over the United States to whom the mere mention of
the word mountaineer evokes a fantastic picture--a whiskey-soaked
ruffian with bloodshot eyes and tobacco-stained beard, wide-brimmed felt
cocked over a half-cynical eye, finger on the trigger of a long-barreled
squirrel rifle. He is guarding his moonshine still. Or he may be lying
in wait behind bush or tree to waylay his deadly enemy of the other side
in a long-fought blood-feud.

Though there may be a semblance of truth in both, such pictures should
be taken with a grain of salt. Illicit whiskey has been made in our
southern mountains, as well as in towns and cities throughout the
country. There were blood-feuds in bygone days but they have been so
overplayed that scarcely a vestige of the real story remains
recognizable. Few of the old leaders are left to tell the facts.

I have known well and claim as my loyal friends members of families who
have been engaged in the making of illicit whiskey. I have known quite
well many members of families on both sides in two of the most famous
feuds in the southern mountains. These people were and are today my good
friends and neighbors.

As recently as the fall of 1940, I returned to Morehead, the county seat
of Rowan County, for a visit with the Martins and Tollivers. Strangely
enough, upon the day of my arrival I found Lin Martin, son of John
Martin, who killed Floyd Tolliver, up on a ladder painting the walls of
the Cozy Theatre. This modern motion-picture theater occupies the site
of the old Carey House where Martin shot Tolliver. Lin was standing in
almost the exact spot where his father stood when he shot Floyd
Tolliver. Most willingly he stepped out into the sunlight, paint brush
and bucket in hand to meet and be photographed with Clint Tolliver, a
son and nephew of the Tolliver leaders, whose father, Bud, was killed by
the posse in the all-day battle on Railroad Street when the Tolliver
band was wiped out. Clint was a nephew of Floyd Tolliver, slain by John
Martin; he married Mrs. Lucy Trumbo Martin's niece, Texannie Trumbo.

While the men shook hands in friendly fashion, believe it or not, across
the street in the courthouse yard under a great oak, past which John
Martin was hurried to the safety of the jail, a blind fiddler was
singing the famous ballad composed by a Rowan County minstrel, called
the Rowan County Troubles. The sons of the feudists smiled blandly.
Clint Tolliver is a Spanish American War veteran an