Blood in West Virginia: Brumfield v. McCoy

We Will Watch Over Each Other in True 

Love and Charity

The town of Hart as it existed in 1889 lay among the fertile river bottoms of southwestern West Virginia, a location ripe in timber and moonshine. Situated at the mouth of Big Harts Creek and bisected by the northwestward-flowing Guyandotte River, it consisted of a few plank and log farmhouses intermixed with a handful of general stores and a mill. A dreary but prosperous little spot, some twenty miles east of the Kentucky border, it offered no banks or streets—just farms with businesses. Within its boundaries lived a patchwork of farmers, merchants, timber men, preachers, masons, blacksmiths, millers, and distillers. Accessed by the county road, a dirt trail that crossed the river just below town, Hart was boxed in to the east and west by two rolling stretches of hills. To the south was Big Harts Creek itself, a ten-mile long stream with steep slopes lined by valuable timber to be cut, rafted, and sold in the Ohio River markets. The entire community straddled a county line: the town and surrounding environs constituted Lincoln County’s southernmost district, while Upper Hart made up a sort of backcountry region in Logan County. Aracoma, a fur-trading timber spot some twenty miles upriver, was the closest town of any size (population 325).

Generally, residents lived similarly to their pioneer ancestors, the earliest of whom had arrived in the valley some ninety years before. Most dwelled in log cabins made of timber that they themselves had cut from surrounding hills. They spent nearly every waking minute engaged in the chores of farm life—milking, feeding, plowing, cutting, clearing, storing. Life was difficult, routine, consuming. There was no time to be sick or hurt. People grew almost everything, raised almost everything, did almost everything. They built cribs, sheds, fences, boats, sleds. They made clothes, quilts, furniture, tools, soap, liquor. When time permitted, they hunted wild game, gathered berries and herbs, and fished in the creeks and river. Somehow, they found time to interact with one another. They congregated at general stores, attended church services and singing schools, and mourned together at funerals. They bartered goods, swapped stories, told tall tales, and scuffled at elections. They played cards, frolicked at dances, and debated the Bible. They raised barns, grubbed land, built roads, and participated in bean stringings and corn shuckings. People got along quite well—in a sense, the community was one large extended family.

But just beneath this calm, traditional way of life, a major transformation was underway. A new breed of men in unprecedented numbers (while clinging somewhat to the old ways of farming) dabbled and then plunged into business ventures, particularly timber. Timber offered, for the older, more established residents who claimed the best properties, a greater opportunity for prosperity. With the financial boom came unbridled capitalism, unprecedented wealth, and beautiful Victorian trends in style of dress and architecture. In this new climate, where residents angled for profit and positions of labor, greed and jealousies appeared as never before. Migrant timber men, mostly single young men from Kentucky and Virginia, exacerbated the problem. While thickening the local gene pool, they were a rough breed who brought trouble. These men, usually spurred by liquor, occasionally beat, shot, or stabbed one another in bloody acts of violence.

Still, until mid-September of 1889, many West Virginians had never heard of Hart. It was but one growing little town in one of many river valleys experiencing a timber boom in those days. But then, that afternoon in September—a Sunday afternoon—as one local businessman and his wife plod down Big Harts Creek on horseback, rifle fire from a person or persons unknown shattered the silent air. In coming weeks, residents of Hart cast a suspicious eye upon neighbors, hoping to determine the identity of the perpetrator of the crime. Ultimately, as events unfolded, the community would turn on itself, nearly destroy itself. Newspapers, local and national, already hot after facts regarding the Hatfield-McCoy feud transpiring in the nearby Tug Valley, had a blast publishing stories about the trouble they referred to as that Lincoln County war.

***

The up-and-coming businessman in Hart proper, Allen Brumfield, was twenty-nine years old and full of ambition. Brumfield was a tall man with blue eyes, light, sandy hair, and a swollen belly. He often wore a white dress shirt pressed neat with a formal, rounded collar and a soft brown or black three-piece suit with pin-striped pants cuffed at the bottom. One of his trademarks was a round, gold watch, which he wore faithfully in his vest pocket. He donned neckties daily, sometimes even a bow tie, and on special occasions, a derby hat. Generally, his shoes were of the dark, durable variety, extending slightly above the ankle with shiny, hard, rounded tips.

