Chapter IV: Part 4

There was a dance one Christmas night at which two of the Dillam band were slain by Buffum. From then on Sam Dillam dogged the steps of Lem Buffum who finally killed his tormentor. This so enraged the Dillam band they started a reign of terror. They were openly out to get any Buffum sympathizer. They riddled their homes with bullets, burned barns, waylaid the sympathizers and shot them to death without warning. Once a friend of the Buffums', Jack Smith, when the Buffum home was besieged, rushed in and carried out the aged mother of Lem. He bore her down to the river and leaping into a skiff rowed the old woman safely to the other side. On his return the Dillams shot him to death from ambush.

In such a high-handed fashion did they carry on their warfare that they made bold to seize Jake Kimbrell, a Buffum friend, at a dance. While some of the Dillam band held their prisoner fast other members of the crew shot him to death.

Their utter cruelty finally caused even some of their own faction to withdraw from the feud. Tom Dillam's brother Ab said outright that if they wanted to go on hunting Lem Buffum and terrorizing the country they'd have to do it without him. Lem's sister was married to Ab's son Jesse. One day in his absence they set upon Ab's house and shot it as full of holes as a sieve.

Women and children were no longer safe and the citizens decided something had to be done for protection. They asked the governor for troops. His refusal was bolstered by the alibi that first it was the duty of the sheriff of the county to attempt to capture the murderers. Then the judge of the county called for fifty militiamen. Instead of that number only fifteen came to restore law and order. But even before they arrived on the scene a lad on horseback saw them coming and galloped off to inform the outlaws who took to the woods.

With seven of the sheriff's men left to guard the home and family of Jesse Dillam, Jesse and several others sought safety in a log house some distance away. However, before they could reach the log house one of their number was killed, one fled and the rest managed to escape into a nearby thicket.

When circuit court convened soon afterward the Dillam brothers, Tom and Curt, were arrested. Tom, having been released on a $5000 bail, was going toward the courthouse one day with his lawyer. Following close behind was Tom's lieutenant and another friend. On the way they passed the house where their wounded victims were staying and when within range of the place the outlaws drew their pistols. They did not know that Lem Buffum and his friends had been warned and were waiting for this moment. Suddenly a volley of bullets was poured upon the outlaws. Sixteen of the well-aimed shots had pierced Tom Dillam's body.

Hatred and lust for murder had by this time gone deep into the heart of Tom's son who became the leader of the band. If anyone opposed him in anything, he knew but one way to take care of the opposition and that by the gun. He gave one of the Dillam band twenty dollars and a gun to slay a rival. Tom's brother Curt was finally released on bail but it was not long until his bullet-torn body was found in the woods.

Fear on the part of those who had testified against the outlaw in his trial impelled the removal for all time of the cause of fear. The universe breathed easier after Tom's brother Curt was under the sod.

MARTIN-TOLLIVER TROUBLES

Troubles brewed around elections and courts.

Some years previously when the Talliaferro families changed their abode from Old Virginia to settle in Morgan County, Kentucky, it wasn't long until their name also was changed. Their neighbors found the name Talliaferro difficult to speak and they began to shorten the syllables to something that sounded like Tolliver. So Tolliver it was from then on.

Craig Tolliver's father became a prosperous farmer but with his prosperity came quarrels with a neighbor and finally a lawsuit. Tolliver was successful in the litigation, which incensed his neighbors. One night as he lay asleep in his bed the irate neighbors stealthily entered the house and shot him dead before the eyes of his fourteen-year-old son, Craig.

This early sight of high-handed murder embittered the boy who at once began to carry a gun and drink and lead a life of lawlessness.

In about 1880 he moved to Rowan County which became the scene of one of the bloodiest of Kentucky feuds, that of the Martins and Tollivers. Craig was the leader of his side. Gaunt and wiry, he stood six feet in his boots. His long drooping mustache was a sandy color like his goatee. His eyes, a light blue, were shifty and piercing, eyes that had the look of a snake charming a bird. In appearance Craig was a typical desperado. He swaggered about with gun at belt, a whiskey bottle on his hip.

At this time the secret ballot had not yet been instituted. Not only was the name of the voter called out but his choice as well. With the open ballot a man who bought votes knew how they were cast. Bribery and whiskey, both of which were plentiful and freely dispensed at voting time, went hand-in-hand with fights and corruption.

The stage was set for bloody feud in Rowan County by the time Cook Humphrey in 1884 ran for sheriff of the county on the Republican ticket against S. B. Gooden, Democrat.

That election day in August a group of men gathered in the courthouse yard at Morehead, the county seat, discussing the returns in heated tones.

Gooden lived in the town while his opponent lived about seven miles away on his father's farm.

"Cook Humphrey won by twelve votes," someone called out. At that a quarrel started. Fists were flying in the air. William Trumbo, kin of John Martin's wife who was Lucy Trumbo, made a remark to a man by the name of Price. And the next thing they were in a wrangle. There were Tollivers and Martins present as well as friends of both families and soon all of them were engaged in the controversy. Someone struck John Martin, supposedly with the butt of a gun, knocking out a front tooth and badly cutting his head. His blood stained the courthouse steps. As he scrambled to his feet cursing vengeance against John Day and Floyd Tolliver for wounding him, he drew his pistol and others did likewise.

