Part 3

"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.