THE WENTZ KIDNAPPING CASE--EIGHT MONTHS AMONG THE MOONSHINERS OF
KENTUCKY AND VIRGINIA.
My next operation was an educator, as I was thrown among a strange
class of people who think nothing of taking human life.
It was about the middle of November, 1903, when manager of the Western
Division, Mr. Jas. McCartney, called me into his private office to
inform me that I had been selected for an operation after every agency
office in the United States had been scoured for a suitable operative
to do the work. He then gave me an outline of the operation which was
to be conducted through the Philadelphia office, our client being
Millionaire Dr. Wentz of Philadelphia, Pa., whose young son Edward
Wentz had lately been kidnapped in the mountains of Virginia and was
supposed to be held a prisoner in Kentucky for a ransom, although it
was feared that the young man had been taken to Kentucky and murdered
for revenge.
Mr. McCartney informed me that it was a very dangerous operation and
asked if I were willing to undertake it. Of course I replied yes, as I
was itching to have some new experiences and to see new country. Then
Asst. Supt. “Hank” Geary gave me the large pile of correspondence which
had taken place between the different offices on the subject to read
over.
Mr. McCartney’s letter to the head officials of the New York office
caused my head to expand several inches, for he gave me a great
“send-off,” and the replies to this letter were equally flattering. I
was thought to be the only man in the agency who could go among the
“moonshiners” of the Kentucky mountains and stay there in spite of
danger and threats.
On short notice I boarded a train on the U. P. Ry. for Chicago, Ill.
Arriving in the smoky city by the lake, I called at our agency office
to see the “boys,” including Mr. W. L. Dickenson, Gen. Supt. F. V.
Taylor and Supt. Schaumwort.
At night Charlie S. saw me off on the Cannon Ball train for Buffalo,
New York, by way of Detroit, Mich., and through Canada to Niagara Falls.
From the train I had a fair view of Niagara Falls and other sights.
In Buffalo, New York, I laid over one night. I enjoyed the ride from
Buffalo to Philadelphia, as everything seemed different from “out west.”
In Philadelphia I found the cleanest, most good-natured city that I had
ever been in, but holy smoke, to use a cowboy phrase, she is slow. Even
the girls and the “hurry-up wagon” are not so swift as in other cities.
And I found that same graveyard slowness prevailing in our office, from
the superintendent down to the office boy.
I turned myself over to the superintendent, Mr. A.M. Pierce, and he
turned me over to Asst. Supt. E. E. Eslin, who had charge of the Dr.
Wentz kidnapping operation.
When not busy working in the office to familiarize myself with
the operation, I was taking in the sights of the city, the most
interesting being the building where the Declaration of Independence
was signed; also the art galleries were interesting to me.
Chief Clerk Dailey kindly acted as pilot in showing me the sights of
the city.
After spending a week in the city of Brotherly Love, I was called to
New York City by Mr. Roydel L. Dickenson, who wanted to consult with
me about the Dr. Wentz operation. Of course, this just suited me as I
wanted to see that city of sky-scrapers.
The day was spent with Mr. Dickenson, he taking me out to lunch with
himself and Gen. Manager Mr. Geo. E. Langston.
In advising me about my future work in Kentucky and Virginia, Mr.
Dickenson said I was taking my life into my own hands and that he
didn’t expect to see me come out of those mountains alive. He said I
had no idea of what kind of people inhabited those mountains; that
they are a different class from those of Texas and the west; that they
think nothing of shooting a man in the back on the least provocation;
that they are not the kind of men who will fight it out face to face
with an opponent; that the records of the Dickenson agency since 1850
prove this. Therefore, in a serious manner Mr. Dickenson advised me to
expect death at any moment. He said it was almost impossible to get an
operative located in those mountains, from the fact that strangers do
not go in there unless they have business, and in that case they are
known by the merchants or have letters to some one there stating the
nature of their mission.