The next moment Sol Bradley, the father of seven children, lay dead with a bullet through his brain. Young Ad Sizemore caught a bullet in the neck.

There was a dispute as to whether John Martin or Floyd Tolliver had killed Sol Bradley, who was a friend and partisan of Cook Humphrey. It was never decided who did the killing. But it started the Martin-Tolliver troubles.

The wounding of Ad Sizemore was generally laid to Sheriff John Day.

Forthwith the factions organized and armed themselves. There were Martins, Sizemores, and Humphrey on one side, Days and Tollivers on the other side.

John Martin, the son of Ben, lived not far from his father on Christy Creek, a few miles from Morehead. His brothers, Will and Dave, resided nearby. They had a sister, Sue, who was as fearless as the menfolks of her family. She resented bitterly the treatment of the Martins by the other side. Sue lived at home with her father and mother.

The Tollivers were more widely scattered. Floyd lived in Rowan, Marion and Craig in Morgan County, their cousins Bud, Jay, and Wiley lived in Elliott County.

Their clansmen, all Democrats, including Tom Allen Day and his brothers Mitch, Boone, and John, also Mace Keeton, Jeff and Alvin Bowling, James Oxley, and Bob Messer lived in Rowan County.

The Martins, Logans, and Matt Carey, the county clerk, all Republicans and friends of Cook Humphrey, newly elected sheriff, resented the killing of Sol Bradley, an innocent bystander.

There had been whisperings of threats laid to both sides. "As soon as the leaves put out good, I aim to get Floyd," Martin is reported to have said. Similar mutterings were reported to have been uttered by Tolliver. "I'll bide my time till the brush gets green; then I aim to have a reckoning. That Logan outfit, well-wishers of the Martins, are getting too uppity."

It was Fentley Muse who told a tale-bearer that no good could come of such things and urged that all keep peace. But peace bonds were violated as fast as they were made. Pledges by Craig Tolliver to leave the county for good and all were broken.

There was more tale-bearing. There were those who, according to John Martin's son Ben, later a World War hero, made the bullets for others to shoot, including one, a doctor, whom I knew well in later years. Ben Martin said of him angrily, "He filled more graves than any other man in Rowan County and yet he himself never fired a shot." Ben's aged mother, Mrs. Lucy Trumbo Martin, reiterated this often to me when I sat beside her on the porch of the old Cottage Hotel on Railroad Street in Morehead where much of the shooting took place. Indeed the old hostelry had been the scene of one of the fiercest gun battles between the Martins and Tollivers. It faced the Central Hotel across the tracks. The Galt House, the name by which the Carey combined boarding house and grocery-saloon was known during the Rowan County troubles, stood some distance away across the road from the courthouse.

It was a bleak day in December, 1884, following the August election in Rowan County when John Martin was struck on the head, that he and his wife Lucy and two of their small children climbed into their jolt wagon out on Christy Creek and rode into town. While his wife and the children went to do some trading at a general store down the road, John met Sam Gooden, John Day, and Floyd Tolliver. Words passed between Martin and Tolliver after which John went into Carey's saloon. As he stood at the bar Floyd Tolliver came up and repeated what he had said to Martin outside--something to the effect that Martin had been wanting to bulldoze him. Martin denied the charge but Tolliver repeated, "Yes, by God, you have, and I am not going to permit it." To which Martin answered, "If you must have a fight, I am ready for you." At this Floyd put his hand in his pocket. Martin, thinking, so his wife and son told me, that Floyd Tolliver was about to draw his gun, drew his own in self-defense. Though Martin was quicker on the trigger than Tolliver, who now had his gun out of the holster, Martin did not have time to get his weapon completely out of his pocket. He shot through it, killing Floyd Tolliver almost instantly. "Boys," Floyd managed to gasp, turning his eyes toward friends who rushed into the bar, "remember what you swore to do. You said you would kill him and you must keep your word."

Martin gave himself up to the law. By this time a mob, friends of both sides, had gathered around and Martin was hurried, half dragged, across the road to the jail behind the courthouse.

In order to protect the prisoner from violence he was taken to the Winchester, Kentucky, jail next day. But he had been there only six days when a band of five men presented themselves to the jailer with an order, apparently signed by the proper authorities, commanding Martin's return to Rowan County. He pleaded with the jailer not to surrender him. "It is only a plot to kill me," he cried.

That day Martin's wife had been to see him in his cell. She took him some cornbread and a clean shirt and socks. Little did she dream when she got on the train to return to Morehead that night that her husband sat handcuffed in the baggage coach ahead. Around the prisoner stood his five captors: Alvin Bowling, Edward and Milt Evans, a man named Hall, and another by the name of Eastman.

When the train was within five miles of the county seat of Rowan, at a village called Farmers, it was boarded by several masked men who rushed into the baggage car and shot John Martin, helpless and handcuffed, to death.

"They've killed him!" Lucy Trumbo Martin screamed at the sound of the first shot, though until that moment she had not known her husband was on the train. "I knew they had killed John," she told her friends at the time and often afterward.