Brumfield’s wife, the former Hollena Dingess, was an elder daughter of Henderson Dingess, a prominent farmer and distiller at the Forks of Hart. Hollene, as locals called her, was a beautiful, dark woman known for wearing tailor-made velvet dresses to local dances. Almost three years younger than Al, she had borne him four sons. The oldest, Henry Ward Beecher (named for the famous New York preacher and abolitionist), was six years old, skinny, with thick, dark hair, tan skin, and eyes that were the most beautiful deep brown. Ward was a bright boy, a top pupil at Hart School, and of good countenance. His father championed him as the heir to a fortune yet unmade. Ward spent most of his time in Al’s care, learning rudimentary principles of business and politics. At night, under his mother’s tutelage, he studied lessons by lamplight. Ward’s younger brother Grover Cleveland (named for the recent Democratic president) was more free-spirited and prone for mischief. Cleve, as he was called, possessed light hair with blue eyes and light skin. He favored his father, as did the oldest child, Thomas Hendrix (named for the late vice-president), who would turn three in the fall. And then there was George, an infant who looked very much like Hendrix.

Al Brumfield, prominent merchant, boomer, whisky boat operator, and feud leader (Courtesy of Lilly Brumfield Ray)

In regard to his personal and professional life, Al Brumfield appeared to have risen above the odds, finding happiness and success. His father, Paris Brumfield, once a leading citizen in the community, had in the last fifteen years become a well-known desperado in the valley. Old Paris, high-tempered and overbearing (especially when drinking whisky), gloried in shooting people. Some seven years earlier he had murdered Boney Lucas, a West Fork timberman, at the Narrows of Harts Creek. One local newspaper, in reporting on his many grievous faults, said of him that he preferred to be surrounded by a people not noted for angelic sweetness of temper. Al Brumfield, while inheriting or choosing to partake in some of his father’s ways, had largely separated himself from the old man. For a host of reasons, young Brumfield placed his loyalties with his mother. By 1889, he had accumulated a 295-acre farm at the mouth of Browns Branch, most of it granted to him the previous year by family members. The county assessor valued his property at $642.

Most days, Mr. Brumfield woke at four o’clock in the morning to the sound of roosters crowing and cows bellowing. He would put on a pair of overall britches and go stir the fire in the front room to generate heat. Hollene would rise and put baby George into bed with the other children, then start a fire in the cook stove. In short time, clutching a lantern and a few pails, the pair would trudge out into the darkness to milk cows, gather eggs, and feed the livestock. But on Sunday, September 22, 1889, Al Brumfield and his wife slept a little later. The night before, a rip-roaring Saturday, he had hosted a gathering on his whisky boat, piloting the contraption a short distance to town where timber men and roustabouts had come on board and bought drinks. Earlier that morning, way after midnight, he had staggered into his bedroom and dropped a pocketful of money into a desk drawer already cluttered with papers. Hollene did not mind the late hour. She was, in many respects, as ambitious as her husband and rather enjoyed the sound of money falling into the drawer. As Al lay down beside her, she reminded him that they were to ride up the creek the following afternoon and eat dinner with her father. On this particular Sunday morning, Mr. and Mrs. Brumfield arose from their bed about seven o’clock. The oldest three children—Ward, Cleve, and Hendrix—slept even later. They shared beds in the other sleeping room. Baby George slept in the same bed as Al and Hollene.

Al Brumfield’s children, shortly after the feud (Courtesy of Lilly Brumfield Ray)

The Brumfield house was of a small, boxed variety built over a period of two years by Al Brumfield and Wade Wiley, a local carpenter. A single-story dwelling with three rooms and puncheon floors, it was situated at the upper end of a large bottom adjacent to a well-known crossing point of the river known as Isaac Adkins Shoals. Each of its sides offered a single window with tiny frames and thick glass. Its front faced the river and was graced with a modest, rolling yard shaded slightly by thin elm trees. Inside, through a fancy door, was a large room with a low ceiling that served as the sitting/eating area. A central wall covered by cheap but surprisingly beautiful paper adorned with delicate roses separated this room from the others. At its center was a wide fireplace with a thick maple mantle. Above the fireplace hung a large, square photograph of Al Brumfield’s mother; beside it, on the floor, lay a small, wooden apple bin. The other three walls of the room, being paperless, showed rough lumber. The room contained a wood-burning cook stove and an eating table, the latter covered by a neat, fabric cloth with an oil lamp at its center and flanked by two long benches. A large spinning wheel sat in one corner, which Hollene used to make some of the family’s clothing. There was also a cabinet filled with dishes and cookware.

