A HURRAH LIFE AMONG THE “MOONSHINERS”--I ESCAPE POSSIBLE DEATH BY A
SCRATCH--THE BODY OF ED. WENTZ FOUND.
After becoming settled in Whitesburg at the Holcomb log mansion on the
main street, I began to study the people. I found that those living in
town were an improvement over those of the country.
My spring wagon was discarded never to be used again by me. It was put
under a shed for Mrs. Holcomb’s chickens to roost on. I concluded to
stick to the hurricane deck of a mule or horse in future.
On making inquiry I found that Ashford N., whose brother lived on Lost
Creek, was in the Whitesburg jail serving out a six months’ sentence,
by order of the much hated Republican District Judge Morse, who tries
to enforce the laws. “Ash” had been convicted of selling liquor in this
prohibition county of Letcher, Kentucky. At the jail through the steel
bars, my letter of introduction from his brother Pat was presented, and
we became fast friends. He let me read his love letters and I furnished
the “moonshine” to revive his drooping spirits.
Ashford N. had lived three years in Greer County, Texas, now part
of Oklahoma; and I happened to be acquainted in that country which
cemented our friendship.
The jail was filled with men, the worst looking and most confident
one being Shepard, who murdered a man in cold blood, at the same time
wounding a woman and baby, on Big Cowen Creek, a few miles south of
Craftsville, on Christmas day, just past. He had shot the man, Riley
Webb, while he was warming his hand at a fireplace. Still he was
confident of coming clear at his trial, as he had given Attorney Dan D.
Field a horse to defend him.
After becoming acquainted with the situation as existing in Letcher
County, I could see good grounds for Shepard’s confidence in acquittal,
for Mr. Field is a bright lawyer and is related by blood or marriage
with nearly every one in the country. Besides, whisky is cheap. I
myself with a pint flask of “moonshine” as a weapon, faced a dignified
Democratic judge and had a shooting scrape virtually annulled. I showed
good judgment though, by presenting the flask of liquor before stating
my case, and I assured this acting district judge that my intention was
not to bribe him with this flask of corn juice, which was an open lie
that could be seen by a less learned man than this Honorable Court.
I did the job to save Birdie H.’s sweetheart a trip to the penitentiary.
I made frequent trips to Collins’ still in Knott County, on the head of
Rock House creek, after liquor for myself and friends.
I knew the date when “Doc” and his daughter Emma were to be at Collins’
still to take pictures, so my plans were arranged accordingly.
On that date “Donk” and I marched up to the Collins residence with two
empty jugs to be filled, one for myself and the other for Ashford N.
who had sent the cash to pay for his gallon of firewater. Miss Emma
greeted us at the gate, and my spirits soared upwards. We had come
twelve miles over a rough mountain. I made pretense of having to hurry
back, but Emma and her father insisted on my remaining all night. So
“Donk” was put into the stable and the good time commenced.
We first emptied “Doc’s” bottle of corn juice; then I bought a full one
for “Doc” and me, and another of apple brandy for Emma.
The woods were full of rough looking people who came to get liquor and
to have their pictures “took.”
After supper “Doc,” Emma and I had the front room all to ourselves.
We had started in for the night with two full bottles. Toward bedtime
I began to feel the effects of the corn juice, and on the spur of the
moment did a foolish trick, which ended all right, though.
“Doc” suggested that I take out a policy in his insurance company
for $1000. I told him that I had left Texas suddenly, under a cloud,
therefore didn’t dare to have my life insured in favor of any of my
relatives there; my idea being to give the impression that I had
committed a crime in Texas and had to skip out. Then “Doc” asked if
I didn’t have a relative or friend outside of that state who would
appreciate $1000 in case of my death. I answered “No.” Here Emma with
one of her sweet innocent smiles, asked me to have the policy made out
in her name.
I was never known to be a “piker,” or to show that I was not a “dead
game sport” when it comes to dealing with pretty girls, so consent
was given and the policy was made out with Emma as the holder of the
stakes in case I shuffled off this mortal coil.
The danger soon flashed across my addled brain that when I visited the
tough town of Donkey, Virginia, I might be considered worth more to
Emma dead than alive. Still, I was too “blooded” to “crawfish” now, at
the commencement of the game.
There was one redeeming feature in the transaction, it was an accident
policy, so that if they tried to kill me and failed, I would get paid
for the wounds, myself. The premiums were paid up for two months.
About midnight “Doc” and I retired in the broad-gauge bedstead, while
Emma occupied the narrow gauge one near our feet. “Doc” slept next to
the wall, so I acted as a barkeeper, the full quart bottle being on a
chair near my head.
I had just fallen asleep, when “Doc” dug me in the ribs saying “Lloyd
are you asleep? If you ain’t, hand over that bottle.” Then we both
took a drink. Soon sleep began to creep over me, but for fear of being
awakened again, I thought it best to give “Doc” another drink in hopes
of filling him up. But I didn’t know then that trying to fill “Doc” up
would be like pouring sand in a rat hole with the other end in China.
The bottle was emptied just as day was breaking, then we both got our
first good sleep.
When breakfast was called I got up feeling good--no sign of headache
which follows the free use of liquor, not pure.
It was agreed that I join “Doc” and his daughter at John Craft’s and
accompany them home to Virginia.
Before leaving with my full jugs for Whitesburg, I gave Emma a quart
bottle of apple brandy to keep up her spirits on the way home.
Arriving in Whitesburg I made preparation to start next morning for
Craftsville.
The Holcombs and other friends begged me not to risk a visit to the
head of the Kentucky river in the Potter neighborhood and to the tough
town of Donkey, Virginia. They cited countless cases of murders and
robberies committed in those places. Miss Lizzie Holcomb especially
pleaded with me not to go. She and I had become a little “sweet” on
each other, though we did our courting on the sly, as I told her that
she was too nice to be seen at public gatherings and out riding with
me, as I hadn’t finished sowing my wild oats, and that I might be seen
at any time drunk and in company with bad women, which would be a
reflection on her character if she kept company with me.
