The entire band then fires a farewell volley into the bodies of the dead.

We said “the entire band.” This is not correct. For one of the Hatfields had remained on the other side of the river. “The Bible condemns murder,” he had said. But this good man volunteered to stand guard and prevent any interference or interruption of the butchery.

The foul deed accomplished, the murderers recrossed the river and entered West Virginia. Then Val Hatfield, the justice of the peace, this officer of the law, with solemn formality administered to the murderers the oath never to betray the name of a member of the band even should death stare him in the face. What is an oath to such depraved creatures? There, standing on the banks of the river, surrounded by that throng of midnight assassins, in sight of the spot that bore the frightful evidences of the dastardly work, Val Hatfield commanded them to raise their bloody hands to heaven. Each and all solemnly swore to stand by each other, never to reveal the secret of that night’s work, asking God to witness their oath. What supreme blasphemy!

After their return to West Virginia, parties who saw them and noted they were without the prisoners, asked what had become of them. Val Hatfield replied with a smile that they had “sent them back to Kentucky to stand the civil law.”

As soon as the assassination became known, the brothers and relatives of the dead untied the torn and mangled bodies, placed them in a sled and conveyed them to their home.

Have we exaggerated in the telling of this story? Let us see. Years afterwards some of the assassins were brought to trial. During the hearing of the case against Val Hatfield, the West Virginia justice of the peace, Mrs. Sarah McCoy, the mother of the slain brothers, testified:—

“I am the mother of Phamer, Tolbert and young Randolph McCoy. They are dead. They were killed on the night of August 9th, 1882. I saw them on the Monday before that, at Floyd Hatfield’s, while they were under arrest. The next time I saw them was over on Mate Creek, in Logan County, West Virginia, at a schoolhouse. When I got there, Val Hatfield was sitting by them with a shotgun across his lap. I was talking, praying and crying for my boys. While over at the mouth of Mate Creek I heard Val Hatfield say that if Ellison Hatfield died, he would shoot the boys full of holes. Tolbert was shot twice in the head and three or four times in the body. Phamer was shot in the head and ten or eleven times in the body, maybe more. The top of one side of the little boy’s head was shot off. He was down on his knees, hanging to the bushes when they found him. Tolbert had one arm over his face. Tolbert was 31, Phamer 19 and Randall 15 years old. They were hauled home on a sled and buried in one coffin.

“When Val Hatfield was sitting by them with a double barreled shotgun in his lap, the boys were lying on something on the floor, tied together with a rope. I fell on my knees and began praying and begging and crying for my children. Some one said there was no use of that, to shut up. Then some one came in and said that my husband was on the way with a large party to rescue his sons. I told them that there was nothing of it. They said for us to leave. Tolbert’s wife was with me. They said that if they were interfered with my boys would be the first to die.”[5]

The day following the murder the coroner of the district, also a Hatfield, held an inquest in which the jury reported a verdict to the effect that the three McCoy brothers had been shot and killed at the hands of persons unknown.

In affairs of this kind, where many men are engaged, men whose acts prove them without honor, without respect for law, man or God, truth comes to light in spite of oaths to reveal nothing. The parties had been seen with their prisoners by many people and had been seen returning to West Virginia without them. Neighbors heard the shots fired; saw the band of cutthroats, armed to the teeth, led by the brothers of Ellison Hatfield, the dead man. Aside from that, Mrs. McCoy and Tolbert McCoy’s wife had recognized and knew personally all of the men that guarded the boys at the schoolhouse. They had heard the threats repeated time and again that if Ellison Hatfield died, the boys would be murdered. The officers who had at first arrested them and taken charge of them, testified that at the house of the Reverend Hatfield’s the boys were tied, and that then they, the officers, were informed by Devil Anse, Val and Cap Hatfield, to “vamoose.” Twenty-three of the Hatfield clan were indicted in the Pike Circuit Court (Kentucky), each one charged with three murders. The indictments were returned into Court on the 14th day of September, 1882, but none of them was tried until seven years later.

Although heavy rewards were offered for the apprehension of the murderers, not until years after the crime was it that an actor stepped upon the scene whose intrepidity and shrewdness finally led to the undoing of many of the murder clan. However, through the law’s delay, many other horrible outrages followed this one, and many lives were lost before an end was put to bloodshed.