He said the main object was to find Edward Wentz if still alive and
held a prisoner, so as to get soldiers in there and clean out the
country, or if dead, to recover the body. He thought it would be almost
out of the question to convict any one in the courts of that country
owing to the fact that the Virginia Coal & Iron Co. of which Dr. Wentz
is president, had many enemies among the ignorant and lawless element,
and because the people are all mixed up and related to each other,
so that it is difficult to get an unbiased jury. He felt sure that I
wouldn’t be in there away from the railroad twenty-four hours before
they would have me “spotted” as a detective in the revenue service,
to run down “moonshiners,” or on the hunt for young Wentz, and in
that case I would have to use my own judgment as to whether to get
out of the country or stand my ground. He insisted that I must not
feel backward about leaving the moment that I realized my life to be
in immediate danger. But I told him that my stubborn phrenology bump
wouldn’t allow me to leave after I once got in there.
I was instructed to leave the number of my watch, a description of
my pocketknife, key ring, pistol and the prominent marks on my body,
including the fillings in my teeth, so that my body in case of death
could be identified. I sent these to the Philadelphia office after
arriving on the ground, as I had received a reminder to do so from
Asst. Supt. Eslin, through the mail.
Before parting with Mr. Dickenson he tried to get me to promise that I
would, after finishing this operation, accept the position of assistant
superintendent in one of the western offices. It caused a smile when
I told him that I didn’t consider there was much honor in being an
assistant superintendent. He replied that it was necessary to start
as an assistant so as to learn the office work, before becoming a
superintendent. He cited the case of my friend W. O. Sayles becoming
superintendent soon after being made an assistant, and he said it was
through his request that I had been offered the promotion, ahead of
Sayles. I finally told him that the position of operative suited me.
During the day I met Mr. Jay Cornbush, manager of the Eastern Division,
and Supt. C. D. Hornybill, also young Alman Dickenson and the many
assistant superintendents.
It was agreed by Mr. Dickenson that I take an early morning train back
to Philadelphia, and that when my operation was finished I could come
back and see the sights of New York City. So bidding Mr. Dickenson
goodby, he turned me over to operative G. J. H. who had instructions
to take me to dinner or to one of the theaters or anywhere else that I
might want to go, at the agency’s expense.
A pleasant evening was spent, and after midnight a ferryboat landed me
in “Jersey” where a train was boarded for the slow City of Brotherly
Love.
Soon after my return to Philadelphia I started for Winchester,
Kentucky, with about $400.00 in my pocket and a small trunk containing
my cowboy boots, hat, etc. It had been decided best that I go into
Letcher County, Kentucky, which borders on Wise County, Virginia, where
Edward Wentz was kidnapped, by way of Jackson, in Brethitt county,
Kentucky, as if I left the railroad in Wise county, Virginia, where
the trouble occurred I would be suspected at once.
In the little city of Winchester I put up with Mr. Hays, who ran a
hotel. Here I rigged out in my old cowboy clothes and boarded a branch
train for Jackson, the trunk with my good clothes being left with Mr.
Hays until further orders. Of course Hays didn’t know where I was
headed for.
I found Jackson to be a drunken tough town. The militia were just
pulling out after having been there for a long time, on account of the
trouble over the assassination of lawyer Marcum, which had ended in
many killings.
The next day after my arrival in Jackson, I saw something which
convinced me that the human race is slightly mixed with the pig family
of animals. An old man on a mule started out of town with two jugs of
whisky tied across the back part of his saddle. He hadn’t gone but
half a block when the string broke and the jugs fell to the ground and
broke. The street was quite muddy and the whiskey lay in pools on the
ground. The old man got down on his knees and hands and began to drink
from the fiery pools. Soon others came and followed suit. They put me
in mind of a drove of human swine.
In Jackson I bought a mule and an old light spring wagon. Then it was
two days before I could get the mule shod, as all blacksmiths in town
were drunk. The mule stood at one shop all day while a pair of shoes
were being fitted. In the meantime I was taking in the dives with a
young man from Rock House Creek, up in the country where I was going.