The poor innocent girl couldn’t understand why a man of my age and
apparent intelligence should want to scatter wild oats over the
country. Miss Lizzie was a pure Christian girl, and she had never had
her eye teeth cut in the ways of the world. She tried hard to reform
me, but the more she preached reform, the worse I seemed to get. Of
course it pained me to act against my conscience in this way, but it
was “business.” I had started out to graduate in the big Dickenson
College, therefore I didn’t propose to be branded as a “quitter,” just
for the sake of upholding goodness and purity.
That night the county jailer, Boney Isum, a nice fellow, who had
won his spurs and been elected county jailer through the fact of
having recently killed a U. S. revenue officer near Whitesburg,
brought Ashford N. from the jail to my room at Holcomb’s and with the
assistance of the two jugs of liquor we made “Rome howl” until the
roosters crowed for the day. Boney Isum loved liquor, and he was a good
judge of its purity, as he and his forefathers before him had conducted
“moonshine” stills in the face of Uncle Sam and his standing army.
During the early part of the evening, Sol Holcomb spent his time in my
room with Boney, Ashford and me, and in order to be in the “swim,” Mrs.
Holcomb, Lizzie, the little girl Alberta, and the fifteen-year-old boy
Andrew, drank what they called “stugh,” made of whisky, sugar, and hot
water.
Next morning with two quarts of liquor in my saddle pockets, I started
for Craftsville, where the night was spent with the widow Bee Craft and
her family.
Early next day I joined “Doc” S. and his pretty daughter at John
Craft’s, and we started up the river for Donkey, Va.
The girl rode behind her father on the large white horse. I carried the
photo outfit on “Donk.”
We passed through the noted Potter settlement and put up for the night
at Bentleys.
During the forenoon next day, some pictures were “took” as per
advertised schedule; that is, advertised by word of mouth, as there
were no newspapers in the county.
After dinner we left the extreme head of the Kentucky river and began
to climb up the western slope of the Black Mountain range, the top of
which is the dividing line between Kentucky and Virginia. On reaching
the highest point of the range, “Doc” pointed out the lay of the
country. From this black mountain of the great Cumberland range, flow
four large rivers, the Kentucky to the west, the Cumberland to the
southwest, the Sandy to the north and the Pound river to the eastward.
The heads of all these rivers were now in sight and at our feet. It was
certainly a grand view of a heavily timbered country settled only on
the streams, except in certain spots.
Then we rode into the noted Pound Gap, where two houses, one a
residence and the other a saloon, stand. They are on the line of
Kentucky and Virginia, and are owned by the notorious “man-killer”
Britt Potter, whom I found later to be a nice fellow, though a little
bloodthirsty at the mention of the Wright family, who had reduced the
male members of the Potter fireside with hot lead.
The saloon had been closed by law since both Letcher County, Kentucky,
and Wise County, Virginia, had adopted local option. Then Britt had
moved down the river a few miles to where his father Abraham Potter
lived. Here Britt is training his little boys to shoot. One of them
became impatient one day because there were no Wright boys in sight, so
killed his own brother, by shooting him in the head while he slept.
Just after passing through Pound Gap we came to the spot where a few
years previous, the whole Mullens family, all but one boy, who was
fleet of foot, were ambushed and killed for their money, the old man
having just sold his land and was leaving Kentucky.
“Doc” and I climbed the large rock behind which the five assassins were
concealed.
As soon as the boy, whose suspenders were cut in two with a bullet
where they crossed in the back, spread the news, “Doc” S. was one of
the first to join the officers and go on trail of the assassins. They
came together in a house, and when the smoke of battle cleared away
“Doc” was branded for life with a bullet through his face from one side
to the other. In the flight one of the officers crossed the dark river
of death, and so did some of the outlaws. The balance were captured and
sent to the pen.
A few miles down the mountain side through the tall timber, we came to
the first house, owned by “Doc” S.’s brother-in-law, Brennan. Here we
“liquored up” and warmed by the fire.
About three miles further, we came to the only Donkey town on earth. It
contained only one store and about one dozen houses. “Doc” owned the
two-story frame house across the street or road from the store, and a
farm south of the swift flowing Pound river.
Mrs. “Doc” S. and the five small children were happy over Miss
“Mousie’s” return, she being the oldest child, and her mother being
an invalid. In Donkey I found that Miss Emma was known by the name of
“Mousie,” although not ratified.
The older boys took our saddle animals to the stable across the river,
while “Doc” and I walked a few hundred yards down the river to old
man Eli S.’s. Here I was introduced to “Doc’s” father and mother, his
brother Gregg and his wife and his pretty black-eyed sister Lillie,
whose age was twenty-six. The old man being an invalid, spent most of
his time propped up in bed in the front room which faces the main road.
After the old man had been assured by “Doc” that I was “true blue” and
all right, the different kinds of liquors, apple brandy, mint brandy,
blackberry wine and doctored “moonshine” which would kill a mule as
it was full of “lye-ball,” were pulled from under the bed which was
the old man’s “blind tiger” and his way of making a living. Then the
drinking began and ended when “Doc” and I were called home to supper.
Before leaving old man S.’s I had to promise to be their guest the
following night. Here the thought of the insurance policy in favor of
“Mousie” came flashing through my memory, and I wondered if they would
try to kill me by poison or bullets. I hoped they would use the bullet
method, for then I could bring old Colts 45 into play and stand a
chance to win some of the insurance money by only getting wounded. Many
in Whitesburg and at Craftsville had warned me to steer clear of old
man S.’s “blind tiger” which they said was a death trap. Therefore my
mind was in shape to expect anything.
We retired early at “Doc’s” and I slept soundly as the door to my room
was locked so that no one could get in to play for that thousand dollar
prize.
Next day I put in my time horseback riding with Miss Lillie S., and
buying sweets, calico and ribbons for the S. kids, including Miss
“Mousie.”
That evening I became the guest of Eli S. and his family.
