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