Much speculation was indulged in, after the assassination of August 9th, why old man Randolph McCoy had made no attempt to rescue his sons. The explanation is simple. When he left them on the morning following the fight they were in charge of Kentucky officers and guarded. When turned back by Val and Elias Hatfield, he was told by these men that the boys should have an examining trial in the magisterial district in which the fight had taken place, that the witnesses for both the State and the defence would be more easily accessible there than if the trial were had at Pikeville many miles away. At the county seat McCoy conferred with lawyers and engaged them in the defence of his sons for the killing of Ellison Hatfield, should he die. He could not believe that Val Hatfield, a sworn officer of the law, would so far forget and violate his solemn oath of office so to condone or aid or to participate in such a wholesale butchery. Aside from this, the arresting officers, also Hatfields, would see to the safety of the prisoners, as it was their duty to do. He feared, too, that interference might endanger the safety of the sons and thought it best to remain passive. He placed his trust in the law. We have seen the result.

After the indictment of the Hatfields they maintained their armed organization under the leadership of Devil Anse and “Cap,” his son. Devil Anse was a man of fine physique, tall and muscular, as were his sons, Johns and Cap. Randolph McCoy described Cap as “six feet of devil and 180 pounds of hell!” Neither of these men suggested the outlaw and the desperado. All of them possessed regular features, but the strong jaws, the rectilinear foreheads with angular, knotty protuberances denoted according to the physiognomist firm, harsh, oppressive activity. In their intercourse with friends they exhibited a jovial disposition and their eyes beamed kindly. But once aroused to anger there took place an instant metamorphosis. At such times Anse Hatfield justified the sobriquet “Devil” Anse. Then the glittering eyes told of the fires of rage and hate within, the veins in his forehead bulged and knotted and corrugated; the quivering lips, thin and straight, bespoke the cruelty of which he was capable of inflicting upon all who dared oppose him or his. His whole countenance at such times impressed one with awe and fear. It had that effect upon strangers ignorant of his record of blood. And—like father—like sons.

Old man Randolph McCoy, at the time of the murder of his three sons, was sixty-three years old. He was by no means a strong man. His features wore a kindly expression. He was quiet in his talk, and one of the most hospitable citizens of Pike County. That he was brave, when necessity demanded it he had demonstrated on many occasions. But he was not, and never had been a bully, nor was he bloodthirsty. He made all possible efforts to effect the capture of his sons’ assassins and sought to punish them through the law. His efforts in this direction exasperated the Hatfields still more. Not satisfied now with eluding the officers, they assumed the offensive, invaded Pike County in force at any time they saw fit, harassed the McCoy family in every possible manner with the evident intention of eventually driving them out of the country, and to thus remove the main spring of the prosecution against them in the Pike County courts.

Finding themselves baffled in this purpose, the death of the old man was decreed. In the month of June, 1884, the murder was scheduled to take place.

McCoy had been summoned to appear in court at Pikeville in some case. Of this fact the Hatfields had prompt information, for even in the county seat they had their spies and supporters. Knowing well the route the old man must take to reach Pikeville, an ambush was prepared at a suitable spot.

A mistake saved the old man’s life. Two of McCoy’s neighbors, also witnesses at court, started for town on the same day. They were clad almost precisely as were Randolph McCoy and his accompanying son Calvin. Accident belated the McCoys and so they rode far to the rear of their neighbors who, on approaching the ambush at nightfall, were fired upon. In the fusilade both men were wounded, one of them crippled for life. Their horses were shot dead on the spot.

The assassins, confident that the hated old man McCoy was no more, returned to West Virginia, jubilant and rejoicing, celebrating the supposed death with a grand spree. We may imagine their chagrin and disappointment on discovery of the mistake and the consequent escape of the hated enemy. Discouragement, however, was a word not included in their vocabulary. Failure only spurred them to renewed and greater efforts.

In 1886 the feud branched off. One Jeff McCoy, brother of the wife of Johns Hatfield, was accused of murdering Fred Walford, a mail carrier. Finding the officers hot on his trail in Kentucky he fled, and sought safety in West Virginia, at the home of his brother-in-law. Hatfield, formerly an active member of the murder clan, had, however, of late ceased to participate in their lawless raids. Although he had not forgotten his hatred of the McCoys, for his wife’s sake he sheltered her fugitive brother.

Near Johns Hatfield lived Cap Hatfield, who had in his employ one Wallace. Jeff McCoy had been at the home of his brother-in-law but a short time when he became aware of the presence of Wallace at the farm of Cap Hatfield’s. Trouble started at once.

