Why Do So Many Black-Owned Funeral Homes Look Smaller?

 

Growing up in Northeastern Kentucky , most of my experience in the funeral industry was in Morehead, Olive Hill, and Salyersville.  None of those towns have black owned funeral homes. So  I really didn't know a lot about the history of them. But every time I saw one in other rural towns , I always asked myself "Why are most of the black-owned funeral homes so small?"

It wasn't asked out of disrespect.
It wasn't asked to judge quality or professionalism.
It was simply an observation anyone who has spent time in funeral service will eventually make.

In many towns—especially across Kentucky and the broader Appalachian and Southern regions—Black-owned funeral homes are often noticeably smaller than white-owned or corporate-owned firms. Some are only a few rooms. Some look more like converted homes or modest commercial buildings than what people today imagine a “funeral home” should look like.

So why is that?

So I've been researching this; and the answer isn’t simple—but it is explainable.

Funeral Homes Did Not Develop Equally

To understand the size of funeral homes, you have to understand when and how they were allowed to exist.

For much of the late 1800s and early-to-mid 1900s, Black families were routinely denied service at white-owned funeral homes. As a result, Black undertakers didn’t just enter the funeral profession—they created their own system out of necessity.

These early Black funeral homes were often:

• family-run

• community-based

• operated out of converted houses or storefronts

• built with limited or no access to bank financing

White funeral homes, by contrast, generally had:

• access to capital

• access to land

• city-center locations

• fewer restrictions on expansion

That difference mattered—because architecture follows opportunity.

The Funeral Home Wasn’t Always the Center of the Funeral

Another major difference was how funerals were conducted.

In many Black communities:

• Visitations were held at churches

• Funerals were held at churches

• Repasts were held at churches or homes

The funeral home itself was primarily used for:

• removals

• embalming

• arrangements

• paperwork and coordination

If services weren’t being held in the building, there was no cultural or financial reason to build large chapels, lobbies, or showrooms.

Smaller facilities weren’t a downgrade.
They were simply designed for a different role.

Limited Capital Meant Careful Growth

For decades, Black funeral directors faced:

• difficulty securing loans

• redlining

• insurance and bonding barriers

• zoning restrictions

That meant most firms grew slowly and cautiously.

Many owners made a conscious choice:

• keep overhead low

• avoid debt

• stay affordable

• stay open

That decision allowed some firms to survive for generations—but it also meant they never expanded into large, modern facilities the way white or later corporate firms did.

Survival Mattered More Than Scale

In the funeral profession, bigger doesn’t always mean better.

Many Black funeral homes became trusted institutions not because of square footage, but because of:

• fairness in pricing

• personal relationships

• dignity shown to families

• continuity across generations

A family didn’t choose a funeral home because it was impressive.
They chose it because “that’s who buried our people.”

That kind of trust can’t be bought—and it doesn’t require a large building.

Why Some Closed—and Others Didn’t

Over time, many Black funeral homes closed for reasons that had nothing to do with competence:

• no successor willing to take over

• rising regulatory and compliance costs

• aging buildings requiring expensive upgrades

• increased competition from corporate firms

In many towns, only one Black funeral home ultimately remained—and it became the primary provider for the entire community.

Not because of marketing.

Because of history.

What These Buildings Really Represent

When people see a small funeral home and assume “less than,” they’re missing the point.

These buildings represent:

• resilience

• adaptation

• community trust

• professional skill developed under restriction

They aren’t symbols of failure.
They are symbols of endurance.

Many large, impressive funeral homes from decades past no longer exist.
Some small ones are still quietly serving families today.

That tells you something.

Final Thought

This question isn’t about race—it’s about systems.

When people were allowed to build freely, they did.
When people were forced to build carefully, they did that too.

If you learn to read funeral homes the way you read gravestones or old churches, you start to see more than buildings.

You start to see history.