After the chicken supper we all congregated in the front room where
the liquor was stored, and where a fire blazed in the old fashioned
fireplace. “Doc” had joined us. Soon Miss Lillie got out her guitar and
commenced to play and sing. One of her songs worked me up to a high
pitch; it set me wild. It ran thus:
“Oh meet me in the moonlight
When all alone,
For a story I have to tell
And it must be told alone.”
Her sweet, low voice seemed to fit the song to perfection. I couldn’t
buy the drinks fast enough to suit myself and to encourage her to play
and sing the same song over and over again. I was in an earthly Heaven.
The different kinds of liquor helped matters along, and so did Miss
Lillie’s meet me in the moonlight glances. Music and singing had not
had such an effect on me since 1882 in St. Louis, Mo., when I cut up a
fine parlor chair.
I had just landed in St. Louis and bought a new suit of “hand-me-down”
clothes. The Jew who sold them couldn’t induce me to discard my cowboy
hat and high-heel boots, nor could my sister or her up-to-date husband.
One day while walking down Fourth street a well dressed Southern
gentleman gave me his hand and asked if I was not from Texas. Then we
had a few rounds of drinks. This gentleman proved to be one of the
wealthy ex-slave-owning Terrys of Wharton county, Texas, adjoining the
county of Matagorda where I was born. I had heard of the great Terry
plantation when a small boy.
Nothing would do Mr. Terry but that I visit his residence. He said that
he had just married a young lady and wanted to show her what a real
Texas cowboy was like. I went. On our arrival the elegant parlor was
filled with elegantly dressed ladies, but no gentlemen.
After being introduced to the ladies, a plush mahogany chair was given
me to sit in. I was very cautious and sat down gently so as not to
spoil the delicate thing. Here Mr. Terry asked his beautiful young wife
to play a few of her favorite pieces on the piano, as I would no doubt
enjoy music of that kind after so many years of sleeping and eating out
doors. The lady’s sweet singing is what upset me. My mind was centered
on the pretty singer, while no doubt many eyes were centered on me.
When Mrs. Terry quit playing and wheeled around on her stool to
see what effect her singing had had on me, I came back to my right
senses. I found myself sitting on one foot, which was under me on the
plush-bottom chair seat. The other foot was up on one of the chair
rounds, and in my right hand was a sharp I. X. L. pocketknife with
which the chair had been whittled to ruination. The brussels carpet was
strewn with mahogany shavings.
I didn’t realize that there was anything wrong until Mr. Terry began to
yell and laugh. Finally Mrs. Terry broke into a laugh. The older ladies
were too much mortified to even smile. I insisted on paying for the
chair, but Mr. Terry wouldn’t hear to it. He said this was worth more
than a dozen chairs to him, as his wife had been begging him to round
up a real live Texas cowboy and bring him home so she could see what
they looked like.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR AS HE APPEARED WHEN HE WHITTLED THE CHAIR.]
After getting over my blushing, I confessed that it was Mrs. Terry’s
pretty face and sweet voice which did the damage.
Whittling on boxes and ranch benches had become a fixed habit with me,
hence cutting the chair.
“Doc” went home early. Mrs. Gregg S. had gone to bed in another room,
and the old lady had gone to bed by the side of her husband in the room
that we were celebrating in.
About 1:00 A.M. Gregg and I were pretty well “loaded,” under the
influence of the mixed drinks.
Finally my head began to swim and I became deathly sick. The thought of
having been poisoned flashed through my mind. I asked to be shown to my
room, so that I could lie down, but my real intention was to slip out
of the house and try to find Mr. Gibson’s place in the upper end of the
town.
“Nels” Craft had told me that if I got into trouble in Donkey to hunt
up his friend Gibson, who was a square man. He had described the house
to me.
Gregg conducted me into the adjoining front room and insisted that he
was going to sleep with me. This settled the matter in my mind,--it was
a sure case of poisoned to get the $1000 life insurance and the money I
had with me.
I started to the front door, telling Gregg that I was going outside to
sit down and get some fresh air. He said that he would go along too.
Then I got mad, and with my hand on the handle of old Colts 45 which
was sticking in the waistband of my pants, I told Gregg to stay right
where he was and to keep away from me. No doubt if he wasn’t too drunk
he could see the fire flashing from my eyes, for I meant business. When
I opened the door and stepped out into the darkness, he called to me
saying he would leave the door open so I could find my way back by the
lamp light.
It had been raining, and the road which followed the bank of the river
was very muddy, almost knee deep in some places. It was too dark and my
head was in too much of a whirl to see the footpath on the side of the
hill, so I kept the middle of the road, and twice fell down in the mud,
but I strained every nerve to reach Gibson and tell him that I had been
poisoned.
About two hundred yards above “Doc’s” house I came to a place answering
the description of Gibson’s. I knocked on the door and a rough
mountaineer in his night clothes admitted me to the inside. He informed
me that his name was Gibson and that “Nels” Craft was a friend of his.
Then he was told my suspicions of being poisoned. He replied: “I saw
you out riding this evening and I’m not surprised. You ought to have
known better.”
Mr. Gibson held the candle while my muddy boots and outer clothing were
being pulled off, and when the pistol was jerked out and placed under
the pillow, he gave a jump as though startled.
I then fell over on the cot and he pulled the cover over me. In a
moment I was dead to the world.
Soon after daylight, the noise of Gibson’s building a fire in the front
room woke me up, and on finding myself not dead from the supposed
poison administered by the S.’s, I was ashamed of myself.
My outer clothing was a sight, with the mud still adhering to them, but
they were put on.
Before leaving, Mr. Gibson promised that he would not tell of my poison
suspicions. He was told that I intended to fix up a story about getting
lost and finding his place by accident.
In passing “Doc” S.’s house on my way to the old man’s “Mousie” who
was outside splitting kindling for the morning fire, spied me. She
came running out to the fence saying: “Oh Mr. Lloyd, where have you
been? They are all crazy down to grandpa’s. They have been up all night
searching for you in the river and everywhere. Uncle Gregg came after
papa to help find you. They thought you fell into the river.”