On returning to the shop to get Mr. Donkey I found that the smith had
made a mistake and put the mule shoes onto a sleepy old grey horse tied
to a tree outside the shop. The feet had been rasped down to fit the
shoes. That night my mule got out of his stable and “hit” the road for
“tall timber.” Next morning I followed his tracks into the mountains
and found him shut up in a log stable down in a field. The woman and
boy didn’t want to give him up until their lord and master came back
from town, but he was taken back to town just the same, as I felt sure
they were thieves.
Finally I got started for Whitesburg, the county seat of Letcher
county, about 150 miles east.
The first day out I was compelled to wait an hour at a narrow bridge
where several wagons had the road blocked, while the drivers were in
a saloon near by drinking. I was told that this was a game the saloon
man played every day to make business for his place, and that it often
caused serious fights.
My route was up Lost Creek through mud up to the mule’s knees in places.
The road was in the bed of the creek most of the way, as the
small patches of level land upon the banks were needed by the
poverty-stricken people for farming purposes. Even the sides of steep
mountains were used for crops. This applies to the whole mountain
regions of Kentucky, as I found out later. I soon discovered my mistake
in having started with a vehicle, but I supposed the country was
unsettled in places so that I would have to camp out. On that account
camp outfit and bedding had been brought along. The whole country is
thickly settled, especially along the main roads and creeks. Some days
the best I could do was twelve or fifteen miles, owing to the deep mud
and large rocks in the bed of the creeks.
Before reaching Hazzard, the county seat of Perry county, I found a
man by the name of Pat N., who was a brother to Ashford N., a “bad”
man in Wise County, Virginia, who was suspected of having a hand in
the kidnapping of Ed. Wentz, as he had been seen near the scene and as
it was known that he was a bitter enemy of the Wentz brothers, Ed. and
Dan, who had charge of the coal properties in that country. I put up
with Pat N. until I had secured a letter of introduction to Ashford N.
in Virginia.
Pat informed me that his brother “Ash” had spent three years in Texas,
therefore I expressed a desire to meet him.
Pat N. kept a small saloon and store with about $50.00 worth of goods
on hand. He had about eight children and I had to sleep with three of
the boys. The whole family slept in one little room the size of a Utah
chicken house. So with about eleven of us in one room, the purity of
the air can be imagined. This is another kind of a bitter pill that a
detective has to swallow.
On reaching Hazzard, which is on the Kentucky river, I found court in
session, and the little burg was full of drunken men, though no saloons
were allowed to run as it is a local option county.
I was advised in Hazzard by many not to undertake the trip alone over
the mountains to Whitesburg, as the road was almost impassable for a
vehicle, and the country inhabited by an ignorant and vicious people
who had been known to murder travelers for their money and valuables.
After leaving Hazzard the road led up the Kentucky river for several
miles east, then turned to the north up a rocky, muddy creek, and now
my misery began. The higher up the creek we got the worse the road
became, and the wilder and woollier the people appeared.
The water in the creek was frozen over, so that in following its
bed the mule and rig would break through, causing the air to become
impregnated with swear-words. Ten miles of this and “Donk” and I were
ready for supper at one of the “shacks” called houses, along the road.
My patience had been tested between Jackson and Hazzard by the fool
questions asked me by every man, woman and child met, but it was at the
bursting point before reaching Whitesburg, for here even small boys
carrying pistols or squirrel rifles would stop me in the road to ask
fool questions. They all started out in the same strain: “Say mister,
wha’r mought you be goin?” and “Say mister, what mought your name be?”
A fool girl about eighteen years old who was wading in mud up to her
ankles, got in the seat beside me before she asked any questions. I
had invited her to ride to the little store two miles ahead, where she
was going. After getting on the seat she turned her good-looking face
towards me and said: “Do you live in these parts, mister?” I replied
no, that I lived in Texas.