When the train bearing John Martin's bullet-torn body reached Morehead he was carried, still breathing, into the old Central Hotel where he died that night. In the meantime his distracted wife had sent for their children and her mother who was staying with the family on the farm on Christy Creek. An old darky who had long lived at the county seat mounted his half-blind mule and rode out along the lonely creek that cold winter night to carry the sad tidings to the Martin household. He also rode ahead of them on the journey back with the corpse of John Martin later that same night.

"Hesh!" Granny Trumbo warned the children huddled in the bed of the wagon as it rumbled along the creek bed road, "Hesh! no telling who's hid in the bresh to kill us." The children sobbed fearfully. Ben, the older of the two small boys, sat dry-eyed. His small hands sought those of his father cold in death and still in irons. "Pa, they didn't give you no chance," he murmured bitterly. "You were helpless as a trapped deer. They didn't give you no chance."

It wasn't a cry of revenge but of heartbreak, one that the mother and the other children would remember always. And Granny Trumbo, sitting bravely erect on the board seat of the wagon beside her widowed daughter, gripped the reins and urged the weary team onward along the frozen road, keeping close behind the silent horseman ahead.

In March of the following year another of the Martin side, Stewart Bumgartner, a deputy sheriff of Cook Humphrey, was shot from ambush as he rode along the road some six miles from Morehead.

A month later Taylor Young, county attorney of Rowan, was shot in the shoulder as he rode along another lonely road in the county. Though Young heartily disclaimed any connection with either side, he was accused by the Martins of being a well-wisher of the Tollivers. Again, as in the Bumgartner case, no arrests were made. However, when Ed Pierce was convicted some time later of highway robbery and jailed in Montgomery County, he confessed to waylaying Taylor Young but put the blame of the actual shooting on Ben Rayburn. Pierce said it was plotted by Sheriff Humphrey who assured him and Rayburn of all the whiskey they could drink and two dollars a day while they were watching for Young; when they had killed him they were to receive two hundred and fifty dollars.

After that, one Sunday morning, Craig Tolliver, who was town marshal of Morehead, accompanied by a half dozen men, went to the home of old Ben Martin, father of John. Craig told Mrs. Martin that he had warrants for the arrest of Cook Humphrey and Ben Rayburn. At first she said the two were not there, that only her daughters, Sue, Annie, little Rena, and a married daughter, Mrs. Richmond Tussey, were in the house. It was a fact; her husband and her two sons, Will and Dave, whose lives had been threatened, had gone to Kansas.

The Tollivers, however, were not to be deceived. They had seen Cook Humphrey, carrying his gun, enter the Martin house the evening before. The house, a two-story frame with the old part of logs stood at the foot of a hill about thirty feet from the road. Tolliver's band, including Mark Keeton, Jeff Bowling, Tom Allen Day, John and Boone Day, Mitch and Jim Oxley, and Bob Messer, were well armed. They demanded that Humphrey and Rayburn surrender, saying they had warrants for their arrest for the attempted assassination of Taylor Young. The two men asked to see the warrants and when the documents of arrest were not forthcoming they flatly refused to surrender. Then Craig Tolliver stationed his crew in the bushes all around the Martin house. Watching his chance he finally slipped inside and up the narrow stairway. Humphrey spied him, rushed forward and striking his gun discharged it in Craig's face. Craig fell backward. Wiping the blood from forehead and cheeks he hurried out into the yard.

Sue Martin dashed past him headed toward town for help. But no sooner did she reach the county seat than she was arrested and put in jail. Craig and his crew were still surrounding the Martin house, and finally one of them called out that if Rayburn and Humphrey did not surrender they would burn the place down. It was known that Tom Allen Day was one of the best marksmen in the county, so Mrs. Martin, in an effort to help Rayburn and Humphrey escape, ran toward the barn where Day was ambushed. He had his gun uplifted and leveled at the fleeing men. Mrs. Martin struck the gun upward and the shots went wild. But the rest of the Tolliver crew poured lead toward the two men. Rayburn was slain but Humphrey escaped. Knowing he still held on to his Winchester the Tollivers feared to go into the brush after him.

The body of Rayburn lay all night where it fell. Friends feared to approach it. The next day, however, they piled fence rails about the corpse to keep hogs from destroying it.

At dusk that day the Tolliver crew set fire to the Martin house and burned it to the ground. The women escaped, seeking shelter under a tree. Mrs. Martin's married daughter, Mrs. Tussey, was carried out with her young babe. Another of the Martin girls went to Morehead to see Sue, and she too was arrested and put in jail.

The militia was called out, arriving on the following day. The Martin girls were promptly released. Sue had revenge in her heart for the insult and humiliation of false arrest.

Later while the Tollivers were barricaded in a hotel down near the railroad tracks in Morehead a plump roast turkey was sent in for their dinner. They wondered whose generosity had prompted the act. But on sniffing the well-roasted fowl they began to suspect a trick. Upon examination it was found that the turkey contained enough arsenic to kill a dozen men. Sue Martin was suspected but nothing was done about it. There was not sufficient evidence to warrant arrest.