I explained to “Mousie” of how I got drunk and went outside to get some
fresh air, and sitting down on a rock fell asleep, and that when I woke
up I took the wrong direction and found myself at Gibson’s house, and
was put to bed.
There was great rejoicing on my arrival at old man S.’s place. they
felt sure that I had fallen over the bank into the river and was
drowned. Their greatest worry seemed to be over the chance of the story
getting out that I had been robbed and murdered, and if my body was
never found, of people thinking that it had been concealed to hide the
crime.
I made up for my misconduct by going to bed like a gentleman that night.
About midnight Gregg and I opened the front door to go outside before
retiring for the night. This woke up the old lady and in an excitable
voice she called out: “Oh, Gregg, come back here, don’t you take Mr.
Lloyd off and lose him again.”
The chances are the S.’s don’t know to this day the true story of my
getting lost in Donkey.
It shows how a man’s mind can be worked up by hearing false tales about
people. While the S.’s were handling liquor contrary to law, I had no
fear of being harmed by them after learning their true natures.
After this I made other trips to Donkey, and Gregg and I rode out to
“moonshine” stills in the wildest part of the mountains, and so far as
the S.’s were concerned, I felt perfectly safe.
On one of these trips to Donkey I saw “Doc’s” courage and “Mousie’s”
cooking tested.
“Doc” and I had walked down to old man S.’s to “liquor up” a little
when we heard much shooting up at the store. Soon a man came down to
tell “Doc” to keep hid out as his most bitter enemy was drunk and
hunting for him to kill him on sight. It was this enemy who was doing
the shooting at the store. He and his partner had just come down from
their “moonshine” still on the Black Mountain with the intention of
wiping Donkey off the face of the earth, just because “Doc” S. lived in
the place.
“Doc” had left his pistol at home and he couldn’t get to it unseen
without a long walk over the hills. He asked for the loan of mine so
that he could face this enemy and give him the opportunity of putting
him out of business. I loaned “Doc” my old Colts 45 as I was anxious
to have her tested in a hand-to-hand battle by some one else besides
myself.
With the pistol in his hand held behind him under his coat, “Doc”
started for the store and I with him. In front of the store there were
several men. One of them stood on the edge of the store platform facing
“Doc’s” house. In his hands he held a Winchester rifle, and around his
waist was strapped a large pistol. He had been firing the Winchester
rifle into a dirt bank just under “Doc’s” door yard, so as to bring
“Doc” out of the house.
The wild and woolly “moonshiner” had just reloaded his rifle magazine
with more cartridges when “Doc” and I stepped upon the store platform
behind him. Just then “Mousie” stepped into the side yard and the “bad”
man fired a bullet near her. “Doc” stepped up almost to the fellow’s
side and in a cool, low, voice told him that if he shot again he would
kill him. The fellow turned his head slowly around and saw “Doc” by
his side, but he made no effort to bring the rifle around towards his
bitter enemy. There both stood like statues, neither saying a word. The
suspense was a strain on my nerves, as I wanted to hear old Colts 45
talk while a brave man’s finger was on the trigger.
At this moment Ike Potter and four companions from Kentucky, rode up,
and seeing the situation, Ike Potter called the “bad” man by name and
asked him to step out to him. This he did. A few words were spoken.
Then the “bad” man walked in the mud by the side of the horsemen and
all disappeared down the road. When below old man S.’s the shooting
began again. Two days later we heard that this “moonshiner” was in jail
for shooting up the county seat, Wise, Va.
When “Doc” handed me back old Colts 45 after we had entered his home,
I imagined that I could see the poor pistol shedding briny tears over
the chance she had missed of showing her abilities, when it came to
puncturing human flesh; for I had been a cruel master and for twenty
odd years had kept her in restraint.
Now about “Mousie” and her cooking; I had been to the railroad towns
of Glaymorgan, Wise, and Norton, Virginia, and I had promised Miss
“Mousie” to be back in Donkey on a certain day, sure. She had agreed to
get me up a swell supper with her own hands.
On my way back to Donkey on the appointed day, I stopped at Pound,
two miles below Donkey, where there is a postoffice, and there found
“Doc’s” oldest boy and the fat white horse. The boy and I rode home
together. He could talk of nothing else but the good things “Mousie”
was cooking for my supper. He said she had been baking pies and cakes
all day.
But holy smoke and little fishes, what a deceitful world this is. I had
to look pleasant and pretend that “Mousie” was the best cook in the
world. Besides, I had to fill my stomach with pie, cake and biscuits
which would have taken a week to digest, had it not been for the
goodnight kiss received before retiring. Still, the poor girl did her
best, which couldn’t have been worse from an indigestion standpoint.
I felt satisfied that the people around Donkey, Craftsville and the
Potter settlement had nothing to do with the kidnapping of young Wentz.
Furthermore, I was satisfied that he was dead, as I had got it from
Ashford N. and Mrs. Lottie H., both of whom no doubt knew what they
were talking about. Ashford had assured me that he was dead and would
never bother Kentuckians again, and Lottie said she knew that he had
been killed for the cruel way in which he and his men had treated her
and Birdie, and for killing her half brother Daniels, though she didn’t
know what had been done with the body. She said the parties who had
done the job kept the matter to themselves; that all she cared to know
was that he had been killed.
On top of Black Mountain, at the head of the Cumberland river, on the
road leading from Whitesburg to Stonaga, Va., several citizens of
Letcher County, Ky., had owned saloons which were run in defiance of
the laws of Wise county, Va., and Letcher county, Ky. These saloon
buildings were built on the line of the two states, half in Kentucky
and half in Virginia, so that when officers of one state would try
to make an arrest the saloon fixtures and goods were moved into the
opposite end of the building over the state line.
One of these saloons had been run by Lottie H., her sixteen-year-old
daughter Birdie, and her half brother Daniels, with the help of her
nineteen-year-old son Jim.
Another saloon at the same place had been run by my fat friend Monroe
W. who had lately married Lottie H.’s oldest daughter.
The other saloon had been run by Ashford N.