The master bedroom, as it were, situated to the left rear of the house, contained an iron bed covered by a homemade patchwork quilt (both gifts from Al’s mother), a delicate nightstand with an ornate candlestick on its top, a fancy roll-top clerical desk (for Mr. Brumfield’s papers), a chifforobe for clothes, and a ladies’ dresser. A large, square trunk filled with clothes and heirlooms sat at the foot of the bed, and an oval wedding portrait of Al and Hollene hung on one wall. The other bedroom, occupied by the children and any overnight guests, consisted of two iron beds with a nightstand between them. At the foot of each bed was a small trunk full of children’s clothes and toys. The entire house was constructed and furnished slightly better than, although by no means vastly superior to, most in the vicinity.

Upon awakening, Al carefully slipped out of bed, comfortable in his flannel long johns, and put on some overall britches and horse-hide brogan boots. The morning temperature was pleasant and nice—the floor not cold on his feet. He went into the front room and stirred the fire still glowing in the fireplace, quiet in his work so as to not wake the children. Hollene, meanwhile, woke and prepared for the day. She took off her flannel gown and gently washed her body using lye soap, a rag, and water stored in a lightweight, wooden pan kept on a shelf beneath the nightstand. Satisfied, she slipped on a thin dress and then sat down in front of her dresser. Staring into a large mirror, she brushed her long, black hair before wrapping it into a loose bun kept together with a long pin. Her morning preparation complete, she walked into the eating room and put some kindling into the cook stove to start breakfast.

By that time, Al had strolled outside onto the porch. The morning was sunny, with only a hint of damp coolness in the air. The cows could wait. Mr. Brumfield busied himself at a wash stand, wiping himself clean. In short time, Hollene emerged from the house with Ward in tow.

Mornin’ Al, she said.

Mornin’ Hollene, he said.

Mrs. Brumfield left the porch to fetch breakfast, first reminding Ward to watch over George and the other children who were still in bed. As she made her way out to the henhouse, smokehouse, and well, Al removed a straight razor and a bar of lye soap from a little wooden box. Peering into a small mirror fastened above the wash stand, he used them to shave his face smooth.

A fine day, he thought.

That morning, Mrs. Brumfield served up fried eggs, ham, and biscuits. Al drank two cups of black coffee, while the children had milk. Afterwards, the family spent a half hour entertaining each other at the table. Al joked that little Hendrix ate twice as much as a boy his age and then got up from the table laughing and went back out into the bright, mid-morning air, closely followed by Ward. Just north of the house, he considered his large cornfield, now fallow but perfectly rowed and adorned with fodder shock. He strode past it to the hay barn, an impressive two-story structure, where he and Ward fed an ample amount of corn to the two Rome Durham cows inside.

A short time later, the pair made their way back toward the house on the county road, a smooth, narrow trail located between the Brumfield house and the river. Mr. Brumfield’s thoughts were on business. Just ahead, near the house, sat the Brumfield general store, a forty-feet-long by twenty-feet-wide structure. He had built the store soundly. A single-story building with a tall, flat front that faced the county road and river, its roof and frame were solid, its walls consisting of multi-layered oak boards (three in the front, three in the back, and two on each side). The floor was also made of oak—planed one-inch boards on top of two layers of rough one-inch boards. The inside-front wall was covered in fancy thin boards one-quarter inch thick and three inches wide and painted white. Neighbors joked that the store was in better condition than the house.

Al crossed the little county road with Ward and made his way to the edge of the bottom at the river bank. Just below, tied near the shoals, his whisky boat floated in the river. He gazed at it momentarily, day-dreaming. He hoped with the profits generated by his various business ventures to buy more land and construct upon it a store and saloon that would rival that of Bill Fowler—the premier merchant of Hart. He put his hand on top of his son’s head, slightly gripping the boy’s thick, black hair between his fingers.

That little boat is goin’ to make us some big money, he said.

