The news of the dastardly, cowardly, savage night attack spread like wildfire. Newspaper accounts of the tragedy were everywhere received at first with doubt and considered as the figments of imagination of sensation writers. East, West, North and South newspapers began to make inquiries. It seemed beyond the possibility of belief that such horrors could occur in our day of enlightenment, in a land which boasts of a superior civilization and culture, and arrogates to itself the proud distinction of the “first Christian nation in the world.” As days passed, the story was verified. Its truth might no longer be doubted. Then followed a deluge of editorial comments. The authorities of Kentucky and West Virginia were mercilessly assailed for their failure to cope with crimes of such magnitude. Yet, even after this last horror, West Virginia refused to join hands with Kentucky in delivering the criminals to justice. The murderous clan continued unmolested and was free to commit new crimes, invading Kentucky at will, defying the entire legal and governmental machinery of that State. They felt secure with the governor of their own state apparently taking their part.
Then Frank Phillips started out to do, on his own responsibility, what West Virginia should have done. Kentucky had done all that could possibly be done to settle and arrange matters through the regular channels of law and constitution. Nothing remained now but to act without the consent and authority of West Virginia and the redoubtable Frank Phillips, chafing at all this delay like a restless mustang, decided to act.
When the news of the night attack and assassinations of January 1st were brought to him, he threw all caution to the winds. He formed a band of trusty followers, men that, like himself, would do and dare.
“If the governor of West Virginia is determined to continue the protection of his murderous pets, I will protect the citizens of Kentucky, or die in the attempt!” he declared. From that day there was no longer rest, peace or safety for the Hatfield clan of West Virginia.
Phillips had a system entirely his own. He quickly demonstrated his superiority of cunning and courage.
A few days were spent in equipping and organizing his band of raiders. Then swiftly they crossed the border into West Virginia and commenced their dangerous operations. Always on the move, they struck a rapid blow here and another there, always dashing upon the enemy at unexpected times and places. To describe those raids in detail would fill a book and furnish thrilling reading. But we shall select only a few incidents to illustrate the daring and determination of Frank Phillips and his devoted band.
On January 8th, 1888, Phillips ascended the steep slopes of Thacker mountain. Suddenly they came in sight of Cap Hatfield and the brutal, but desperately courageous Jim Vance, Sr. Hatfield at once saw the uselessness of engaging in combat and precipitately fled across the mountain on foot, escaping the bullets that were sent after him. Cap continued on his retreat without one thought for his pal. At “Hog Floyd” Hatfield’s, Cap stopped long enough to secure a mount. From there he rode, at breakneck speed, without bridle or saddle, to the camp of his followers.
Vance, thus abandoned and alone, stood his ground. He opened fire upon the Kentuckians without a moment’s hesitation. The near presence of his enemies infuriated this grey-haired man, grown old in bloody crimes, beyond measure. But one desire, paramount, possessed him, the desire to kill, kill, kill, as long as life remained in his aged body. To attempt escape never for a moment entered his mind.
He dropped behind an old tree stump and with vengeful eye drove shot after shot into the ranks of the astonished raiders, who were forced to take cover. Several of them had already been wounded. Vance, behind his natural rampart, remained unharmed. He laughed aloud, taunted his assailants with cowardice, and continued firing. His mortal hatred of the men before him inspired him to a heroism worthy of a better cause. At last a flank movement deprived him of the protection afforded him by the stump. His body now became exposed to fire from three sides, and a Winchester rifle bullet brought him to the ground. As he struggled to rise shot after shot penetrated him. Full of lead, wounded unto death, the blood streaming from his many wounds, he yet attempted to use his pistols. Then Phillips stepped forward and approached the dying desperado, the man who had given the heartless order to Ellison Mount to shoot the innocent Allifair, the heartless wretch that had pounded savagely the aged Mrs. McCoy and had laughed and tittered in the doing, the man who had incited Cap to the burning of the McCoy home and of all its inmates. Phillips raised the Winchester to end the outlaw’s life. But the man was down. He could not do it. Vance saw his hesitation. He slowly raised upon his left arm and in his dying moments pressed hard upon the trigger of his Colt’s pistol. Warned by companions, Phillips saw the motion and sent a ball crashing through the outlaw’s brain.
Immediately after Cap Hatfield’s arrival at the camp of “Devil Anse” the entire available force was summoned and divided into detachments. Plans were discussed and perfected by which Phillips was to be enticed into an ambush and annihilated. This force remained under arms for many days.