The Wentz Company owned the coal mines at Stonaga, Va., about three
miles down the mountain side from these above mentioned saloons. Dan
and Ed Wentz, sons of millionaire Dr. Wentz, of Philadelphia, Pa., were
in direct charge of these mines, and they objected to these saloons
being located so near, on account of their employes being made drunk.
One night a raid was made on the saloons. In the fight which followed
the town marshal, King, of Stonaga, was shot and killed, and so was
Lottie H.’s half brother, Daniels. The liquor was destroyed and the
buildings sawed in two. The half in Kentucky was left standing while
the other part was hauled away or burnt up. Lottie H. and her daughter
Birdie were marched through the mud afoot, and placed in jail at Wise,
Va. And for this crime against blue-blooded Kentuckians, Ed. and Dan
Wentz were doomed to die, though after Ed. was kidnapped Dan kept out
of the way, so that he couldn’t be caught unawares.
This is the story told me in confidence by Lottie H. She gave me the
full details of the fight from beginning to end, all except the manner
in which Ed. Wentz was put out of the way, and this she claimed not to
know, as her friends who had the matter in charge kept it a secret.
While Lottie didn’t confess it as a fact, she gave me to understand
that Monroe W. and his money were leading factors in the plot, and that
was why he tried to run me out of the country; that he supposed I had
just come from Virginia to run down the Wentz mystery, and that when
he found that I had come from Jackson, Ky., he thought maybe I might
be all right, though she said he was always suspicious and uneasy and
advised her not to associate with me for fear she might let something
drop, as I might be a detective on the Wentz case.
I had become so “solid” with Lottie H. that Monroe W. and his gang
couldn’t break our friendship. I had confided in her as to a killing of
two men in Texas in which fight I took part, and I had let her read all
my Texas and New Mexico letters on the subject. While I had hoped that
she would let the secret out of my being an outlaw, she didn’t do it.
She was just as true as steel to me and kept her promise not to give me
away.
Lottie H. had a farm two miles below Whitesburg on the Kentucky river.
She was a fairly good-looking middle-aged woman of more than the
average intelligence. With her lived Birdie and Jim with his young wife
Ollie, and a younger son and a daughter Mary.
Lottie H. was a sister of Sheriff Ed. Callihan of Brethitt county,
Kentucky, who soon after was arrested for bloody murders committed in
and around his home town of Jackson.
Many were the murders committed through this honorable officer of the
law, as told to me by Lottie H. He had formerly been a member of the
noted Hatfield gang of the McCoy-Hatfield feud notoriety.
I was given the details of a late cold-blooded murder committed
through sheriff Callihan of Brethitt county. He owned a big mercantile
establishment in the country east of Jackson. A man started a store in
the same neighborhood, and in order to get rid of this store sheriff
Callihan hired his brother-in-law S. to kill the owner.
One day S. with some picked witnesses drove up to the opposition store
in a wagon and raised a fuss about a log hook which had been borrowed.
S. shot the man dead.
There being some uncertainty about the result of the trial in Jackson,
the jury had to be bought at quite a cost to Lottie H.’s brother. S.
came clear, and later appeared on the scene in Virginia where Ed. Wentz
was kidnapped. After the kidnapping of Wentz he married Lottie H.’s
daughter Birdie. He had “shook” her and returned to Brethitt county
just previous to my arrival. From what I could learn he had a hand in
getting away with Ed. Wentz.
I put in much of my time at Lottie H.’s drinking, dancing and having
a big time. I also kept up my carouses with Ashford N. in my room in
Whitesburg, through the assistance of the jailer, Boney Isum.
In order not to disturb the sleep of the Holcomb family, I had Mrs.
Holcomb fit me up a room in a log cabin away from the main residence.
Here Ashford N. kept his jug of liquor and often slept with me, the
deputy or jailer coming after him in the morning.
Ashford told me all about young Wentz passing him in the road near
Kellyville, Va., on the morning of his disappearance, but he wouldn’t
say that he had a hand in getting away with him, though he indicated as
much and seemed to want to impress me with the fact that he did.
A good deal of my work now was over on the head of the Cumberland
river, where I used to get “moonshine” fresh from the illicit stills. I
had gained a “foothold,” and “moonshiners” were not afraid of me now.
On one of these trips to a “moonshine” still with Ashford N.’s chum,
Brown, who lived over on the Cumberland river at the foot of the
southern end of the Black Mountain near where that bunch of saloons
were cut in two, I secured some information about Ed. Wentz. I learned
that he was dead, and that he had been taken from his horse alive by
three men.
Brown and the few people in his wild out-of-the-way neighborhood were
very bitter against the Wentzes and their company for having gobbled up
vast stretches of valuable coal and timber land, and their interference
with the liquor traffic.
In riding over the mountains with Brown in search of pure “moonshine”
I was told many blood-curdling tales of murder in which Brown had
figured, and from others I found he had told the truth. He was honest
enough though to acknowledge that the people of these mountains
didn’t give enemies a chance to fight for their lives; hence they are
generally shot from ambush, which he thinks is the proper way. He
himself has been shot clear through the body, and he showed me the
wounds.
I traded my mule off to Brown on this trip. While on the way to a
“moonshine” still he pulled out $40 and offered it as boot between
my “Donk” and his small three-year-old blue-roan pacing stallion. I
accepted and saddles were changed.
In this trade I won a prize, for he was the swiftest natural pacer and
the best piece of young horseflesh that had ever been straddled by an
ex-cowpuncher.
As to searching for pure “moonshine,” I will state that much of the
“moonshine” in these mountains is doctored by adding “lye-ball,” pure
concentrated lye. With one gallon of pure “moonshine” liquor and one
ball of lye, about three gallons can be made, and only an expert can
tell the difference, though one’s stomach soon finds it out.
Through the teachings of the S. boys, in Donkey, and Ashford N., I had
become an expert in knowing the difference between the pure and the
adulterated liquor.