No sooner had the militia been removed from Morehead than the Tollivers set upon the Galt House where Cook Humphrey, Howard Logan, Mat Carey, and others were staying. There wasn't a windowpane left in the place when they finished. The doors were splintered to smithereens. In the midst of the fusillade of bullets Cook Humphrey grabbed up a hymn book from the organ in the musty parlor, held it over his heart, and thereby saved his life. A bullet lodged in the thick leather cover of the book.

Things quieted down for some months and Craig Tolliver vowed he was through with the trouble. "I'm a quiet, peaceable man," he went about saying, "and the citizens ought to encourage my good behavior by electing me police judge." But when he set out canvassing for votes he carried a Winchester. The other candidates forthwith dropped out of the race, leaving Craig the only one on the ticket.

When Boone Logan stepped up to the voting booth Craig was close enough to hear what was said. The election officer told Boone who was running and the latter expressed himself in no uncertain terms. He said he'd rather vote for the worst man in the county than for Craig Tolliver.

Boone Logan was a well-educated, peaceable citizen and practiced law in Morehead.

Not long after Craig Tolliver was elected police judge he contrived to have two younger brothers of Boone Logan arrested on a charge of kukluxing. Marshal Manning and twelve men repaired to the Logan home two miles from Morehead. The father, Dr. Logan, prevailed upon his young sons to surrender and Tolliver agreed that the boys would be taken to town and given a fair trial. But they had walked scarcely ten feet from the house when the Tolliver posse shot the boys to death and trampled the bullet-torn faces into the earth and rode on to town.

The motive behind the murder of the innocent Logan boys was that Craig Tolliver knew they would be chief witnesses for their father, who was charged by Tolliver with having conspired to kill Judge Cole. Craig decided that the best way out was to end the lives of Dr. Logan's sons. No sooner had this been accomplished than Tolliver sent word to Boone Logan to get out of the county.

Boone got out of the county. He went to Frankfort to seek aid and counsel of the governor. But Governor Knott said that the state had done all it could for the relief of the citizens of Rowan County. Logan then turned to Hiram Pigman, who had had trouble with Craig Tolliver, and together they solicited the support of Sheriff Hogg in securing the aid of one hundred and fifty of the county's best citizens in bringing the Tollivers to justice. As a means to that end Boone Logan went to Cincinnati where he purchased a supply of Winchester rifles.

Those who didn't have a Winchester shouldered muskets, shotguns, and other firearms. Warrants of arrest against the Tollivers on charges of murder, arson, and various other crimes and misdemeanors were issued and the date set for the arrest of the men was June 22, 1887.

Early that morning before daybreak more than one hundred armed men in the posse were stationed in groups at seven different points outside of Morehead.

Craig Tolliver was apprehensive so he walked out of his saloon--he operated two at the time--and called his clan together at the American Hotel. There they lay in wait and presently one of the crew saw a man named Byron going down the street. They knew Byron to be a member of the posse. They fired on him and he took to his heels with the Tollivers in pursuit. One of their number, Bud Tolliver, fell with a bullet in his knee. He crept off in the weeds for safety.

The Logan posse, in order to identify themselves and avoid their own bullets, were fighting bareheaded. The Tollivers seeing this threw away their hats which helped a couple of their number to escape. "The two Mannings never did stop running until they got entirely out of the state," so the story went. So quickly did the posse increase they seemed fairly to spring out of the ground.

The Tollivers now retreated to the Central Hotel but they soon fled the place when the posse pelted the old hostelry with bullets.

Jay Tolliver was killed a short distance away, on the hill beyond Triplett Creek, and Craig was dropped by a bullet in the leg when he was crossing the railroad. The tracks separated the Cottage Hotel and the Central Hotel both of which were in sight of the Galt House, also known as the Carey House, where Floyd Tolliver had been killed by John Martin during the preceding December.

As marksmen the posse surpassed the Tollivers in this street battle for only one of their number was wounded and that was Bud Madden. He was shot by "Kate" Tolliver, a boy scarcely fourteen years old. Young "Kate," or Cal, as he was sometimes called, was as fearless as a mountain lion. Never once did he run for shelter during the shooting. And when his uncle Craig lay dying of seventeen bullet wounds the boy went to him, removed his watch and pocketbook, then crawled away under the Central Hotel where he remained until darkness when he made his way to the woods.

The battle was waged for more than two hours. The posse was determined to clear the scene of Tollivers.

They found Bud unable to crawl out from his hiding place in the weeds. He asked no mercy, nor was mercy granted. A gun was placed close to Bud's head. His brains were blown out. Another of the Tolliver clan, Hiram Cooper, thought to conceal himself in a wardrobe in Allie Young's room in the Central Hotel. (Allie was the son of Taylor Young whose life had been attempted.) But Cooper, like Bud, was shown no mercy. He was dragged out into the middle of the floor to meet Bud's fate.

The bodies of the Tollivers were gathered up, Jay's from the hillside beyond Triplett Creek, Bud's from the weeds where he had crawled to hide, Craig's from where it lay near the railroad tracks, and that of their confederate, Hiram Cooper, from beside the wardrobe wherein he had tried to hide. The bullet-riddled bodies were washed and laid out in a row in the musty sitting room of the old American House. This last office for the dead was performed by members of the posse.