The blood could be seen rushing into her face after it got past the
dirt around her neck. Most girls in these mountains keep the dirt
washed from their faces, which leaves a dark ring around the neck. Some
hide this ring by wearing a high collar, but it’s a safe two-to-one bet
that it’s there just the same.
Here the frightened girl begged me to stop the mule and let her out,
which I did, though I told her that she need have no fear just because
I was from Texas.
The girl beat me to the store by a quarter of a mile. Then the dozen or
more men, women and children at the store turned out on the road to see
the wild man from Texas, and they wore me out asking fool questions.
This is the part of Kentucky where preachers dare not come on account
of the men and boys getting drunk and shooting off their guns, and
mouths, too.
In going over the mountain I had to hire two white men and a half-breed
negro to help me, as the road was blocked with ice so that we had to
climb the side of a steep hill. Two men had to hold the vehicle up to
keep it from tumbling over the mountain cliff, while the other man
and myself kept “Donk” on his feet, and here “Donk” proved himself
sure-footed and a stayer.
Here a small settlement of half-breed negroes lived. A full-blood negro
is a curiosity to the natives of these mountains of Kentucky, though
they are plentiful in the coal mines over the line in Virginia.
On driving down to the Rock House Creek, which is noted for “moonshine”
whisky and tough men, about night, I found everything in an uproar.
Most of the people were drunk and on the warpath. A celebration had
been held in the schoolhouse. The blood hadn’t begun to flow until
nearly night, though the “moonshine” liquor had been flowing all day.
The row started over a man cutting a mule’s tail off almost up to his
ears. Several men were badly hurt, so it was said. The fight continued
far into the night at the house where I had intended to stop, owing
to it being a tough place. As a rule I selected the toughest places
to put up at, but this night I was advised by two men not to stop at
this house or I would be killed before morning, on account of being a
stranger, and this house being the headquarters for the drunken gang.
So I stopped on the adjoining farm.
Next day a severe snowstorm was raging, and about 3:00 P.M. a man who
was on his way from Rock House to Whitesburg where he lived, gave me
a couple of drinks out of his jug of “moonshine” whisky, which he had
bought at a still. He gave me his name as Sol Holcomb, and invited me
to come and put up with him in Whitesburg, as his wife sometimes kept
private boarders. He described the house so that it could be found
easily.
After dark I drove up to the log mansion owned by Sol Holcomb. Then I
had another drink out of the same jug, but now the bottom had to be
tipped high up in the air in order to squeeze a drink out of it.
At the supper table I told Mrs. Sol Holcomb, who tipped the scales at
250 pounds, and her pretty twenty year old daughter Lizzie, who weighed
only an even hundred pounds--that Sol had saved my life by stopping me
on the road in a blinding snowstorm to let me sample his liquor.
I didn’t tarry long in Whitesburg, but continued on up the Kentucky
river, eighteen miles to Craftsville, where I had had some “fake”
letters sent from Galveston, Texas, by my cousin, Miss Jeanette McKay.
In Philadelphia we had selected Craftsville post office as a good point
for me to head for, as it was in the heart of the tough district where
the Potter-Wright feud has been going on for years, until nearly all
the male members of both parties had been killed.
On reaching Craftsville I was somewhat surprised, for I expected to
find a little town or one store at least. There was nothing here but
old widow Bee Craft’s house and farm, and the young wife of old lady
Bee Craft’s son Tom was the “whole cheese” in handling Uncle Samuel’s
mail. Once a week she would have to strain her nerves in going over
about one dozen letters and a few dozen papers, mostly Fireside
Companions from Portland, Maine. The mail sack would be dumped out on
the floor and sorted over there. All mail addressed to Craftsville
would be put in the garret until some one called for it.
