Hatfield vs. McCoy 2009
story written by Nate
Every Day is a Holiday
Every day is a holiday, I thought to myself, causing me to chuckle aloud as I shook my head in disbelief. I wonder what this assignment is really all about? My thoughts were interrupted by the final hiss of the train as it came to a rest at the station. I gathered up my photography equipment, my scratch pads and my lucky pen which I tucked behind my left ear. I stepped off the train knowing there was a story in this town and it was my job to find it.
We had arrived late into the night, and I could just make out the silhouette of a thin, tall man standing outside the corner building. As I drew closer to the man, his fingers met with his lips and a drag from his cigar revealed protective sleeves like that worn by a Telegrapher.
“Are you open?” I asked.
“Sure, can’t sleep,” he nodded as he extinguished his cigar on the post.
“It’s my Sciatica you know…” he said as he opened the door for me.
“…But enough about me, you want me to make some coffee?” he asked as I sat down.
“No thanks, I just need to send a message to the chief to let him know I’ve arrived.”
“Don’t think anyone’s up this late, except me,” he said.
“Well, don’t worry, we’re sending this to New York City.”
The man and I spoke for a few minutes as we concluded our business. I stayed across the way at a boarding room. Early the next morning I was on my way to the supply depot.
The depot was smaller than I expected… being stuck way out here with nothing for miles. But I suppose people find a way to survive on their own. As I arrived at the depot, the man stood up from his chair, meeting me almost eye to eye. He spoke in a rough voice from the belly as he barked, “Welcome to the depot, what’ll it be?”
He then took a long drag off his cigar as I thought, does everyone smoke cigars in this town? Instead I said, “What do I need to make it down the Tug River?”
“Well..”, he grunted as he pointed at me with his cigar, “You will need to buy a ticket for the river boat and it leaves at High Noon.”
“Well, how much for the ticket,”
“Two dollars American.” He replied.
I thought this to be quite outrageous for a boat ride, but paid the man just the same. I glanced down at my pocket watch and noticed it was ten minutes to Twelve. I thanked the man for the supplies and quickly made my way towards the riverboat.
The road soon changed from dirt to wooden planks, and on the planks a simple inscription was made – PLAY WITH HONOR. I followed the planks to the end of the dock where the riverboat sat. The sign that hung above the boarding ramp to the main deck read, “NO HATFIELDS.” The answer to why, was the reason I came here. I glanced over at a fellow passenger as I took my seat. The headline from his local paper caught my eye, Man Found Guilty of Stealing Pig. I thought, what have I gotten myself into this time, as thick puffs of steam rose steadily into the crisp, clean air as we pulled away from the dock.
Cigars and Guns, What a Way to Live
I stepped to the back of the boat and onto the rear deck. I stood overlooking the paddles as they rhythmically sliced through the river. I lit up my cigar in curiosity. Man, these are good, I thought as I slid my lighter back into my pocket. I’ll save this other one for when I finish this story, tapping my breast pocket confirming its whereabouts. On the railing of the deck a sign read, Beware of Pickpockets and Loose Women. That thought had not been far from my mind.
I snapped back into reality as I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned to see none other than the Telegrapher. He looked quite disturbed and slightly winded. I thought, Who was running the telegraph office? But I said, “What are you doing here?”
“A message came for you late this morning, I think you should read it.” He stated, as he briskly handed the paper to me.
“You… over there, where’s your ticket?” said the Ticket Master. The Telegrapher shuffled his feet quickly as his eyes darted around searching for an escape route.
“STOP! Where’s your ticket?!” the man demanded as he drew closer. The Telegrapher, left with no place to go, swiftly jumped the side rail. A tiny sploosh was heard as he entered the water. I quickly stuffed the note in my pocket and puffed on my cigar in amazement, watching the air bubbles make their way to the surface.
“You’re coming with me” said the stout man with cold blue eyes as he reached out for my shoulder. “I don’t know that man,” I said.
“Good, but this has nothing to do with him.” He stated as he corralled me down off the deck and towards the common area in the center of the boat.