While the corpses still lay cold in the quiet sitting room, a short distance away in the courthouse there was a spirited gathering of stern and earnest men. Their leader, Boone Logan, whose young brothers had been brutally slain by the Tollivers, arose and addressed the crowd.

When the last word of his grave speech had been uttered the men silently drew up a resolution which read in part as follows:

"If anyone is arrested for this day's work we will reassemble and punish to the death any man who offers the molestation."

Coffins for the four bodies that lay in shrouds in the old hotel were brought from Lexington. The remains of the Tollivers, Craig, Jay, and Bud, were hauled to Elliott County for burial, while that of Hiram Cooper was removed by his friends to the family burying ground in the outskirts of Rowan County.

The death of these four men brought the total number slain in the Martin-Tolliver feud to twenty-one.

Tragedy stalked two of the crew who had been connected with the killing of John Martin while he sat handcuffed in the baggage coach: Jeff Bowling killed his father-in-law in Ohio and was hanged for the crime; Alvin killed the town marshal of Mt. Sterling, not many miles from Morehead, and was sent to the penitentiary for twenty-one years.

Although Craig Tolliver lived by the sword and died by it, there was no record to be found that he ever actually killed a man. Rather he was credited with plotting the deeds, molding the bullets for others to fire.

The life of Allie Young, the son of the prosecuting attorney, Taylor Young, whose life had been attempted, was saved because on the day of the street battle he was in Mt. Sterling in an adjoining county.

One old woman who witnessed the open battle that day on Railroad Street became raving insane. And Liza, Jay Tolliver's wife, fled in dismay across the mountain never to return.

Marion, brother of Craig, had no hand whatever in the trouble. He lived his days in peace within sight of the county seat of Rowan tending his farm and looking after his household. If his kinfolk had heeded him there never would have been a Rowan County war which put a blot upon the community that took years to erase.

FAMILY HONOR

Looking down on a clear day from a bald on Dug Down Mountain you can see the valley far below. The bald is sometimes called the sods--where the trees can't grow because of high winds. This particular spot is called Foley Sods after the Foleys who have lived here in the Dug Down Mountains for generations. Looking closer from the high, green bald you can see far below in the edge of a dilapidated orchard a lorn grave. Overrun with ivy and thorns it is enclosed with a wire fence, sagging and rusty and held together here and there with crooked sticks and broken staves.

Ben Foley's grave it is, anyone whom you happen to meet along the way will tell you, but your informant will say no more. If you have the time and inclination to follow the footpath on around toward a cliff to the right you may come upon old Jorde Foley sitting near on a log as if keeping watch over the place. The old fellow will appraise you from head to foot and either he will be glum, like the person you have passed on the way, or he will invite you to rest a while. Then presently he falls into easy conversation and before you are aware you have learned much about Ben and Jorde Foley too.

It wasn't that Jorde had any objection to what Ben, his son, was doing, but it was the things that happened when Ben brought home his bride from Cartersville that caused Jorde to speak his mind. This day he went back to the beginning of things.

"I've been makin' all my life right here in these Dug Down Mountains alongside this clift," he said. "It's my land, my crop. And I've a right to do with my corn whatever I'm a mind to. And Cynthie, my wife, many's the time she taken turns with me breakin' up the mash, packin' the wood to keep the fire under the still. We've set by waitin' for the run off. And Ben, our boy, he learnt from watchin' us how to make good whiskey, from the time he was a little codger. Sometimes Cynthie would keep an eye out for the law. But we hated that part of it worser'n pizen. We were in our rights and had no call to be treated like thieves in the night. Pa made whiskey right here in these Dug Down Mountains same as his'n before him, out of corn he raised on his own place and in them days there wasn't ever the spyin' eyes of the law snoopin' around." Jorde rolled his walking staff between his rough hands and looked away. "Sometimes I'd change places with Cynthie whilst she tended the fire. We made good whiskey," he said neither boastfully nor modestly. "We sold it for an honest price. That's the way we learnt Ben to do. But, hi crackies, what takes my hide and taller is when a son o' mine turns out yaller. I never raised my boy for no chicanery." Old Jorde's voice raised in indignation. However, when he spoke again there was a note of tolerance even pity in his tone.

"Ben would never 'a' done it only for that Jezebel he married down to Cartersville and brought home here to the mountains. Effie, like Delilah that made mock of her man Samson, was the cause of it all. Ben just nat'erly couldn't make whiskey fast enough to give that woman all her cravin's and now you see where it got my poor boy. A man's a right," said the old fellow in deadly earnest, "to marry a girl he's growed up with--stead of tryin' to get above his raisin'. See where it got my poor boy," he repeated. The troubled eyes sought the neglected grave in the scrubby orchard far below.

There was no marker, not even a rough stone from the mountain side at head or foot like on the other Foley graves in the Foley burying ground on the brow of the hill. Only the sagging fence enclosed Ben's resting place. "It was hard to do," old Jorde said grimly, "but it had to be so's no other Foley will follow Ben's course."

With that he slowly arose and led the way to a pile of soot-covered stones.

"Now close here was where the thumpin' keg stood," he began to indicate positions, "and yonder the still."