The next day was Christmas eve, and “Nels” Craft, a son of the widow
Bee Craft, came from his place half a mile below on the river, to find
out who wanted to send for Xmas “moonshine,” as he was going to a still
that day. Tom Craft and I both sent for a supply. That night we all,
including the old lady and her adopted daughter Miss Lou, rode down
to “Nels’” place to eat supper and drink “moonshine.” “Nels” and his
brother-in-law, Tilden Wright, had returned from the still with the
liquor.
On the way home after midnight Tom Craft made the air ring with his
shouts and yelling. He was loaded with “moonshine” inside and out.
Miss Lou rode behind me on “Donk” and helped to hold me on, as I was a
little bit loaded myself, though my early training in Texas prevented
me from yelling in the presence of ladies. The cowboy “Comanche yells”
were almost choking me though, in their eagerness to escape, but by
force of will-power they were held back.
Next morning was Christmas, and young Wiley Craft rode down from his
father’s place half a mile above, to tell me that he had caught the fat
’possum for which I had offered a reward of fifty cents the day before.
On the previous day I had gone up to John Craft’s with Tom to see
the pretty girl from Donkey, Virginia, who had just arrived with her
father “Doc.” They were taking tintype photos and canvassing for a life
insurance company in Detroit, Michigan. This seventeen-year-old girl,
Emma, was certainly a “peach,” when it came to the bloom of youth and
beauty painted on her cheeks.
In Philadelphia, Donkey, Va., had been given to me as the toughest
little spot on earth, and a likely place to get some information about
young Wentz. Therefore I concluded to fall in love with Emma, even
though I was old enough to be her father, so as to have an excuse for
visiting Donkey, Va.
[Illustration: EMMA S., “DONK” AND THE AUTHOR.]
The ’possum was part of the scheme. I returned with Wiley Craft to see
Mr. ’possum and have Emma take his picture before I got on the outside
of him, for Mrs. John Craft had agreed if one was caught, to cook him
with sweet potatoes for my Christmas supper.
I found the opossum to be young and fat. His picture was “took” and he
then went into the pot.
Miss Lou had gone up to John Craft’s early in the day with her
sweetheart, Bennie, who had a bad case of lovesickness, to join the
crowd of young folks who had congregated there.
After helping Mrs. Craft put the ’possum into the pot I went into
the large front room to drink “moonshine” with “Doc,” John Craft and
others, and to watch the young folks play a new kind of a kissing game.
A large number of couples would form a circle by holding each other’s
hands. This circle of young men and women would revolve round and round
until one of their number snapped his or her fingers at some one in the
audience. Then the one snapped at would jump up and catch the snapper
and by force kiss him or her. I noticed that the kissing was always
on the cheek, and when Miss Lou snapped at me, while I was talking to
“Doc” about “Donkey” town, I warned her not to do it again, if she did
it would wind up in a western kiss which is generally planted where it
will do the most good. I also told her that I was a little too old to
get into their game, although this was a lie, as at that very moment I
was dying to get into the game just long enough to kiss Emma once, and
thereby lengthen my life about five years.
In passing, Lou snapped at me again, and the tussle began. I went at
it in a systematic manner and when her head rested on my left arm and
her face was turned up towards the ceiling, the kiss was planted on her
lips where it did the most good, to one poor sinner at least. Then I
had to get inside the ring and choose a girl from the circle. Of course
Emma was the victim and it was soon over, as sweet things seldom last
long, at least not long enough.
As Mrs. Bee Craft and Tom’s wife were getting up a fine turkey dinner,
I had promised to be back there at noon. I felt sure of finding a
drunken crowd there on my return, as they had begun to arrive before I
left.
On getting “Donk” to start, Lou insisted on riding behind me in spite
of the protests from her lover Bennie. I tried to persuade her to let
Bennie take her home, as he had brought her, but she wouldn’t have it
that way, so there was nothing for me to do but be “blooded” and take
the chances of an assassin’s bullet later.
