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.
Silently, with the stealth of Indians, the phantom shadows moved about
the doomed homestead. They were in no hurry. It was far from their
intention to break into the house and with a few well-directed shots
put an end to the old man whom they had sworn to destroy. No! Such a
death would have been too quick and painless. He must burn; they must
maim and torture. What mattered it that women were in the house. "They
will serve him for company," chuckled the heartless Jim Vance. They
must first be made to feel the impossibility of escape; to entertain
their tormentors with their distress and horror. They must furnish
sport, the sport the savages so much delighted in.
Within all was quiet. The inmates were all wrapped in slumber, utterly
unconscious of the fate that was in store for them. Without, through
the gloom of the cold January night, shadows flitted to and fro, busily
attending to their hellish work.
The McCoy homestead was a double log house, separating the two houses
was a wide passage, and all under one roof. On one side of the building
a match is struck. The next moment a pine torch casts a lurid glare
into the darkness. The hand that holds it reaches upward and touches
the low board roof. It sets it on fire in a dozen places. The family is
suddenly awakened by the yells of exultation from the savages without.
Shots pour into the houses through doors and windows. Calvin McCoy,
the son, who slept upstairs, dresses hurriedly, grasps his rifle and
cartridges and descends to the lower floor. He approaches the bed
of his terror-stricken, aged mother, pats her gently on her cheek,
cautions her to lie still, telling her to fear not, though in his heart
he has no hope. He returns to his room and opens fire upon the outlaws.
His father, cool and undaunted, fights the flames devouring the roof
from the loft. The water becomes exhausted. He resorts to buttermilk,
of which there happened to be large quantities in churns. The fire is
about conquered. An outlaw hand reaches up to rekindle it with another
torch. Randolph McCoy takes up his gun, aims and shatters the hand that
holds it. A curse and loud imprecations come to his ears, and tell him
that the shot went true.
In the room across the passage between the two houses slept the rest
of the family, two daughters and two grandchildren. The unmarried
daughter, Allifair, frightened and dazed, hears a knock at the door and
opens it. She is requested to make a light. She replies that she has
neither fire nor matches. The command is repeated; again she refuses to
comply. Jim Vance, Sr., the grey-haired outlaw, commands Ellison Mount
to shoot her. She prays for them to spare her, but their hearts were
strangers to pity. Mount fires point-blank at her breast and she falls
to the floor with a cry.
The mother from her own room across the passage hears the expiring
scream of her child, the dull thud upon the floor. Oh, the horror of
it! Surrounded on every hand by devils in human shape; the house on
fire over their heads; the husband and son fighting heroically, but
only prolonging the useless, inevitably useless struggle; in the other
room lies the body of Allifair. She hears the others screaming for
help. Will she dare to go to them? Yes. A true mother's love fears no
dangers. Where men shrink back in fear and terror a mother will rush
into the jaws of death to defend and save her offspring. She opens the
door wide and is greeted with bullets. She cares nothing for their
vicious hiss. She goes on. Already she has crossed half the space that
separates her from her children, when she is confronted by the wretch
Vance. He orders her to return to her room. Upon her refusal he strikes
blow upon blow with the butt of his gun upon the head and body of the
grey-haired woman and frenzied mother. She falls badly injured upon the
floor. He kicks her into merciful insensibility.
In the meantime, Calvin and his father had maintained a spirited fire
upon the assassins that encircled the house. But the flames roar
and feed unchecked. The smoke prevents good aim. Calvin is driven
down-stairs by the heat and flames and acrid smoke. He suggests to his
father to attempt a sortie. He remembers the corn-crib, a heavy log
structure. He would attempt to reach it. Once there he might cover
his father's retreat thither. Once there, they might yet drive their
assailants off.
He opens the door and starts on his perilous journey, running with the
swiftness of the deer to get beyond the betraying circle of light from
the now fiercely burning homestead. He is seen and instantly shot at.
Unharmed by this volley, he runs as he has never run before. The balls
whistle above him, around him, and plow the dirt at his feet. Already
he has covered more than half the distance, now three-quarters of it.
Yet he is untouched. He is within three or four feet of the little
house he strives so manfully to reach. At the threshold of the refuge
he throws up his hands, staggers, sinks to his knees, rises to his feet
again, then plunges heavily down upon the frozen ground, dead.