The Battle of Dog Walk: Kentucky’s Overlooked Civil War Skirmish

 

When people talk about the Civil War in Kentucky, the conversation almost always centers on the Battle of Perryville, fought on October 8, 1862 — the largest and bloodiest engagement in the state. Yet just one day later, another clash unfolded only a short distance away, one that history largely forgot: the Battle of Dog Walk.

Though often dismissed as a minor action or skirmish, the fighting at Dog Walk was significant for the men who fought there and for the role it played in the chaotic aftermath of Perryville.

Setting the Stage

The Battle of Dog Walk occurred on October 9, 1862, in Anderson County, Kentucky, near a rural crossroads west of Lawrenceburg. The area was known locally as Dog Walk, near Chesser’s Store, along routes leading toward Salt River. Because of this, the engagement appears in historical records under several names, including:

• Battle of Dog Walk

• Action at Dry Ridge

• Chesser’s Store

• Action near Salt River

This variety of names has contributed to the battle’s obscurity, as it is often misfiled or overlooked entirely in Civil War histories.

Aftermath of Perryville

The fight at Dog Walk was directly tied to the Perryville Campaign. After the main battle on October 8, Union forces were moving troops, wagons, and supplies through central Kentucky. Confederate forces, meanwhile, were attempting to disrupt Union movements and capitalize on confusion following Perryville.

On October 9, Confederate cavalry encountered a Union supply column near Dog Walk. What followed was a sharp and chaotic engagement that quickly escalated beyond a simple cavalry raid.

The Fighting

Union troops involved in the action included infantry and artillery units from Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Kentucky. Confederate forces, primarily cavalry, struck the Union column with speed and aggression.

Accounts from the period describe intense close-quarters fighting as Confederate troops overran portions of the Union position. Union soldiers attempted to defend their wagons and regroup, but the terrain and suddenness of the attack worked against them.

During the engagement, a large number of Union supply wagons were captured or destroyed, dealing a serious logistical blow. Numerous Union soldiers were also taken prisoner, though exact numbers vary depending on the source.

Veterans who participated later described the fight as fierce and exhausting, with some claiming it was among the hardest combat they experienced during the campaign — a stark reminder that even so-called “small” battles could be brutal.

Outcome and Significance

Tactically, Dog Walk is often described as a Confederate success, due to the capture of wagons, prisoners, and supplies. Strategically, however, it did not alter the overall outcome of the Kentucky Campaign, which ultimately favored the Union following Perryville.

Still, the Battle of Dog Walk highlights an often-forgotten reality of the Civil War: logistics mattered as much as battlefield victories. Disrupting supply lines, capturing wagons, and harassing marching columns could have immediate and serious consequences for an army in the field.

Why Dog Walk Matters Today

Dog Walk stands as a reminder that Kentucky’s Civil War history did not consist solely of one major battle. The state was dotted with lesser-known engagements that shaped the experiences of soldiers and civilians alike.

For Anderson County and the Lawrenceburg area, the Battle of Dog Walk represents a moment when the war came directly to the countryside — leaving behind stories, memories, and historical footprints that deserve to be remembered alongside Perryville.

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Endnotes / Sources

1. The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, reports relating to the Perryville Campaign and the action at Dry Ridge / Dog Walk / Chesser’s Store.

2. National Park Service, “Kentucky Civil War Battles”, listing “Action, Dry Ridge, Dog Walk or Chesser’s Store near Salt River,” October 9, 1862.

3. The Kentucky Civil War Bugle, article: “Lawrenceburg and Dog Walk.”

4. Battles of Lawrenceburg and Dog Walk Project, “Battle of Dog Walk”, local historical compilation.

5. Carolana.com, “Civil War Battles and Skirmishes in Kentucky.”

Blood on Jack’s Creek: How a Kentucky Schoolhouse Sparked One of the Last Great Feuds

 

By the 1930s, most Americans thought the age of Appalachian feuds had passed into folklore. The Hatfields and McCoys were already legend, their battles reduced to caricature in popular memory. But in the hills of Floyd and Knott counties, Kentucky, a schoolhouse quarrel would prove that the old cycle of vengeance was not yet extinct. The Jack’s Creek feud—violent, tragic, and unusually well documented—stands as one of the last true family feuds in the state’s history.