On reaching home the mule was put into the stable and fed, after Lou
had been helped off at the front gate.
Loud swearing could be heard in the house, which showed that the
“moonshine” was getting in its work.
On stepping onto the porch, Tilden Wright, one of the noted feudists
whose father and older brothers had lately been killed by the Potter
gang, came out of the dining room and met me face to face. With his
right hand resting on the handle of the large pistol strapped to his
waist, he said in an angry and insulting voice: “Say, Lloyd, how would
you like to have your ---- brains scattered all over this floor?”
I knew there was war in the air from the way Mrs. Tom Craft, who had
followed Wright out of the dining room, looked. She was pale and
trembling. Therefore my hand went up to my breast to the shirt front
which was open, before answering. Then looking Wright in the eyes with
a good-natured smile I said: “Why, Tilden, it wouldn’t feel very nice
to have my brains scattered on the floor, and besides it would cause a
lot of extra work to clean them up.”
Then I asked the cause of his anger and found it to be the Virginia
girl, Emma, whom he said I was acting a fool over, when there were
prettier girls in Kentucky than she; that his sister-in-law, Miss
Victoria Craft, was a prettier girl than Emma. I asked him why he
didn’t trot out Miss Victoria so I could get a look at her and decide
the matter for myself. He replied: “Why damn it, you saw her last night
at Nels’ party,” I told him he was mistaken as Victoria’s mother was
sick so that she couldn’t attend the party at “Nels’.” He studied a
moment and replied: “That’s so, her mother was sick last night. I’ll
bring her up tomorrow and you’ll say she’s a prettier girl than Emma.”
Then Wright took his hand from the pistol and started staggering into
the large front room where the gang were.
Had Wright pulled his pistol he would have been surprised when old
Colts 45 came out from under my left arm where it was concealed in a
“Wess Harding” shoulder scabbard. The day being warm, I was in my shirt
sleeves, hence he could see no pistol and thought me unarmed. My shirt
was kept unbuttoned from the collar down, in order that my hand could
reach the pistol quickly. At nights I slept with it under my arm.
On going into the dining room I found a crowd of strangers eating
at the table. Most of them were drunk and noisy, and eyed me with
suspicion as the old lady seated me at a vacant place.
“Mose” Craft who owned a “moonshine” still, and who had run
“moonshine” stills all his life, was at the table eating, while two men
kept him in his seat as he wanted to go into the other room to renew
the fight with “Nels” Craft, his cousin. “Nels” was being held by other
men in the front room. Broken dishes and blood were scattered over the
dining room floor. The fight had been a fierce one; and others besides
the cousins had taken a hand. Pistols and knives had not been used
owing to the efforts of the women folks and old man Joe Craft, who was
quite sober and acted as peace-maker.
On finishing my dinner I concluded not to go into the front room where
the drunken mob were, but to “hike” back to Emma and the ’possum and
sweet ’taters.
I was just leading “Donk” out of the stable, which was a hundred yards
from the residence at the foot of a mountain, when I heard Tilden
Wright calling: “Lloyd, you ---- where are you?” Then looking towards
the house I saw Tilden Wright and “Mose” Craft searching for me. They
staggered around back of the house and when out of sight I led the mule
back of the stable and let down a rail fence. When inside the pasture
the fence was put back in place. Then “Donk” was mounted and a run
made up a small gulch, thence a short climb up the mountain side to a
thicket of timber and brush. Here I dismounted and lay down to watch
developments. I was high up above the house and could see Wright and
Craft searching for me. When they searched the stable and found my
mule gone, they began calling me all kinds of names. Then they began
shooting down the timbered lane through which I was supposed to have
gone. They then went to the house and I had a good laugh all by my
lone self, at the way they had been fooled. Had they found me the
chances are it would have ended in bloodshed, for later “Mose” Craft,
who is a fine fellow when sober, apologized to me and said they had got
it into their heads that I was a spy from the revenue office in search
of “moonshiners,” hence he and Tilden trying to find me to raise a
“racket.”