We pushed open a set of saloon doors, and the room opened to the left. In the middle of the room stood a pool table. Quite odd, I thought, as I made my way to the bar on the back wall. I sat down to re-light my cigar, when in the reflection of the mirror in front of me, I noticed a Gentleman walk in wearing a black suit and a deep red shirt. His firearm was seated in a black holster that ran along the right side of his leg. None of the others in the room seemed the least bit affected by the pistol, but it made me nervous. He ran his left hand along the end rail of the table making his way toward me. He turned abruptly to his left and continued down the side of the table. Now at the head of the table, he looked over to the booth in the left corner of the room that was drenched in darkness. He turned around, removing his suit coat and smiled as he said, “Do you have time for a game?”
“What are the rules?” the man asked as he stood up from the shadows of the booth into the light. I took a closer look at the man and noticed immediately the numerous animal pelts that made up his attire. He looked as though he was on safari.
‘It’s simple… follow the Lead Dog.” Said the man in the red shirt as he eyed up a suitable cue.
Just then as I peered down the bar past the two men, a shadow cast by the Hunter fell upon the mirrored glass room behind them. I could just make out what appeared to be small, thin man dressed in an all-white suit. I needed a drink, but I found an ashtray. I grabbed it and made my way up to the mirrored wall. As I shaded my eyes with my other hand and leaned forward towards the glass, a door to my right popped open and a cloud of smoke drifted out of the room. I wondered for a moment, had I seen a man at all?
Just then, an impressive man strut out of the room leaving the door ajar. He nodded to the Gentleman in the red shirt as he sat down at the bar and opened up his tool pouch. This couldn’t have been the same man I saw a second ago. I glanced back to the bar long enough to see him pull a firearm from his pouch, lay it down on the bar in front of him and immediately begin to disassemble it. This man must be a Gunsmith. As I peered inside the mirrored room, I thought, Cigars and guns, what a way to live.
The Beginning of the End
There he was, in the back corner of the mirrored den area. There was very little light to make him out clearly. My only aid was the glow from the fireplace which sat squarely on the back wall. Above it sat a mantle full of trophies. On the left where the Clouded Man sat was a leather couch which stretched from wall to wall. On the right, two chairs in a dark corner, flanking a table that was faced off in an empty game of chess. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see the fireplace was framed by large bookcases. Every book I’d ever known had its place here. A fireplace, a leather couch, books; this was some riverboat. The two dollar ticket was starting to seem like a deal. The Clouded Man lifted his head, shaking me from this daydream.
“Hello,” I muttered, unsure of what, if any response I would receive. Sheepishly he glanced down at the floor and giggled.
My lighter, I thought, I left it at the bar. I quickly spun around, still inside the frame of the door.
The Black Widow, I gasped, stopping in my tracks. She was sitting in my seat, using my lighter. I had read stories about her. There she sat, dressed in black lace with long black gloves, her twin red revolvers securely at her side. The story goes she was some sort of European royalty and left her lifestyle to travel the world. All I knew was… I was out a lighter. I had back-peddled in the room with the Clouded Man when a thunderous crash snapped my head to the left. Chess pieces scattered violently about the room.
Another man in the mirrored room?
Had I interrupted their conversation?
Is that why the Clouded Man giggled?
The man was drenched in darkness as he hovered over the table staring at the map he had thrown down. He circled a large portion of the map as he looked over to the Clouded Man and spoke. “It’s going to be twenty to one,” with confidence in his tone. I heard another giggle as the Clouded Man sat up and whispered, “Only twenty?”
The Strategist sank back into the darkness and lit up another smoke, all the while keeping his eyes focused on the map. I made my way quietly towards the door, looking down at the bar past the Gunsmith. I saw the Hunter down his last swig of beer, slam his mug down and throw his arms around the Gentleman in congratulations. I sat down two stools from the Gunsmith who was busy polishing his barrel.
Just then, another man pushed open the saloon doors. At first glance he reminded me of the store keeper who sold me this ticket back in town, but as he spoke aloud I knew it wasn’t him. He greeted the room with a brief hello as he dragged behind in his right hand what appeared to be a leash. At the end of the leash, now coming into view as it crested the door jam was an alligator. A large alligator. Immediately the barkeep shouted, “You can’t bring that in here!” The Gentleman quickly made his way to the barkeeper’s ear. After a few words were spoken, the bartender simply reached for a glass and asked, “What will it be?”
