This condition aroused the entire State of West Virginia. On Wednesday the sheriff, with a considerable force of “militia,” composed of men to be depended upon, again took to the mountains. Within three hours of their departure old Randolph McCoy came into Williamson, West Virginia. He was clad in the homespun of the country. His large-brimmed hat was adorned with a squirrel’s tail. Carrying an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading rifle, he looked worthy of the comradeship of Daniel Boone or Kit Carson. Years before that, three of his sons had been foully murdered while being tied to bushes; some years afterwards another son and a daughter were shot down in cold blood, his wife brutally beaten, his home reduced to ashes, himself escaping only by a miracle, and now the old man is on the trail of one of the participants, if not the actual instigator of these outrages. He had come, said McCoy, to aid in the capture of “six feet of devil, and 180 pounds of hell,” as he always described Cap Hatfield.
Seven miles below Williamson, McCoy overtook Sheriff Keadle, and united with him. Stretching over as much country as possible, the force scattered and advanced in skirmish lines. Nothing was seen of the fugitive on that day. At night camp was made on lower Beech Creek. The posse was now in the very heart of the Hatfield country, on Cap Hatfield’s native heath.
Some years before in this locality Charles McKenney, a cousin of the McCoys, a lad of only eighteen, had been riddled with buckshot by Cap Hatfield and two others.
During the night, after the moon had risen, guards reported a column of smoke further up on the creek. This was not unexpected. The stronghold of the Hatfields was on a decided elevation some four miles away. The smoke suggested that they were there. The rumor served to keep the camp awake until daylight, when the march was resumed, the posse heading direct for the old palisade. The advance was made with caution. When within a quarter of a mile from the “fort,” the first glimpse of the outlaw was had. His oft repeated boast that if once he gained the mountains, he would turn his back on no man, proved idle talk. He and his comrades rapidly retreated toward another mountain stronghold. When the log cabin was reached it was empty. No time was lost here. The men, elated at being so close upon the outlaws’ trail, marched with spirit and rapidity. The direction these had taken indicated that they were straining every nerve to reach the mountain crag known as the “Devil’s Backbone.” It is said that from this point, some years previous, Devil Anse Hatfield had fought single-handed a considerable force of men. It was then that the summit was christened and received its weird name, and where old man Hatfield won his “nom de guerre” of “Devil Anse.”
The mountains in this section are very steep to the southeast; Beech Creek cuts and winds through the hills until it empties into the Tug Fork. Huge walls of rock fringe the stream on each side. The strata is tilted until it stands on edge, a remarkable, interesting geological formation. Approach is impossible except from one direction. A slender footpath at that point clambers laboriously upward. At no place is there room for two men abreast. Two sharpshooters on top might successfully defend the place against a regiment. It was this stronghold that Cap Hatfield and his companions were so anxious to gain. He finally reached the foot of it, but at a loss. Old man McCoy was among the first of the attacking party, forging ahead with grim determination. Intuitively he seemed to know his old enemy’s destination. McCoy and six or seven men at last separated from the main body of the sheriff’s force and followed a cattle path. Sheriff Keadle pursued the other trail. It was along in the afternoon that the quiet of the forest hills was suddenly broken by a shot. Before another was heard, the armed posse was in a clearing which commanded a view for a mile or more toward the “Devil’s Backbone.” Nothing, however, could be seen except that the summit of the citadel was yet unoccupied. Then a white puff of smoke, followed instantly by a rapid fusilade, told that the battle had begun. McCoy and his party had intercepted the Hatfields. At that distance it was impossible to see the actors in the drama then being acted. Shot followed shot. Both parties were in ambush. Ever and anon old Randolph McCoy’s rifle could be heard. Then there came a lull. By the aid of his field-glasses the sheriff saw that Hatfield was flanking McCoy. It was plain that the old man must either retreat or perish. But the old fox had not lost his cunning. He quickly saw the danger and effected a safe retreat, while the Hatfields stopped at the foot of the coveted fortress. It was seen that two of the Hatfield crowd were wounded.
The sheriff and his posse now pressed forward with speed. Within a few minutes they joined McCoy. It was almost dark, now, when the forces were once more united, and approached within range of the Hatfield guns. Bullets whistled and cut the twigs of limbs over the heads of the pursuers. The sheriff commanded his men to seek cover. Instantly every man “treed.” Then began a fight after the fashion of Indian battles of old. The moment a body was exposed from a protecting tree, it was certain to become a target for many guns. Gradually, carefully, nevertheless surely the posse forged ahead, always under cover, yet advancing, concentrating and getting closer. Escape for the Hatfields seemed now impossible, unless they could put into effect one of their wonderful dashes which in the past had extricated them out of many dangers and difficulties. Cap Hatfield directed the fire of his men with utter disregard for their own safety. He seemed to bear a charmed life. The target of every sharpshooter in the sheriff’s posse, not once did a bullet touch him. The Hatfield rifles did better execution. The posse, which had left Williamson the previous morning with flying colors and full of hope, was now decimated. Two of the deputies were fatally wounded and seven members of the posse more or less severely.
As night drew near the battle ceased. The posse camped. A council of war was held. Some were for pressing on in the night. Others, with cooler judgment, suggested that it was safer to starve the outlaws into submission. The latter opinion prevailed.
Early on the following morning (Friday), there was a short but hot skirmish during which another of the posse was wounded. At noon the sheriff was reinforced by a force led by J. H. Baldwin. This man had, for some time, led the Hatfields a hard life. Ever on their trail, he either captured them or drove them from the country. Cap and his band were those who had given him the most trouble and had constantly eluded him, thus far. Now he had another opportunity to try conclusions with them. Baldwin was a splendidly courageous man, and a crack shot with the rifle. He at once took the lead. “When I was a boy,” he said, “I smoked many a rabbit out of a hollow tree.” With this remark he despatched two men to Williamson for a supply of dynamite. The besiegers sat down to wait.
Late on Friday evening Baldwin “winged” one of the Hatfields. The man had attempted to reach water.
At nine o’clock Saturday morning, the dynamite arrived and preparations were made to place the mine. By eleven o’clock the work was complete, the match applied and the command given to retire.