After his son's fatal attempt to escape, old man McCoy grasped a
double-barreled shotgun, sprang from the door, discharged both barrels
with telling effect into the gathered clan, and before they could
realize what was happening their intended victim had disappeared in
the darkness beyond the firelight, a darkness intensified by the glare
of the flames, making aim impossible. Not a shot of the many vicious
volleys that were fired after him touched him. Providence had once more
decreed to spare the old man. But at what cost!
Finding that the main object of their hatred and vengeance had again
been baffled, the assassins withdrew, leaving behind them their work
of destruction, the burning home of Randolph McCoy; the old mother
groaning, unconscious and dangerously wounded on the ground; the
daughter Allifair lying in a pool of blood; the son Calvin dead at the
corn-crib; the remaining children crazed with terror and sorrow.
The house was rapidly burning to the ground. Before the murderers
withdrew, they had carefully closed the doors and window-shutters with
the avowed purpose of cremating the entire family yet in the house. The
insensible mother they had dragged back into one of the rooms, that
she, too, might perish by fire.
The sister of Allifair, immediately upon the withdrawal of the cowardly
wretches, regained her courage and self-possession. She placed the body
of her dead sister upon a feather bed and dragged it from the house.
She then returned for her mother, whom she also rescued. The little
grandchild, a boy seven years old, also exhibited heroism, for one so
young, for when he ran from the burning home, which then, in fact, was
momentarily threatening to fall in, he thought of his little sister.
The little hero braved the fire, was swallowed up for a few minutes
in the smoke, but emerged triumphantly leading the little cripple by
the hand. Nor did the boy cry once, it is said, during that night of
horror. The daughter ministered to the suffering mother as best she
could. Barefooted, in the cruel cold of a January night, she gave
no thought to herself. Her feet were badly frost-bitten. Not until
daylight came assistance.
The Hatfields had scored another victory. True, the man whose death
they craved beyond all else, had escaped them, but they had broken his
spirit. They had murdered, sent to eternity two more of his children
and terribly injured, almost killed, his aged wife.
The blood of the victims cried out to God. This time not in vain, for
retribution followed swiftly on the heels of the murderers. From this
night on their star of success was on the wane. One by one they were
struck down; one expiated his crime upon the gallows; others found
opportunity and time for reflection on their past deeds within the
narrow, gloomy cells of the State prison.
The news of the dastardly, cowardly, savage night attack spread like
wildfire. Newspaper accounts of the tragedy were everywhere received
at first with doubt and considered as the figments of imagination of
sensation writers. East, West, North and South newspapers began to
make inquiries. It seemed beyond the possibility of belief that such
horrors could occur in our day of enlightenment, in a land which boasts
of a superior civilization and culture, and arrogates to itself the
proud distinction of the "first Christian nation in the world." As days
passed, the story was verified. Its truth might no longer be doubted.
Then followed a deluge of editorial comments. The authorities of
Kentucky and West Virginia were mercilessly assailed for their failure
to cope with crimes of such magnitude. Yet, even after this last
horror, West Virginia refused to join hands with Kentucky in delivering
the criminals to justice. The murderous clan continued unmolested and
was free to commit new crimes, invading Kentucky at will, defying the
entire legal and governmental machinery of that State. They felt secure
with the governor of their own state apparently taking their part.
Then Frank Phillips started out to do, on his own responsibility,
what West Virginia should have done. Kentucky had done all that could
possibly be done to settle and arrange matters through the regular
channels of law and constitution. Nothing remained now but to act
without the consent and authority of West Virginia and the redoubtable
Frank Phillips, chafing at all this delay like a restless mustang,
decided to act.
When the news of the night attack and assassinations of January 1st
were brought to him, he threw all caution to the winds. He formed a
band of trusty followers, men that, like himself, would do and dare.
"If the governor of West Virginia is determined to continue the
protection of his murderous pets, I will protect the citizens of
Kentucky, or die in the attempt!" he declared. From that day there was
no longer rest, peace or safety for the Hatfield clan of West Virginia.
Phillips had a system entirely his own. He quickly demonstrated his
superiority of cunning and courage.
A few days were spent in equipping and organizing his band of
raiders. Then swiftly they crossed the border into West Virginia and
commenced their dangerous operations. Always on the move, they struck
a rapid blow here and another there, always dashing upon the enemy at
unexpected times and places. To describe those raids in detail would
fill a book and furnish thrilling reading. But we shall select only
a few incidents to illustrate the daring and determination of Frank
Phillips and his devoted band.