“A beer” said the Handler plainly as he sat down next to the Black Widow, tying off his gator to the stool next to him.
A new opponent stepped up to the table and racked the balls. He opened a small black case and pulled out a hand-crafted black and red cue. He swiftly screwed it together and pulled fresh chalk from his vest pocket. As he stood ready to compete, I knew he had done this many times before. The Gentleman broke with vicious velocity, pocketing three balls on the break. After a double bank that caught the edge of the pocket sending the ball to the middle of the table, it was now the Shark’s turn. He lived up to my assessment immediately as he pocketed the next five balls in quick succession, leaving only the nine to shoot. It was pressed against the rail and would take some serious skill to make. The Shark stepped back briefly, eyeing the room full of anxious bystanders. He leaned in and as he struck the ball cleanly, the gator’s tail collided with the table, sending the cue ball off course, into the side pock for a scratch. The Shark looked up in amazement as the Handler quickly apologized. The Gentleman stood between them as the saloon doors burst open again.
There stood a Fisherman with reel still in hand and behind him, soaking wet, the Telegrapher, followed by the Ticket Master. “Someone owes me two dollars and fifty-five cents for this reel,” he said, as he tossed it on the pool table. Before anyone could ask, he continued, “I was just fishing off the lower deck when all of a sudden this guy comes flying off the top and gets tangled in my line. Now normally it would have busted, but since I was catfishin’ that line there is strong enough to hold an elephant,” he said proudly as he pointed back at the Telegrapher, still tangled in fishing line. The Telegrapher stepped forward with the assistance of the Ticket Master, looked directly at me and spoke, “Sir, there is something else I have to tell you about that note.”
“It will have to wait,” said the Gentleman, as he motioned the Ticket Master to close the doors behind him. The Black Widow stood up and approached the pool table. The other men followed behind her. There they stood, the Gentleman, the Black Widow, the Hunter, the Strategist, the Clouded Man, the Gunsmith, and the Handler with his gator leash in hand. Next to him the Shark, the Fisherman, the Telegrapher standing in a puddle and to his side the Ticket Master. There they gathered, leaving only me on the outskirts, vying for elbow room at the table’s edge.
“You know why we are here,” the Gentleman spoke in a stern manner. “I know there are some new faces, but I assure you we are all here for the same reasons. It’s the Hatfields and McCoys, and this time… we end it.”
Go to Hell!
The steamboat slid swiftly and silently, settling on the sandy shore. Everyone geared up in their own way. Some sat quietly in the corner, checking and re-checking their equipment. Others cracked jokes and boasted of past victories. Still others paced the floor, letting their minds prepare for battle.
The footing was sloppy from the morning rain. The Gentleman and the Black Widow led the way off the boat. We traveled a small distance from the shore and arrived at the landing zone. It wasn’t long before men started picking bunks and settling in for war. The Gentleman met with the Hunter in the corner of the room; their discussions stern and brief. The Hunter turned towards the group and motioned to the Ticket Master. The men made their way out the door. They took no more than a step outside when they were face to face with two men. The men stood there in total contrast to each other but there was an eerie similarity to them, like that of brothers.
“State your business” said the taller, lankier of the pair.
“Stand aside or die” said the Hunter plainly.
“We are the law around these parts,” said the other mystery man.
“Not anymore.” The Hunter replied.
“Whoa… is that a Federal Badge?” said the man as he pointed to the Ticket Master’s chest. The Ticket Master ran his hand along the breast of his coat then quickly closed it over the badge.
“If you’re not ready to run in five minutes I’ll shoot you myself” said the Hunter. He then side-stepped and pointed inside as he spoke again, “See the Gentleman for your badges.”
The Brothers jockeyed for position to the front door as the Fisherman burst through it sending the door bouncing off the front of the house and screaming back toward the door jam, just as the Telegrapher stepped through. The impact sent him flying back into the room.