There was nothing but charred remnants of staves and rusty hoops left of the barrel through which the copper worm had run, while the copper still itself was reduced to a battered heap. The worm and the thumping keg and all the essentials for making whiskey leaped into a living scene, however, when Jorde Foley got to telling of the days when he and Cynthie and young Ben, peaceable and contented, earned a meager living at the craft.

"Set your still right about here," Jorde hovered over the remnants of the stone furnace, "and you break your mash once in so often. A man's got to know when it is working right. The weather has a heap to do with it fermenting. Sometimes it takes longer than other times. No, you don't stir it with a stick but a long wooden fork. I've whittled many a one." He retrieved from the pile of stone what was left of the stirring fork. "Have it long so you can retch far all around the barrel," he said, measuring the fork against his own height. With unconcealed pride he explained the various steps of making corn whiskey in his own primitive way. He told how the thumping keg in which it was aged was first carefully charred inside to add a tempting flavor, and how the barrel in which the cornmeal and malt were placed was made of clean staves of oak or chestnut, or whatever wood was at hand. The wood was cut green and when the mash began to work the liquid caused the staves to swell and thus make the barrel leak-proof.

Never once in his explanation did Jorde Foley say moonshine, or shine, or mountain dew.

"Whiskey, pure corn whiskey," he repeated, "when it is treated right won't harm no one. And when a body sees the first singlin' come treaklin' out the worm, cooled by the cold water that this worm is quiled in," he indicated the location of the barrel, "somehow there's a heap of satisfaction in it. Seeing that clear whiskey, clear as a mountain stream come treaklin' into the tin bucket or jug that is settin' there to ketch it, it makes a man plum proud over his labors."

Jorde looked inward upon his thoughts. "Many a time me and Cynthie would take a full bucket to a neighbor's when there was a frolic, set it in the middle of the table with a gourd dipper in it, and let everyone help hisself to a drink. Why, there was no harm in whiskey in my young day. And us people up here didn't know or need no other medicine."

In the bat of an eye Jorde Foley explained how pure corn whiskey had cured cases of croup, saved mothers in childbirth, cured children of spasms and worms, and saved the life of many a man bitten by a copperhead or suffering from sunstroke. "Once I saw Brock Pennington stob Bill Tanner in the calf of the leg with a pitchfork. Bill he bled like a stuck hog and we grabbed up a jug of whiskey and poured it on his leg. Stopped the blood! No how," Jorde was off on another defense, "land up here and in lots of places in these mountains is not fitten to farm so we have allus made whiskey of it after exceptin' out enough for our bread. Good, pure whiskey that never harmed no man that treated it right, that's what we made. In Pa's day he sold it for fifty cents a gallon. Us Foleys in my day sold it for a dollar a gallon and let the other fellow pack it off and sell it for what he could get. Why, I had knowin' of a man on Chester Creek in Fentress County over in Tennessee that sold it for three dollars a gallon. But that is a plum outrage!" Jorde spat vehemently halfway to the cliff.

"After Pa died, me and Mose Keeton got to makin' together. We halved the corn and halved the work and halved the cash money and never no words ever passed betwixt us. By the time Mose died my boy Ben taken his place."

Only once did a smile light the grim face. "One day Cynthie and me was busy here and Ben's pet pig followed him up here when he brought us a snack to eat. The pig snooted around and found the place where we had dumped the leavin's of the mash after we had took off the brine. Well, sir, that pig just nat'erly gorged itself and directly it was tipsy as fiddlesticks. I never saw such antic was out of a critter in my life. It reeled to and fro and squealed and grunted and went round and round tryin' to ketch its own tail. Finally it rolled down the hill. Ben packed it back up again and it reeled around, its feet tangled and it rolled down again. Kept that up till it got sober. Its eyes rolled back in its head, it sunk down in a grassy spot over yonder and slept till dark. It follered at Ben's heels meek as a lamb when we went down the hill that night. That pig was too sick to eat or even sniff a nubbin of corn for two whole days, just laid and groaned. 'Now, Ben,' says Cynthie to our boy, 'you see what comes of gettin' tipsy.' And Ben Foley learnt a lesson off the pig and never did take a dram too much."

Again Jorde's eyes sought the neglected grave far off. He looped back to the story of his son. "Everything was peaceable here, though we did miss Cynthie powerful after she died. But me and Ben made on the best we could. We had a living from our whiskey. Then come Effie! That woman nat'erly tore up the whole place. She kept gougin' Ben for more cash money." Jorde pointed a condemning finger toward a ravine. "There's a half dozen washtubs rustin' away under there."

A part of a zinc tub protruded from the brush heap. "One day," Jorde continued, "unbeknown to Ben's wife, Effie, I snuck off up here away from that Jezebel though she had talked no end about me being too old to climb the mountain. 'You'll get a stroke, Jorde,' she'd warn me. 'You best sit here in the cool, or feed the chickens or the hogs.' Effie was ever finding something for me to do if I offered a word about comin' up here to see how Ben was getting on. That made me curious. So I snuck off from the house and come up here one day." Jorde's eyes turned toward the ground. "When I come up on Ben I couldn't believe my own eyes. My boy had a fire goin' not under just one but a half dozen tubs! What's left of them are over yonder." He jerked a thumb toward the brush covered ravine. "My boy Ben was stirring around not with the wood fork like he had been learnt, but with a shovel!" Jorde lifted scandalized eyes. "A rusty shovel, at that! He was talking in a big way to his helper--a strange man to me. I come to find out he was a friend of Effie's from Cartersville."