As we have seen, attempts upon the life of old man McCoy had thus far proved abortive. Somehow, all the best-laid plans of the Hatfields had miscarried. Suspicion grew that there must be a traitor in their camp, and this became more strong as time rolled on, with the result that the wife and mother of one Daniels were accused of furnishing information to the McCoys. One night, while Daniels was absent from home, the house was surrounded, the door broken open and the two women were cruelly beaten. Mrs. Daniels subsequently died from her injuries; the old lady was rendered a cripple for life.

Daniels’ wife was a sister of Jeff McCoy, who had somehow secured information sufficient to regard Wallace as the instigator and leader of the outrage. He hunted for him high and low, but had lost all trace of him until, to his great joy, he discovered his whereabouts—at the home of Cap Hatfield.

On November 17th, 1886, accompanied by a friend, he went in search of Wallace. Cap Hatfield was absent; his wife lay ill in bed. When McCoy approached the house Wallace was busily at work in the yard. He was called upon to surrender. On looking up he saw himself covered by two guns. McCoy pretended to arrest him for the purpose of taking him to Pikeville for trial of the indictments returned against the assailant of the Daniels women. Wallace, however, readily surmised the true intention of his captors. He expected no mercy at the hands of the man who believed and knew him to be guilty of beating the sister to death, and attempted escape. On the first opportunity, while the vigilance of his captors had momentarily relaxed, he started to run, but was shot down, although not seriously wounded. He gained the house, barricaded the door, and through the window opened fire upon McCoy and his associate. These returned the fire, shot after shot they drove through the windows and door, for, at this time, the heavy repeating Winchester rifle had come into general use. While other modern inventions found no market there, the most improved guns and pistols might have been found in homes that had not learned the use of a cook stove.

The fusilade continued for some time, but Wallace, in his fort of log walls, drove the enemies from the field.

Immediately upon Cap Hatfield’s return Wallace was told to swear out a warrant against Jeff McCoy and his companion Hurley. The papers were taken in hand by Cap Hatfield, who had secured the appointment of special constable. He was not long finding the men. With his accustomed coolness he covered them with his guns, ordered Hurley to throw his weapon on the ground and to disarm McCoy. This capture of two armed and dangerous men single-handed proved the daring of Hatfield. He started for Logan Court House, W. Va., with his prisoners. On the way he was joined by Wallace, doubtless by previous appointment. Together they proceeded to Thacker, a small village on the way. There a short halt was made, and the prisoners were left to themselves. This opportunity McCoy used to cut the thongs that tied his hands by means of a knife held between his teeth. As soon as his hands were free he started on a run for the Kentucky side. He reached the Tug Fork, plunged into the stream and swam for life. But his captors were marksmen. He had reached the bank of the river on the opposite side and was climbing the steep slope, when a well-directed shot from Cap’s gun tore through his heart and he fell dead upon his face.

It was common knowledge that the opportunity to escape had been given him deliberately. Hatfield and Wallace enjoyed to the full the fruitless effort to escape death. It was sport, nothing more.

Hurley, strange to say, was liberated. Wallace escaped, but in the following spring was captured by two of Jeff McCoy’s brothers, Dud and Jake, and delivered to the jailer of Pike. Before trial he broke jail and returned to Cap Hatfield, who supplied him liberally with money and a mount to aid his escape.

For some time thereafter all trace of him was lost. At last he was heard of in Virginia. Unwilling to turn his hands to honest labor, he had engaged in the illicit sale of whiskey. For this he was arrested and fined. In this wise his name became public and in the course of time his whereabouts became known back in Kentucky. Jeff McCoy’s brothers offered a reward for his capture and two men started upon the trail of the much desired fugitive. Within a short time they returned to Kentucky and claimed the reward. Where was the prisoner? The answer was given by the exhibition of a bloody lock of hair—the reward was paid.

Came the year 1887. Still not one of the twenty-three murderers of the three McCoy brothers had been apprehended, although they were frequently seen on the Kentucky side. Attempts to take them had been made from time to time, but the officers always found them in such numbers and so perfectly armed that an attempt to force their arrest would have resulted in much bloodshed without accomplishing the arrest.

Then Governor Proctor Knott of Kentucky took a hand and offered tempting rewards. His successor, General Simon Bolivar Buckner, renewed them, and issued requisitions for the twenty-three murderers upon the governor of West Virginia, appointing as agent one Frank Phillips to receive the prisoners.