“Hey, you coming or not?” yelled the Fisherman over his shoulder as he strut into the woods.
The Gentleman, Black Widow, and Handler stayed behind to unpack the rest of the gear. The mission was simple: we are here to scout the area and if anyone was found in violation of the law we were to deal with it swiftly. I followed the Gunsmith into the woods, he seemed to know where he was going. It wasn’t long before we were in McCoy Territory. The Gunsmith drew his weapon and made it obvious what he was there to do. Soon he spotted a homemade still. As he began spouting off some Federal Code violation he kicked over the barrel. He then cited a local ordinance as he ripped the hose from the jug, spilling its contents everywhere. The Fisherman and Telegrapher joined us at the site and gathered pieces for evidence.
The Black Widow was pleased as we sat the still pieces down in front of her. She dispatched us to the other side of the river with orders to support the Hunter’s Recon team. We easily made our way down the freshly cut path the Hunter left behind. The Ticket Master signaled us from a small patch of trees. We closed in on his position quickly and began to take rapid gun fire from the bush. He explained that they had the Hatfields surrounded and they had us outgunned.
The Fisherman made his way around the rivers’ edge and shouted, “Listen up Hatfields, we are here to break your still up, just let us have the pieces we need.” There was a brief silence to the battle before a thunderous voice rang out, “Go to Hell!!” he said defiantly.
“Okay” said the Fisherman, “I guess it will have to be the hard way.”
He gave several small hand gestures to the men around him and disappeared into the tree line. Fire broke out from all directions at once. Hatfields hit the deck, some mortally wounded, others scared for their lives. The battle was swift as the Fisherman re-emerged next to the Telegrapher and the Ticket Master, just outside the Hatfield compound doors. The Feds poured inside as children’s screams poured out just as quickly. It was as if a pack of dogs had cornered a chipmunk in that building; it wasn’t pretty but it was over quick.
They swept the area clear, finding the still they were after. The agents loaded up the evidence and as they were leaving the area, they witnessed the McCoys following in their footsteps. One after another they raided the newly emptied Hatfield compound. The Hatfields suffered seventeen casualties at the hands of the McCoys that day. Also in the exchange, they managed to steal the Hatfield’s prized pig and boastfully held it in a pen outside their homestead. The Hatfields took control of an abandoned parts depot and were able to rebuild their still. The McCoys were caught in the act and thusly could not repair their still that day. With the success of the raids behind the Feds, they set a new goal, to interrupt the flow of ‘shine’ to the area.
We all sat down to a much-needed hot meal. Stories recanted, the Gentleman rose and requested, “Rest, rejuvenate, relax. Soon the Red River Runner returns.”
Dot Dot Dash
The Telegrapher tightened the tie-down on the tugboat and trotted into town. He returned to his familiar office, made a fresh pot of coffee and sat down at his desk. He pulled out the message I had given him to send to my boss and got down to work:
- …. . …. .- - - … .-. ..-. .- - stop
-… - -… - . - - - stop
- …. . ..-. . -.. … .-. .-. ..- - - ..-. stop
.-. .. -.. . .-. -.. .. . stop
The Telegrapher finished the message and the last of his coffee at the same time. He set down his cup with an empty thud, gathered his gear and locked up behind himself. He had taken only one step when he heard a familiar ripping sound. The cold night air blanketed his thin, bare thighs. He hung his head in disappointment as he turned back to see his pants hung up on a loose nail sticking out of the door jam; the same nail he wanted to pound in so many times before, but could not find a hammer. He quickly retrieved his “spare” pants from his gear and jumped into them, while making his way down to the docks.
The Gentleman had made it clear… the Telegrapher was to be back at camp by morning. The Feds had allowed the Hatfields and McCoys to run shine right under their noses. The Gentleman also made it clear that things were going to change. He knew the damage they could cause to their still operations, but now it was time to go after the source. The Hatfields and McCoys were out of ingredients and the first place they would go is to the West end of the Tug River, where the river runs purest. If they were to re-stock with fresh ingredients, their shine productions would be next to impossible to stop. With these facts weighing heavy on the minds of the Feds, there was only one conclusion: total eradication of both families.