Jorde pondered a while. "Come to find out, to make a long story short, Ben was cheatin' them that bought his whiskey, tellin' them it was a year old when he knew in reason he'd just run it off maybe the night before. Ben Foley was sellin' pizen!" Old Jorde Foley's voice trembled. "That's all it was that he was makin'. Pizen that he forced to ferment with stuff that Effie's friend, who used to work in the coal mines, brought here. And Ben sellin' that pizen that burnt the stummick and the brains out of men that drunk it. Hi gad!"--old Foley spat vehemently--"I never raised my son to be no such thief! It was that Jezebel Effie that led my boy to the sin of thievin'. She wanted more cash money than he could earn honest with makin' good whiskey."

It was Ben's fear of prison, old Jorde explained bluntly, that caused him to run from the law, and running he had stumbled and thereby stopped a bullet.

"What the law didn't bust to pieces of them tubs and shovels and such, I did," Jorde added with a note of satisfaction. For a moment he lapsed into silence, then added gravely, "Ben just nat'erly disgraced us Foleys." The father hung his head in shame. "Why, Cynthie would turn over in her grave if she knew of him thievin' and runnin'--runnin' from the law! It's such as that Jezebel with her carryin's on, temptin' men to thievin' that's put an end to makin'--makin' good whiskey in these Dug Down Mountains here in Georgia. Put an end to sellin' good pure whiskey for an honest price like me and mine used to make."

3. PRODUCTS OF THE SOIL

TIMBER

The individualism of the mountaineer has not made of him a scientific inventor, but this marked trait of character has developed his self-reliance and resourcefulness. He may not know, or care to know, in figures the degree of the angle at which the mountain slopes. Probably he has never heard of the clinometer by which geological surveyors arrive at such information. Yet the untrained mountain man seeing a stream gushing down a steep escarpment knows how to divert it to his own best use.

Sometimes he set his tub mill, or the wheel, at the most advantageous point to grind his corn into meal. If, however, his house happened to be near no stream he had a simpler method for grinding his corn, a way his forbears learned from the Indian, or heard about through his Scotch ancestors. He rounded two stones, about the size of the average dishpan, with great patience. Bored a hole in the center of the top one, placed the two in a hollowed log and patiently, laboriously poured corn, a few grains at a time, into the opening. With the other hand he turned the top stone by means of a limber branch attached to a rafter overhead, the other end of which was thrust into a small hole near the rim of the top stone. In this way he kept the top stone moving, slowly, steadily. The Scotch called this simple handmill a quern. It was a laborious way of grinding meal.

It has amazed men of the U. S. Geological Survey to find that the corn patch of the mountaineer often slants at an angle of fifty degrees so that it is impossible to plow. The mountaineer cultivates such a patch entirely with a hoe. When the mountain side, crop and all, slides down to the base he bears the ill luck with patience and fortitude and tries to find a remedy. He hauls rocks to brace the earth and plants another crop. He had no time to sit and bemoan his fate. Through such trials, and because neighbors were so far removed, his self-reliance and resourcefulness were of necessity developed. The mountain man learned early to face alone the hazards of life in the forest; first of all was defense of his home against wild beasts and the Indian. He knew the danger to life and limb from fallen trees, treacherous quicksand, swollen creeks, the peril of slipping mountain sides after heavy rains. Of necessity he relied upon himself; he could not wait for a neighbor to help pull the ox out of the ditch. He learned early to make his own crude farm implements at his own anvil. In short, he had to be jack-of-all-trades--blacksmith, tanner, barber, shoemaker, wagoner, and woodsman.

Men of the Blue Ridge did not clear their land after the manner of the German farmer in Pennsylvania, who uprooted his trees. Instead, it was done by belting the tree. He notched a six-inch band around the trunk, removed the bark which prevented the sap from going up and thus killed the tree from lack of nourishment. A field of such trees he called a deadening. The roots were left to rot and enrich the soil but the hillsides were so steep that the fertility from wood soil soon washed away and another deadening had to be made before another crop could be planted. Though crops were scant, the forest itself was ample and sometimes brought him rich returns if he managed right.

A timber cruiser would come into the community, prospecting for a lumber company, and examine the standing timber. After he reported back to the company, a lawyer was sent to sound out the landowners--to see if they were willing to sell their surface rights. When the legal matters were attended to, the lumber company sometimes bought as much as seventy thousand acres of forest. Woodsmen were brought in to work along with the mountain men. Portable sawmills were set up and busy hands--sawyers, choppers--set to work leveling the giant trees.

The owners calculated it would take twenty-five years to cull out all the large timber and by the time that job was finished there would be a second growth ready to cut. With this in view, hardwood and rich walnut were cut and used with utter extravagance and disregard for their great worth; full-sized logs of the finest grade were used for building barns, planks of black walnut found their way into porch floors, walnut posts were used freely for fencing by the mountaineer himself.

So profuse was the supply up until a quarter century ago that no thought was given to its possible disappearance through wasteful methods of lumbering, frequent forest fires, and the woodsman's utter carelessness and disregard for the future.