Towards spring, Ed. Wentz’s body was found by accident in a wild
heavily timbered country three miles from where his horse and saddle
had been found on the night of his disappearance. It was found near
Kellyville, Va., on the eastern slope of the Black Mountains directly
over the mountain from the head of the Cumberland river in Kentucky.
Our Asst. Supt. Estin of the Philadelphia office hurried to the spot
to view the body before it had been moved. He found that young Wentz
had been shot through the heart and placed on top of some logs in a
reclining position. Down the hill from the body lay his pistol with
one chamber empty, to give the idea of suicide, and also his eye
glasses, hat, etc. Mr. Estin informed me later, that it would have been
impossible for Wentz had he shot himself, to have reached the spot
where the body was found, he having been shot through the heart. Estin
also said that the body had no doubt been placed where it was found at
least a month after he had been kidnapped; for when he disappeared the
forest leaves had just begun to fall, and under the body the leaves
were plentiful, showing that his body had been put there after the
leaves had fallen.
Furthermore, after the young man’s horse had been found, Dr. Wentz and
his son Daniel had hired hundreds of men who scoured the woods for ten
miles square in the neighborhood of where the horse and saddle were
found. The coal mines at Stonaga had been closed down and all the men
turned out to search for the missing man. They were divided up into
gangs and walked abreast through the thick woods, so that every foot of
ground could be searched. It was done systematically. Mr. Estin says
that men who were in this searching party claim that they remember
going over the spot where the body was found, and had it been there
they couldn’t have helped seeing it.
The body was in good shape, with the exception of the right hand being
cut off. The hand was never found, and here hangs a tale.
Shortly after young Wentz’s disappearance his father began to receive
mysterious letters offering to free Ed. Wentz for certain sums of money
up into the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Finally a letter came
from San Francisco, Cal., that if a large sum of money was not put in a
certain place and an advertisement put in the personal columns of the
San Francisco Examiner, stating that all was O. K., his son would be
killed and his right hand sent to him to prove that their threat had
been carried out.
The chances are that young Wentz had been held alive for a month or
so in hopes of a ransom from his father, and when their scheme failed
they took him to the spot where the body was found and fired a bullet
from his own pistol into his heart. Then laid the body on the limbs of
the dead tree where it was discovered by men hunting cows. The hand
may have been cut off with the intention of sending it to Dr. Wentz,
but later decided to be a dangerous thing to do, as it might lead to
detection. Again, the hand may have been lost before the time came for
sending it.
I found out that Lottie H. had relatives living thirty miles from San
Francisco, Cal. She kept up a correspondence with them. I had seen
their letters; hence if Monroe W. and his gang had young Wentz secreted
in the mountains they could have had that threatening letter mailed in
San Francisco by their relatives. One of these male relatives came to
Whitesburg from California after my arrival on the scene, and I became
well acquainted with him.
There is one thing sure,--if the gang above referred to didn’t commit
the crime, then Lottie H. and Ashford N. wanted to leave the impression
on my mind that they did, and were therefore revenged.
Dr. Wentz would have paid any amount of money for the return of his
son alive, but he had received other mysterious letters which had been
run down and found to have been written by “cranks.” Besides, the time
allowed in the letter referred to above was too short, considering the
great distance from San Francisco to Philadelphia, to meet the demand
before the time set for the killing and the cutting off of the hand.
After the body of Ed. Wentz had been taken to Philadelphia for burial,
I made frequent trips into Virginia along the railroad which skirts the
foot of Black mountain, from Stonaga, through Appalachia, Kellyville
and Norton, and Wise, the county seat.
Near Kellyville lived a man named Hubbard, and his family, and they
were thought to know something of the crime, as young Wentz’s horse
and saddle had been found in the road leading to Kellyville by two
young men who were stopping at the Hubbard place.
Hubbard was known to run a “blind tiger,” selling liquor against the
law and keeping a hard gang around him. Therefore I worked on Hubbard
and his two daughters; and here I became acquainted with one of Ashford
N.’s brothers who was in the “moonshine” liquor business.
I satisfied myself that Hubbard and his family had nothing to do with
the murder of Wentz, but not so with the brother of Ashford N.
In working on the Hubbard girls I bumped into some more cooking of the
M. S. brand.
Ashford N. was always glad at my return to Whitesburg, for it meant a
jolly time with plenty to drink in my log cabin.
Finally, Ashford longed for liberty. He still had about two months to
serve behind the bars. He decided to break jail, and my influence was
used where it would do the most good in pushing matters along.
The night for the escape was planned. It was agreed that I leave some
liquor at Dicie F.’s on Big Cowan Creek, as “Ash” might be dry when he
reached there on the way to Brown’s place.
Dicie F. was the woman wounded Christmas day by Shepard when he
shot and killed Riley Webb. She lived in what was called a tough
neighborhood. Jailer Boney Isum had introduced me into society over
there. A relative of his had one of his wives living next to Dicie F.’s.
She was a tall muscular young woman with two healthy babies and the
regulation low water mark on her neck. She split her own rails and put
in her own crops. All she asked of her lord was that he visit her once
in awhile to see how the crops were getting on. Her lord’s main wife
and half a dozen children lived eight miles from this girl, therefore
no danger of hair pullings.
Boney Isum had only one wife anchored, and she lived at the jail.
In these mountains nothing is thought of a man having half a dozen
“wives.” One fellow of the Brigham Young build, who lives at the head
of the Kentucky river, has seven women, and all have raised large
families, and all have the stamp of being chips from the old block. It
would be a safe wager to bet that one-third of the population of these
mountains are of illegitimate birth.
When Ashford N. broke jail he put in the first night down at Lottie
H.’s, and the next night at Dicie F.’s; thence to Brown’s place. No
one suspected me of being on the inside. He could serve me better by
being a free man. My plans had been laid for the future, when a full
confession of the Wentz murder was almost certain.
During the winter I had made three trips out to civilization, once
to Bristol, Tenn., once to Knoxville, Tenn., and the other time to
Huntington, West Va. These trips were made to meet Supt. Bearce, or
Asst. Supt. Estin to get a new supply of money. My horse would be left
in a livery stable at Norton, or Appalachia, Va.