Ward looked up at his father and smiled.

With that, the elder Brumfield turned and crossed the county road again, this time toward his horse barn, a fancy yet crude shed-like, one-story structure partially surrounded by a chestnut zigzag fence. Inside lived a shiny, dark brown beauty named Sorrel. At the barn, Al fed his horse a bucketful of corn and held Ward up to stroke his face. About then, Hollene came out onto the porch with the other children.

Me and Ward’s goin’ down to Hart, Al yelled over to her. Need to see Uncle Bill. Be back in about an hour.

A few minutes later, Mr. Brumfield prepared Sorrel for riding (a blanket folded twice into a square beneath a light saddle with large white stirrups) and mounted up with Ward. The pair trotted out to the county road, soon making their way toward Hart on the sandy little trail that ran under the rock cliff separating the Brumfield farm from town. It was a very picturesque scene—father and son riding together on horseback. Neither knew this was supposed to be Mr. Brumfield’s last day alive.

***

Green McCoy woke up drunk in bed, still wearing his boots. It had been a long night for the thirty-year-old musician, the better part of it spent fiddling at John Runyon’s saloon for free drinks and a good time. He always caroused with the best of intentions, wanting to save enough money to buy his own patch of land and build upon it a cabin for his wife and son. Unfortunately he usually woke up sick on rotgut whisky with his pockets empty of anything worthwhile. It was a source of frustration for the young man. He couldn’t squat on his father-in-law’s West Fork farm the rest of his life.

Spicie McCoy, Green’s lovely, twenty-two-year-old wife, lay next to him on her back, her soft face visible in the early morning light that cut between makeshift curtains in one of the shack’s two windows. Green wanted to wake her, to kiss her—but he held back. Spicie needed her rest. Sherman, their infant son, had likely kept her awake most of the night. Spicie had not been herself lately. It seemed to Green as if her child-like innocence, so prevalent in their first year of marriage, had largely faded. She seldom played her banjo or sang the beautiful ballads that had once caught Green’s ear at association meetings. But in spite of this, he knew that her love for him grew each day, evident by her tender touches, in the way she looked into his cool blue eyes . . .

Green lay in bed, staring up into the darkness toward the ceiling of the room. His head throbbed a little. Raising his fingers to his temples and pressing to relieve pressure, he thought of Milt Haley. No doubt, Milt was laid up at John Runyon’s saloon, drunk as hell. The two had agreed to meet later in the morning and take off to Kentucky. Green anticipated the trip. He was restless by nature—a journeyman in thought if not in deed. He often took trips with Milt to Big Sandy country. Maybe this time they would go farther, to Tennessee or beyond. Green was fascinated by stories of the Far West, of places recounted in books. He fantasized about visiting Kansas or Nebraska or, lately, the Dakota Territory.

A trip to Kentucky seemed well-timed. Trouble with Paris Brumfield had resumed. It would do good to disappear for a few weeks. Earlier in the year, Green had gone away to Beech Fork in the lower section of Twelve Pole Creek to avoid trouble with Brumfield. It had worked, at least for a while; then upon his return to Harts Creek the row had begun anew. Just a few days earlier, in a scrape near the Guyan River, he had shot Paris in the leg. Funny thing was, Green got along fine with Brumfield’s son, Al. He and Milt had eaten supper at Al’s the day after the shooting. Brumfield didn’t seem to think much of his father.

And so it was time to leave again.

Green’s thoughts drifted to Knox Creek, a small tributary of the Tug sandwiched in the headwaters of the Big Sandy Valley near the Kentucky-Virginia state line. For many years, Knox Creek had served as his home. It was the place of his birth, his childhood . . . Home. Green wasn’t really sure he could call it that anymore. Most of his family had left there, having moved to nearby Peter Creek or simply passed on to their great reward.

Green closed his eyes, tracing in his mind the familiar route to Knox Creek, finally arriving and thinking only of good memories. He was, for a moment, flushed with images of standing at the edge of a cool, rocky branch staring up at the steep hills and ridges, catching more bass than he could hope to carry.