Weeks passed and no attempt was made on the part of the West Virginia officers to execute the warrants for these men so badly wanted in Kentucky, and, to the utter surprise and indignation of Governor Buckner, the West Virginia Executive, Governor Wilson, refused to honor the requisitions, assigning various reasons and excuses for his non-action.

Governor Buckner, the old “warhorse,” as his friends and comrades-in-arms in the Civil War affectionately dubbed him, took the West Virginia governor to task for his lack of coöperation in the apprehension of the murderers. An exceedingly salty correspondence followed. The controversy grew so bitter that, for a time, a declaration of war between the two States would have surprised no one. And while the governors fought each other on paper, the murder mill ground on uninterrupted, the bloody warfare continued without molestation.

Now enters upon the scene Frank Phillips, Governor Buckner’s Kentucky agent, to receive the persons named in the requisition upon the Governor of West Virginia. He was a deputy sheriff. Though of slight stature, he was as brave a little man as ever trod the soil of Kentucky, so noted for her brave sons. He was rapid as lightning, and would have made an ideal quarterback for any college football team. With all his bravery he was cautious, circumspect and shrewd. A terror to evil-doers, he was the general favorite throughout Pike County among the law-abiding citizens.

An incident which occurred during the summer of 1887, illustrates the utter fearlessness of the little, keen-eyed deputy sheriff. Warrants for the murderers of the three McCoy brothers had been issued upon the indictments repeatedly and as often returned by the sheriff “not found,” notwithstanding the presence of the fugitives on the Kentucky side on various occasions was common knowledge. Having so long remained unmolested, the Hatfields grew bold, and in 1887, took great interest in the Pike County election. Such was their contempt of the officers that as election day approached, the sheriff of Pike County was notified to instruct his deputies, that had warrants against them, to be certain and stay away from the voting precinct at which they, the Hatfields, would appear on election days, or, if the officers should attend, to leave the bench warrants for their arrest behind.

The election following the appointment of Frank Phillips as a deputy was one of deep interest to the Hatfields. Desiring to attend it, they sent word to Phillips to remain away, or to come unarmed and without warrants. He was threatened with sure death if he violated these injunctions. Frank, however, was cast in a different mold from that of his predecessors. He replied, in writing, that business demanded his presence at that election precinct on election day; that he would be there; that he would bring along the bench warrants, would come fully armed and that he intended to either take or kill them.

The Hatfields were amazed at the nerve of the man, but finally came to regard it as an idle boast. True to his word, Phillips went to the election ground. The Hatfields approached within gunshot distance and fired a volley through the brush and bushes, stampeding all but some eight or ten persons. The plucky little deputy sheriff remained till late in the afternoon, but the Hatfields withdrew. Inspiring example of what a brave, determined officer may do and it proves that with all their contempt for law and order deep down in the hearts of outlaws there is the fear of retribution and punishment. The little man had called their bluff because he had right on his side, and the nerve to contend for that right, and wherever there is a genuine determination to put an end to outlawry, it can be done, it matters not how desperate and vicious the outlaws may be.

Late in the fall of the same year Phillips, with three other men, crossed over into Logan County, W. Va., to receive the prisoners who had been arrested, as he supposed, on warrants issued by Governor Wilson after the issuance of the Kentucky governor’s requisitions.

After crossing the line between the two States he, for the first time, learned that no warrants had ever been issued, at least that no arrests had been made or even attempted. Then something happened. He and his men suddenly came upon Selkirk McCoy, Tom Chambers and Mose Christian, three of the murder clan that slew the McCoy brothers, and who were included in the requisitions. The opportunity to nab them was too good to resist the temptation to capture them, even without warrants, and it was done. He hurried them back and across the line into Kentucky, served them with Kentucky bench warrants and delivered them to the jailer at Pikeville.

The rage of the Hatfields over this “unlawful” arrest knew no bounds. It was an outrage, and a shameful violation of the law, they cried. They sought an outlet for their pent-up indignation and decided to make another attempt upon the life of old man McCoy.

For this purpose the leaders selected the most dangerous and desperate members of the clan.

At midnight, January 1st, 1888, this band of desperadoes, led by Cap Hatfield, heartless cutthroats all, surrounded the house of Randolph McCoy. On New Year, when every man and woman in the land should reflect regretfully upon the many follies and errors committed during the year gone by and good resolutions should fill every heart, on New Year’s night this outlaw band prepared to and did inaugurate another year of bloodshed and of horror.