On January 8th, 1888, Phillips ascended the steep slopes of Thacker
mountain. Suddenly they came in sight of Cap Hatfield and the brutal,
but desperately courageous Jim Vance, Sr. Hatfield at once saw the
uselessness of engaging in combat and precipitately fled across the
mountain on foot, escaping the bullets that were sent after him. Cap
continued on his retreat without one thought for his pal. At "Hog
Floyd" Hatfield's, Cap stopped long enough to secure a mount. From
there he rode, at breakneck speed, without bridle or saddle, to the
camp of his followers.
Vance, thus abandoned and alone, stood his ground. He opened fire upon
the Kentuckians without a moment's hesitation. The near presence of his
enemies infuriated this grey-haired man, grown old in bloody crimes,
beyond measure. But one desire, paramount, possessed him, the desire to
kill, kill, kill, as long as life remained in his aged body. To attempt
escape never for a moment entered his mind.
He dropped behind an old tree stump and with vengeful eye drove shot
after shot into the ranks of the astonished raiders, who were forced
to take cover. Several of them had already been wounded. Vance, behind
his natural rampart, remained unharmed. He laughed aloud, taunted his
assailants with cowardice, and continued firing. His mortal hatred of
the men before him inspired him to a heroism worthy of a better cause.
At last a flank movement deprived him of the protection afforded him by
the stump. His body now became exposed to fire from three sides, and
a Winchester rifle bullet brought him to the ground. As he struggled
to rise shot after shot penetrated him. Full of lead, wounded unto
death, the blood streaming from his many wounds, he yet attempted to
use his pistols. Then Phillips stepped forward and approached the dying
desperado, the man who had given the heartless order to Ellison Mount
to shoot the innocent Allifair, the heartless wretch that had pounded
savagely the aged Mrs. McCoy and had laughed and tittered in the doing,
the man who had incited Cap to the burning of the McCoy home and of all
its inmates. Phillips raised the Winchester to end the outlaw's life.
But the man was down. He could not do it. Vance saw his hesitation. He
slowly raised upon his left arm and in his dying moments pressed hard
upon the trigger of his Colt's pistol. Warned by companions, Phillips
saw the motion and sent a ball crashing through the outlaw's brain.
Immediately after Cap Hatfield's arrival at the camp of "Devil Anse"
the entire available force was summoned and divided into detachments.
Plans were discussed and perfected by which Phillips was to be enticed
into an ambush and annihilated. This force remained under arms for many
days.
About ten days after the raid of January 8th, which had resulted
in the killing of Vance, Phillips suddenly appeared on Grapeville
Creek, where he encountered the Hatfields in force. A severe battle
immediately developed.
The Kentuckians outnumbered the West Virginia outlaws. The latter,
however, were on foot and had the advantage of position from the
start. From it they fired upon Phillips with telling effect, killing
and wounding many horses with the first volley. These, maddened with
pain and frightened by the sudden fire, reared and plunged and threw
the column into confusion. The keen eyes of Frank Phillips cast about
for a spot of vantage and discovered a stone fence a few hundred yards
away, affording a strong position. With his accustomed quickness of
determining an action, he prepared to seize it. The command was given
to dismount all those yet mounted. Bending their heads to the bullets,
they rushed on and over and behind the stone wall. Only one of their
number had dropped in the essay. Another assisted him to his feet, and
all reached the wall in safety.
Now the tables were turned. Volley upon volley was fired into the
ambushed Hatfields with the result that after two hours and fifteen
minutes of long range fighting the outlaws retreated, taking along
their many wounded, but leaving William Dempsey dead on the field.
In this battle the Hatfields fought with the best rifles that money
could procure, heavy calibre Colts and Winchester rifles. The
Kentuckians were armed less perfectly, about half of them using rifles
and shotguns of the old pattern. Phillips and two others, only, fought
with repeating rifles. It was due to this superiority in armament that
the Kentuckians suffered such heavy losses in horses and wounded men.
Among the most severely injured was Bud McCoy. Among the Hatfield
wounded was Tom Mitchell, shot in the side; "Indian" Hatfield, wounded
in the thigh; Lee White, shot three times. Many minor casualties
occurred.
The battle of Grape Vine Creek was the last serious fight between the
Hatfield outlaws and the Kentucky officers, although sporadic killings
occurred at frequent intervals.
In the several forays made by Frank Phillips and his party nine of the
outlaws were captured and landed in jail at Pikeville.
In the meantime the quarrel between the two governors continued. The
correspondence between them was exceedingly pithy and acrimonious.
We shall quote one or two letters from Governor Buckner of Kentucky
to Governor Wilson of West Virginia, which will fully explain the
attitudes taken by these two gentlemen in this matter.