The night before, during a highly energized drunk- and fiddle-fest at Runyon’s saloon, Green had told Milt of his plan to visit family in Kentucky. Milt, in turn, had told Green of a job offer from Runyon. I got a idea, Milt had said. Let’s do this job for Runyon and then we’ll both go over to Kentucky. That sounded all right—it was time to take off anyway. Timbering season was just around the corner. Sure, Green said. They could do the job, whatever it was that Runyon had in mind—then go. From there, who could say? Green knew that Milt preferred the lower regions of the Big Sandy, like Louisa and Catlettsburg.

Half-asleep, Green’s thoughts drifted to an image he often entertained—a sort of utopian dream of a hoped-for future scene. He could see himself riding West by rail, traveling lightly with his fiddle and some clothes—basically the same meager belongings he had brought to Harts Creek a few years earlier. It was a fuzzy picture filled with beautiful color but no clear lines. The people were blurred, like ghosts.

Green awoke fully to the sound of Sherman crying in his crib. Spicie, who had been lying in bed staring at her husband’s sleeping face, quickly fetched her son, carried him to a rocking chair, and began to nurse him. It was late morning. Her father would be conducting church service later in the afternoon. Green, she knew from the alcohol on his breath, would likely not make it.

***

Hollene Brumfield spent the morning with her three youngest children. There were many chores to be done, almost too many to count. She walked outside onto the porch holding baby George and washed him in a pan using lye soap and a rag. When she had finished, she dried him and covered his little frame in a long-tailed dress for the day. Time for the other children.

Come out here boys! she yelled inside to Cleve and Hendrix, who thumped around on each another somewhere in the house. Out on this porch right now!

The two boys ran out, grinning and wearing only crude underpants.

You two birds get over here right now and wash off like I showed you, Hollene said. We got plenty of work to do.

Cleve and Hendrix scrubbed their bodies with lye soap and water, while Hollene put on a large white bonnet and walked out with George to her garden at the edge of the cornfield. She eyed several fine specimens among the sweet potatoes, squash, turnips, and mustard greens. Grabbing feed from a nearby bucket, she tossed it out among the chickens that scratched by the house. In no time at all, her wet, half-naked boys were yelling from the edge of the porch for her to come and help them dress. She led them back into their room, laid George down on one of the beds, and pulled out some neatly folded clothes from a trunk at the foot of the bed. She put a thin, white shirt on Cleve and buttoned it to the top, then dressed Hendrix in a well-worn, checkered shirt and a pointy little collar. Both boys wore dark pants and scuffed brown shoes.

Minutes later, Hollene was back in the yard toting George in a small basket, with Cleve and Hendrix running around her. They made their way across patches of white grass past the long cornfield. At the hay barn, Hollene put George down safely away from a Guernsey cow in sore need of milking. Milking was something Mrs. Brumfield normally did at four o’clock in the morning, not at 8 a.m.

Now you both watch George, she said, looking at Cleve and Hendrix. I don’t expect to hear him cry and I don’t want him hurt neither.

The boys obeyed their mother. Hollene fetched five gallon buckets and quickly filled three of them full of the cow’s milk. Then she went over to another stall and drew two more gallons from a Jersey cow. Satisfied with her work, she took thin rope and tied pieces of cloth over the tops of the buckets so as to keep out dirt and bugs. Turning her boys loose to play around her, she packed George’s basket in one hand and one bucket of the Guernsey milk in the other. She stored the milk in the well and then returned to fetch a bucket of the Jersey milk for butter-making later in the afternoon. The remaining buckets were stored in the springhouse.

Sometime later, Hollene worked at the orchard, a cluster of fifteen apple trees situated on a slope up the hill behind her homestead. A little closer to the house, near a cherry tree and pear tree, Cleve and Hendrix ran wild and gathered fruit. Hollene held George close to protect him from any yellow jackets that might be swarming. Within a short time, she located a little willow stick and split its end, chewing on it to clean her teeth. She sat there on the slope watching her children when a wagon approached via the county road. It was her in-laws.