While in Knoxville I went to see the saloon building which is now used
as a restaurant, where “Kid” Curry made such a brave fight, shooting
two officers.
While in the mountains of Kentucky and Virginia I learned all the
tricks of beating the Government in the licensed still business. I
visited several stills so as to get onto these tricks, which are many.
I had made arrangements to start a licensed still in partnership with
Lottie H.’s son Jim. The site was selected up in the head of a gulch on
the Lottie H. farm. When this news leaked out Lottie said that Monroe
W. objected and swore it shouldn’t be started. After this I received
private warnings through friends to keep away from Lottie H.’s or I
would be killed; but I never could find out who made the threats, or
whether they were made on account of the Wentz matter or love for
Lottie H. and her daughter Birdie. A wealthy and influential citizen
was “dead stuck” on Lottie, and since my arrival on the scene she had
grown cold towards him. He often came to see her while I was at the
house, and he wouldn’t speak to me. His son R. was in love with Birdie.
It wasn’t known for certain which I loved the more, as I played “sweet”
on both; therefore these threats may have come through jealously.
On two occasions I suspected a trap laid for me, but I was too “foxy”
to put my foot into it.
A fellow known as “In the Woods” Brown had tried to lead me into the
trap, so I suspected. He had once made an unsuccessful attempt to
assassinate merchant Jim Fraser and when caught, confessed that he did
it for $50. But it was said that all of his attempts had not proved
failures.
While in Whitesburg my reports were all mailed to different addresses
in the far west, and all my mail came from that country. We were
lucky in having an honest intelligent young man, Samuel Collins, for
postmaster in Whitesburg, otherwise my mail would have been tampered
with, for he told of the inducements offered him for some of my mail.
These inducements had been offered when I first came to the country,
and I suspected Monroe W. as being the gentleman who had tried to
“work” young Sam Collins. Of course the postmaster didn’t say that he
had been offered money, but that certain parties were suspicious of me
and wanted him to let them have access to my mail.
During the month of May when my plans were ripe for starting the whisky
still with Jim H., I had been requested by our Philadelphia officials
to give my opinion as to whether convictions could be secured against
the murderers of young Wentz, if convincing proof was secured. I gave
it as my opinion that it was a waste of money to try to convict any of
these people, owing to the fact that most of the settlers and their
offspring are related either by blood or marriage, and of the further
fact of the bitter feeling against the Wentz company.
A good deal of this hatred had been brought about through the Wentz’s
arresting men for cutting bee trees and trespassing on company land.
In the meantime while waiting for money to start the still, I was
learning all the ins and outs of the still business.
It was Jim H.’s and my intention to establish our liquor warehouse on
top of Black mountain on the lots owned by his mother. Then we would
have Ashford N. and a few men of his stamp peddle liquor on the sly
among the coal miners in Stonaga and the other coal camps nearby. I had
also visited Middlesboro, Ky., to learn the licensed still business.
The Ball brothers, there being four of them, were friends of Jim H.
They owned a still and four saloons in that town. Since then, these
Ball brothers have gained notoriety on account of killings, the state
militia being called out to capture them in their mountain stronghold.
One day I had been up the river to Sam W.’s place, drinking “moonshine”
and having a big time, Sam W. being one of the “bad” man-killers of the
country.
I arrived back in Whitesburg about sundown. Lottie H. was in town on
her mule. She asked me to ride home with her as there was a drunken
crowd in town and she was afraid to go home in the dark. We started,
and I noticed R. and some of his drunken companions watching us as we
rode across the river, R. being a married man who was in love with
Birdie H. and jealous of me, no doubt.
On reaching Lottie H.’s home I ate supper, after which Lottie and I sat
on the porch talking. Birdie and her younger sister Mary had gone to
bed. Lottie tried to persuade me to stay all night, but I refused under
the pretense that I could sleep late in the morning in my own room and
thereby get rested after my “big time” up the river. But the truth of
the matter was, I smelled a “mice” from the way R. and his gang had
acted when Lottie and I rode out of town.
It was about 10:00 P.M. when I bade Lottie goodnight and rode across
the river into the main road. The night was cloudy and dark, and my
route lay along the river bank in the shadow of tall trees.
After going a quarter of a mile I saw the outlines of four men afoot
in the road coming towards me. On seeing me they jumped over a rail
fence and ran to a clump of bushes in the field on my right, and hid.
I rode slowly past this thicket with my hand on old Colts 45. A few
hundred yards further up the road I met Lottie H.’s hired man Day,
coming from town on a mule. I told him of the four men hiding in the
thicket. Next day in court Mr. Day testified that he had met me, and of
being told about the four men in the thicket, and of how he had just
got to bed when R. and three drunken companions came into his room and
wanted to know where Lloyd was. On being told that I had gone home R.
said that must have been I who went up the road when they hid. That
then, he said, the gang went into the room where Lottie H. and her
two daughters were in bed, and demanded to know where Lloyd was. They
were told that I had gone back to Whitesburg. Then the gang commenced
raising Hades. Soon after this, Lottie H.’s nephew Jim D., who was a
deputy sheriff, dropped into Lottie’s on his way from his sweetheart’s
place down the river. Here a battle began, one against four, and when
the smoke cleared away the deputy sheriff lay mortally wounded with a
bullet through his body, while two of R.’s companions were wounded from
bullets fired by Jim D.
Early that morning I was back to Lottie H.’s and did all that was
possible to relieve the suffering of the wounded deputy sheriff. At
midnight he died, and from that time until morning the scene was
affecting to even calloused nerves like mine, for the dead man’s
brothers, Jesse and Bob, cried all night.
After we had all been singing religious songs around the bedside of the
corpse, old grandma H. got me to one side and said: “I didn’t think we
would have to lay poor Jim out so soon, but I did expect your death
before this. I know what I’m talking about. You have been marked for
death quite awhile. You have been warned several times but you won’t
leave. Now you take my advice and get out of this country just as quick
as you can. I can’t tell you all I know, but I don’t want to see you
killed.”