A timber cruiser in Knott County, Kentucky, once came upon an old woman chopping firewood beside the door of her one-room cabin. Upon examination he found it to be a fine species of walnut. After talking with her he learned that she owned hundreds of acres of timber, much of which was covered with walnut such as she was ruthlessly burning in the fireplace. He spent days going over the acreage and offered the old woman a fabulous price for the larger timber, at the same time assuring her, through written agreement, protection of all her rights. But the old creature, who lived alone, dismissed the timber cruiser with a wave of her bony hand. "Begone!" she chirped, "I don't want to be scrouged by your crew comin' in on my land choppin' down trees and settin' up them racket-makin' contrapshuns under my very nose. No how such as that skeers off the birds in the forest." Though the cruiser agreed that his company would even be willing to keep a distance of three miles in all directions from her little cabin, the old woman still refused, and when he tried again in honeyed tones to persuade her she up with the ax and chased him off the place.

The mountain man, however, often seized the opportunity to dispose of his timber and set to work with a vim to get it to the nearest market, though such was a mighty task. Having cut down the larger trees, he rolled the logs down the mountain side toward the watercourse. Usually the creeks were much too shallow to carry rafts of logs so he constructed a splash dam at a suitable point between the high banks of the stream. A splash dam consisted of two square cribs of logs filled with great stones. Against these two crude piers he built a dam in the middle of which he placed an enormous gate. He remembered how he had made rabbit traps when he was a boy. So now, on a bigger scale, he made a figure-four trap-trigger for his splash dam. On one side, the gate which he built in the middle, pushed against two projecting logs in the dam. A long slender pole like a telegraph pole held the gate in place. This is the trigger pole. Thus dammed, the water soon formed a deep lake into which strong-armed men threw the logs.

Gate and trigger are in readiness. The mountaineer has only to wait for a tide, which is often not long in coming. Even overnight, even in a few short hours, a stream has been known to swell from sudden rains or snow, bringing the water with a rush down steep mountain sides and carrying with it the logs that were left strewn on the slopes or near the bank. Men work with feverish haste to roll the logs into the stream. The whole is swept into the dam, the trigger is released at the right moment and the rush of water with its freight of logs sweeps through the open gate with a mighty roar, carrying its cargo for miles on down to the river.

Zealous workers have been known to splash out in this fashion as many as thirteen thousand logs in one season.

Timber so floated down the Big Sandy River made at its mouth the largest round timber market in the world and brought untold fortunes to capitalists who ruthlessly cut down the virgin forests along its banks.

Here at the waterfront taverns a motley crowd of loggers and raftsmen, woodsmen and timbermen, were wont to gather for nights of revelry. The old taverns rang with as rollicking songs as ever enlivened a western bar in gold-rush days. Here too woodsman and logger rubbed shoulders betimes with Devil Anse Hatfield and Randall McCoy, for it was to the mouth of Big Sandy, the village of Catlettsburg, the county seat of Boyd, that the clansmen repaired to reinforce their ammunition for carrying on their bloody feud.

And here, in the spring of the year, the calliope could be heard far down the Ohio as the showboat steamed into view. Shouts of glee went up from the throats of youngsters along the way as they rushed excitedly for the river-bank to watch the approach of the flag-decked boat. And when the _Cotton Blossom_ had docked and deckhands had made her fast to her moorings with rope and chain, a gayly uniformed band--led by a drum major in high-plumed hat and gold-braided coat--with sounding horns and quickened drumbeat walked the gangplank, leaped nimbly to shore, and paraded the narrow winding village street.

Old and young wept over the death of Uncle Tom and hissed viciously the slave-whipping Legree. Woodsman or logger, who had imbibed too freely at the waterfront taverns, sometimes arose and cursed angrily the black-mustachioed villain. Whereupon the town marshal patted the disturber on the shoulder (the officer always had passes to the showboat for himself and family and friends), wheedled the giant mountaineer into silence, and left him dozing in his seat.

When the curtain fell on the last act, woodsmen and raftsmen and their newfound friends in the village returned to the riverfront tavern to make a night of it.

By sunup the crew would be on its way back up to the head of Big Sandy to make ready for another timber run.

WOMAN'S WORK

The woman of the mountains has always been as resourceful in her way as the man. She made the sweetening for the family's use from a sugar tree and as often used sorghum from cane for the same purposes, even pouring the thick molasses into coffee if they were fortunate enough to have coffee. She made her own dyes from barks and herbs. And though she may have had a dozen children of her own she was ready and eager to help a neighbor in time of sickness. Doctors were scarce, so she of necessity turned midwife to help another through childbirth. She shared the tasks of her husband in the field and home. She was as busy at butchering time as the menfolk. Once the hog was killed and cleaned, she helped chop the meat into sausage and helped to case it. She boiled the blood for pudding and looked to the seasoning, with sage and pepper, of the head cheese and liverwurst. Hers was the task of rendering the lard in the great iron kettle near the dooryard. And once the meat was cut into slabs she helped salt it down in the meat log. But only the man felt capable of properly preparing and smoking the ham for the family's use. She frugally set aside the cracklins, after rendering the lard, for use in soap-making at the hopper.