***

Milt Haley stood outside of John Runyon’s saloon, watching for Green McCoy. Somewhere up on West Fork his friend approached, probably slowly, feeling just as groggy. The two had spent most of the previous night drinking whisky and playing music. Milt’s last memory was sitting and playing his fiddle really slowly, then falling over—as if in a dream. He had no idea how long he had lain there on the saloon floor before someone carried him into a back room and dropped him on a rough corn-shuck bed. Waking up a bit ago, feeling light-headed, he had picked up his overcoat and fiddle—the latter laid up neatly in a corner—and staggered out a back door into the fresh air. It was so very quiet. There was little indication that the location had only a few hours previously served as the scene of high times. Making his way around to the front of the saloon, he planted himself in the shade of the porch under a sign reading, Saloon, John W. Runyon, proprietor. It was best to stand there. The bright, late-morning sun hurt his head. In his right hand he held a dark fiddle and a well-worn bow.

Within twenty minutes, Green McCoy appeared in the road seated lightly on a chestnut horse. Milt walked over to his ride (a borrowed horse tied to a nearby wooden rail), wrapped his overcoat around his fiddle and bow, and strapped it behind the saddle. Mounting up, he met Green in the road.

’Bout time, Milt said. I was startin’ to wonder if you was comin’ or not.

Ah, had to tend to the wife this mornin’, Green said. She wasn’t feelin’ too good.

The wife? Milt said. Huh.

Milt had separated from his wife and no longer had a home. He mostly stayed with John Runyon or Ben Adams, either of whom provided him with food, shelter, and employment.

How you feel today? Green asked.

My head hurts awful bad, Milt said.

He removed his hat, rubbing his shirt sleeve across his forehead. His skin reeked of liquor.

Feel like I been kicked by a mule.

I reckon, Green said. You was a sight when we left you. Me and Canaan laid you up in bed.

Canaan Jordan was Green’s brother-in-law.

Green McCoy and Milt Haley, timber men, fiddlers, and roustabouts (Courtesy of Nellie Richardson Thompson)

The two had married sisters.

Well let’s get on up to John’s, Milt said. Eat us a bite. Talk it out. See what he’s got in mind for us to do.

With that, both men began to ride at a slow pace toward John Runyon’s home.

About fifty yards along, Milt looked over at Green.

You got your fiddle with you?

Yep, Green said.

***

Charley Brumfield drove the horse and wagon right up to his brother’s porch, leaving a dust trail. His younger siblings—Dollie, age eleven, and James, age nine—climbed out, followed by their mother, Ann. Holding George and a large wooden bucket full of apples, Hollene came off of the hill. She loved Doll, a little sandy-haired twig of a girl, tall for her age. And Jim, she swore she would take him and raise him as her own. Charley was a different matter altogether.

Some eight years younger than Al, Charley possessed his mother’s blue eyes, light hair, and a fair complexion. Beyond that, he was all Brumfield. A large, heavy-set man nearly twice the size of his father, built thick with a solid frame, he could outwork two men. He was an expert horseman, farmer, hunter, and marksman. People could often hear his booming voice call out from the bottoms below Hart: breaking horses, driving oxen, calling to his dog Mack. He was a fierce Democrat and, it was said, a recruiter for the local white-capped society. To many young men in the community, Charley Brumfield was a hero. To his detractors, he was overbearing and brooding—a quick-tempered devil eager to stir trouble, fight, or pull a gun. Quite frequently, young Brumfield found it difficult to get along with people, especially his father, who did not treat his mother well.

When it came to Al, Charley could be irascible. He had always envied his older brother’s role as the prodigal son, protesting any act of favoritism (real or perceived). Al, sensitive to his younger brother’s nature, often coddled and pacified him. For the past year, though, Charley had been inconsolable. The reason was this: in 1888, Ann had deeded a large tract of land to Al, marking the first instance where any of the Brumfield children had received a portion of the family estate. Rachel Spry, their twenty-six-year-old sister and wife of Absalom Spry, favored Charley, as did Martha, the twenty-four-year-old wife of Isham Roberts, a local businessman. (It was not so much that they did not like Al; they, too, were jealous.) Siblings John, aged seventeen, and Bill, aged thirteen, were generally neutral, with loyalties that fluctuated like the wind. They were mostly concerned with hunting, nipping, playing cards, and skirt-chasing—not squabbles over land.

Deep down, Hollene knew that Charley loved Al in the way that a brother does. Still, she did not like him, or trust him for that matter. The feeling seemed mutual. At Hollene’s approach, Charley turned the wagon and, seeing his brother’s horse gone, told his mother, I’ll be back to fetch you before dark. He left up