Grandma H.’s oldest son was the father of Lottie H.’s children. He had
been dead a couple of years.
One of R.’s wounded companions made a confession on being arrested, and
said that R. had furnished him with a pistol to go down to Lottie H.’s
and help raise a fuss with me, so as to “do me up;” that he went by
R.’s house to get the extra pistol as he had none of his own, while R.
had two.
I continued to visit at Lottie H.’s as though grandma H. had not given
me the friendly warning.
Soon after, I received instructions from Asst. Supt. Estin to sell my
horse and outfit and meet him at a certain hotel in Washington, D. C.
In the letter he stated that the operation would be closed as it was
decided that a conviction could not be had, no matter how strong the
proof.
After selling the horse and outfit, my friends were bade goodby for
a short time, as it was pretended that I was going to return after a
short visit to the World’s Fair in St. Louis, Mo.
I had made many warm friends in Whitesburg, among them being Sam
Collins the postmaster, and a young lawyer, Wilson Field.
There are some good people in these mountains, and others not so good.
Their worst fault is their reckless regard for human life. They think
no more of killing a man than of killing a wild beast. At least twenty
murders were committed in these mountains during my short stay.
They also need education in their mode of living, especially in their
home life, wherein one wife is not considered sufficient for one man.
Also, they need bath-tubs. I failed to see one bath-tub in the counties
of Letcher, Perry and Knott. Possibly they are afraid of wearing out
should they wash too much.
One morning Mr. B. whose weight is 300, and who is said to never have
done a day’s work in his life, although past middle-age, he being a
king-bee of the “moonshiners’” brigade, and I were to start early on a
squirrel hunt. On reaching his house he informed me that he couldn’t
go hunting as this was his bath day; that his wife kept track of it
and was now heating the water. He said he always took a bath regularly
every six months; that some people didn’t believe in bathing so often,
but he did. Out in the back yard his little delicate wife had two large
kettles on the fire, as though it was hog-killing day.
Another curse of this country is the marrying of first and second
cousins.
I was glad to get away from Whitesburg, for two reasons one of which
was to get beef to eat. I had not seen or tasted a piece of beef
in Kentucky during my over seven months’ stay, that is, away from
the railroads. I was also anxious to get away from the sound of
banjos. Nearly every household has from one to half a dozen of these
instruments, and nearly every child can pick the same tune. Some few
can pick as many as three or four tunes.
Regardless of my wild-oat sowing habits, pure-hearted virtuous Lizzie
Holcomb gave me a goodby kiss, with a hope that I would reform and quit
scattering oat-seed broadcast over the land.
Before shaking the dust of the Kentucky mountains from these pages,
I will state that should any reader of this book wish to see a dying
man smile, he or she ought to be present when the last breath is just
leaving me, and then mention Mrs. Sol Holcomb and the first four-legged
monkeys which were ever in Whitesburg.
A couple of Italians brought two trained monkeys to Whitesburg. They
were dressed up in human rigging and performed on the main street which
contained only five stores and the overgrown court house. The town
turned out to see the monkey show. It was a circus sure enough, but all
the monkeyshines were not performed by the little “monks.” There were
others.
There were old gray headed men and women who had never seen a monkey
before. When it was all over Mrs. Sol Holcomb came into the sitting
room of her house, perspiring like a “nigger” at an election. She said:
“Lor’ bless my soul, I didn’t know befo’ that monkeys was human beins!
I jess wouldn’t of believed it.”
Good-natured, easy-going little Sol Holcomb smiled and said: “Why Bess,
they ain’t humans, they are jest animals.”
Here Mrs. Sol got up on her high horse and with her strong right arm
bared to the elbow and pointed towards her hubby said: “Now look a here
Sol, don’t you dare tell me them ain’t humans, for I knows better. They
are jess as much humans as any black nigger or you either, Sol!”
I spent three days in Washington, D. C., on leaving Kentucky, and there
took in the sights. In Philadelphia I stayed two days settling up the
affairs of the Dr. Wentz operation. Then Mr. Roy L. Dickenson phoned
for me to come down to New York City. I arrived in New York City on
that morning, and most of the day was spent with Mr. Royder Dickenson.
He showed me through every nook and corner of the large block owned
and occupied by the Dickenson agency. I also visited with the other
high officials, and the many assistant superintendents, too numerous to
mention. That night I went to a theater at the agency’s expense.
Next day my old Denver friend, executive clerk Mr. C. K. Hibben, showed
me some of the great sights of the city, and I took in Coney Island on
an excursion steamer.
Mr. Dickenson gave me permission to take in the World’s Fair in St.
Louis, en route to Denver. But he requested that I go from St. Louis
to Chicago to Visit Mr. W. L. Dickenson, as he might want to see me,
though I suspected this was done for my own pleasure to give me a rest.
En route to St. Louis one night and part of one Sunday were spent in
Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, which gave me an opportunity of seeing part of
that smoky city.
In St. Louis I took in the World’s Fair with my sister and her family.
While in that city I also visited the Dickenson agency under the
supervision of Mr. Wooster, whom I already knew.
Then I took the back track for Chicago to meet Mr. Wm. L. Dickenson. He
had no business for me, except a desire that I go out to his residence
and ride his new $500.00 saddle horse and give my honest opinion about
him, also that I take a look at his half dozen fine bull terriers. The
horse I found to be a “dandy.” He was certainly the finest gaited large
horse that I ever straddled, but for real heavenly delight he couldn’t
hold a candle to the little blue-roan sold in Kentucky by me for $60.00.
While in Chicago I enjoyed the visit with Mr. Dickenson and the
superintendents and their assistants.
Shortly after my return to Denver, Supt. J. S. Kaiser received a letter
from Mr. W. L. Dickenson requesting that I make out a bill for my
personal expenditures while taking in the World’s Fair several days,
and the agency would pay it. I did as requested, and it pleased me, as
this is something employers seldom do.
Thus did the most interesting operation of my eighteen years’
connection with the Dickenson agency end. I had been gone from Denver
eight months.