A climb over the mountain and the letting down of two more rail fences
and the fording of the Kentucky river, brought me to John Craft’s where
I joined the lively crowd and had my nerves quieted with a few more
young kisses. This time one of John Craft’s daughters started the ball
to rolling by “snapping” her fingers at me. She wanted no doubt, to try
the experiment of a western scientific kiss.
During the middle of the afternoon, Joe Craft and four other men
brought “Mose” Craft and his fighting “jag” up to our place so as to
get him away from “Nels.” They had been fighting again.
Here I received some new lessons in human nature, which differed from
anything which I had ever seen before.
The house was full of young ladies, and some who were not so young.
“Mose” Craft stepped into the door and opened up with the most vulgar
language that the human tongue is capable of uttering, and he topped
it off with a vulgar song. In my native state, he would have been
filled so full of lead by angry fathers, brothers, and sweethearts,
that it would have required an extra team to have hauled his body to
the graveyard. The girls and women all ran to the kitchen as soon as
possible. Mrs. John Craft soon had “Mose” in bed and asleep.
Gee, but I did enjoy that ’possum and the sweet potatoes.
I returned to Mrs. Bee Craft’s late at night and found the old lady and
Miss Lou sitting by the kitchen fireplace. The balance were in bed or
had left for their homes.
Mrs. Bee Craft had drunk her share of the “moonshine,” hence she was
in a talkative mood. She told me all about her oldest son, who is
now married and living a peaceful life in another part of the state,
having lived an outlaw life for years in these mountains, on account of
killing revenue officers who were trying to stamp out “moonshining;”
and of how her husband was burned to death while drunk in the house of
two “bad” women.
In speaking of her enemies, the old lady used language which caused me
to blush on account of Miss Lou, who was present. But Lou didn’t seem
to mind it, so from that time on while in these mountains, I did not
waste any more blushes.
Old Lady Bee Craft turned out to be, in my estimation the most honest
and motherly woman in this mountain region. I had a chance to learn her
true nature.
The next day Miss Victoria, Tilden Wright’s sister-in-law, came to the
widow Bee Craft’s, and I took her and Lou up to John Craft’s and had
their pictures “took.”
Miss Victoria was a nice, good-looking girl, but as a beauty she
couldn’t travel in the same class with Miss Emma.
[Illustration: VICTORIA CRAFT.]
A couple of days later I bade the Crafts goodby for the time being,
and started for Whitesburg in my spring wagon. Tom Craft advised me
not to start as the river was frozen over at two of the bad crossings,
and if the mule and rig broke through the ice I couldn’t get them back
onto the ice, as the water was belly-deep to a horse. In the eighteen
miles to Whitesburg the river had to be crossed about a dozen times. I
thanked Tom for his advice, but told him that out west we never crossed
a bridge till we got to it, and then if the bridge was gone, we crossed
anyway.
At one of the crossings my mule and wagon broke through in deep water,
and I scared “Donk” by yelling and whipping so that he split the ice
wide open. He would make a jump up on the ice, and then when it broke
through, he would try, try again. Finally he was on the run, splashing
water all over me until I was as wet as a drowned rat. Once he slipped
on the ice and went down into the water on his side, but he came up
running.
Soon after this, we passed Monroe W.’s house by the side of the road,
and being wet, I concluded to make an effort to stay all night. I
wanted to make Monroe’s acquaintance anyway, as he was one of Wentz’s
bitterest enemies and suspected of having a hand in kidnapping young
Wentz. He had been in the “moonshine” liquor business all his life and
was considered a king-bee among the “moonshiners.”
The hired man informed me that Monroe W. was down in a pasture after
some cattle, and wouldn’t be back for an hour. He also informed me that
Monroe W. was not in the habit of taking strangers in to put up all
night. This I took as a hint that I had better be going on as it was
late in the evening.
Just about dark, after I had started up a steep grade to go over a high
ridge into Whitesburg which lay two miles further down the river, a 250
pound piece of middle-age humanity rode up behind me on a large bay
horse and commanded me to stop. I did so, then he rode up by the side
of the wagon and in an angry voice asked: “What in the h----l are you
doing in this country?” I told him that we were going to Whitesburg,
providing the Lord was willing and the mule held out. He replied:
“We don’t want your kind of people in this country, so you had better
hit the road and go back where you came from, and you want to go d----d
quick, too. You will be lucky if you get back.”
I asked why they didn’t want me here. He replied:
“You are a d----d detective that’s why.” I asked what a detective would
be doing in such a country as this. He replied: “That’s all right,
we’ve had your kind of people here before, spying around to catch
moonshiners. You had better turn that mule around and hit the road back
if you know what’s good for you.”
Here I looked back down the road and saw two men on horseback coming
in a slow walk. They were a quarter of a mile away, at a turn in the
road. I concluded that they were into this scheme to run me out of the
country, so I started to get mad and my stubborn bump began to work.
The mule was started ahead, and I told the big mountaineer that I was
going to Whitesburg in spite of h----l and highwater. He replied:
“Well by God if you do, you and your d----d outfit will go into the
river.”
Here I became mad “proper,” and said: “You cut-throats may shoot me
from behind a tree up on the mountain side, which I am told is your
favorite way to assassinate people, but you can’t scare me. I’m going
to Whitesburg, so turn your wolf loose.”
He put spurs to his horse and started up the steep grade on a trot
ahead of me saying: “Well by God if you do, I’ll have you thrown in
jail till we can investigate you.”
I hallooed back: “All right, you’ll find me at Sol Holcomb’s.” At this
he jerked his horse up and said: “What in the h----l do you know about
Sol Holcomb? You have never been in Whitesburg!” I replied: “The d----l
I haven’t; I just left Whitesburg two days before Christmas.”
He then started off again, saying: “All right, I’ll just have you
thrown in jail anyhow.”
As it soon became dark, I lost sight of Monroe W. and the two men
following behind.
It was plain to my mind now, that this big man who proved to be Monroe
W. had never heard of me being in the country, and when his hired man
described me and told him I wanted to stay all night at his place he
concluded that I had just come from Virginia, from whence they had been
looking for detectives. And a month later, after I had become “solid”
with his mother-in-law, Lottie H., I found out that my guess was
right, for she said that Monroe W. thought I was a detective sent from
Virginia to work on the Wentz case, but that when he found out I had
already been to Whitesburg and had driven overland from Jackson, Ky.,
he tried to pass it off as a joke as though he just wanted to frighten
me.
It was over an hour after dark when I drove into Whitesburg, and when I
went into the little “shack” of a post office, Monroe W. and a man whom
I later found was one of his chums, were there ahead of me.
I asked for my mail and a letter was handed out. It was just the one
I wanted, and I knew no others would come at that time. Just as I
received the letter Monroe W. stepped up and asked to see the post-mark
on it. I replied, certainly, if it would do him any good; so the letter
was handed to him. He then took it to an oil lamp in one corner where
he and his chum examined the post-mark which was Galveston, Texas.
This was one of the “fake” letters which my cousin Jeanette McKay had
copied from one I sent her. Later, after I had taken Monroe W. into my
confidence, I let him read the contents of this “fake” letter.
Had I not mentioned the name of Sol Holcomb, showing that I had been in
Whitesburg before, there is no telling what might have happened, for
if the two riders seen following behind were into the play they could
have taken a cut-off bridle path after getting over the high ridge, and
have joined Monroe W. without my seeing them. Then if so disposed, they
could have waylaid me and thrown my body and the outfit into the river,
far below to the left.
Thus did Christmas of 1903 pass into oblivion, along with the one spent
on the L X ranch with Hollicott and his demijohn.