The Spark in the Schoolhouse

It began on a hot August day in 1933 at Jack’s Creek School. Inside the modest building, two teachers—Seland Cook and his son Ralph, the young principal—were trying to keep order. Among their students were teenage brothers Barksdale and Curtis Cook, sons of a local merchant. Though they shared the same surname, the families were not related.

When Ralph attempted to discipline Barksdale, the boy refused. What might have been a routine clash between teacher and student escalated into defiance, then threats, then violence. Barksdale returned armed, first with a knife, later with a shotgun. As the teachers dismissed class and walked home, the brothers followed. Shots rang out. Stones flew. Ralph and Seland fell wounded on the dirt road. Two days later, Ralph Cook was dead.

Justice Deferred

Because the assailants were juveniles, the case entered juvenile court. Curtis was sent to reform school for a year; Barksdale, who admitted firing the fatal shots, was held while courts debated his fate. Both claimed self‑defense. To the community, the outcome felt hollow. A principal had been killed, yet punishment seemed light. The sense of injustice lingered, hardening into bitterness.

Two years later, Barksdale was finally convicted in circuit court. But by then, the feud had already taken root. The conviction did little to cool tempers. The hills were waiting for the next shot.

Ambush on the Road

The next victim was Bill Cook, father of the boys. Traveling with his wagon team in Knott County, he was ambushed. Witnesses described a figure rising from behind a rock, a shotgun blast knocking Bill from his seat, and more shots fired as he lay on the ground. It was retaliation, unmistakable in its precision.

This time, the state responded with force. Clyde Cook was tried, convicted, and sentenced to life in prison. Ten jurors had favored the death penalty before settling on life. Meanwhile, Seland Cook—the wounded teacher and father of the slain Ralph—was indicted as well. His trial ended in acquittal. But acquittal did not mean safety.

The Feud Rekindled

Within a week, Seland himself was gunned down on Jack’s Creek. Accounts differed: some said Curtis Cook lured him from a house and fired; others claimed Seland reached for a revolver before being shot. Whatever the truth, the feud had reignited. Collateral violence followed. Jeff Daniels, a young miner, was killed in the eruption. Azzie Hall was jailed in connection with his death. What had begun as a school discipline dispute now spilled outward, ensnaring men far removed from the original quarrel.

A Feud Remembered

By the mid‑1930s, newspapers no longer hesitated to call it what it was: a feud. One reporter captured its essence with chilling clarity: “The Cook feud had its inception in the peaceful environs of a schoolroom on Jack’s Creek in 1933.”

The Jack’s Creek feud followed the old Appalachian script: humiliation, killing, retaliation, ambush, escalation, and resolution through prison rather than reconciliation. Yet its setting—a schoolhouse meant to nurture learning—made it uniquely haunting. This was not folklore, nor exaggeration. It was history, recorded in real time, a grim reminder that vengeance could still flare in Kentucky’s hills long after most believed it had ended.

Source & Research Disclaimer

All information presented in this article is drawn from contemporary newspaper accounts published at the time of the events described. No modern interpretation, speculation, or undocumented claims have been added. While no formal endnotes are included, every factual detail is based on period reporting from multiple newspapers. As with all historical journalism, accounts may vary slightly between sources, and the information reflects what was known and reported at the time.

A Tragedy at Craney Creek

 

Earlier today, I was contacted by an individual who asked if I would be interested in researching a homicide that occurred in Rowan County, Kentucky, in 1939. Given my longstanding interest in local history and true crime, I agreed.

As I began reviewing the records, I realized this was not entirely unfamiliar to me. I had briefly encountered the case several years ago, though not in any real depth.

One of the central figures was Noah Hoskins of Rowan County, the son of Lewis H. Hoskins and Caroline Collinsworth Hoskins. Unfortunately, very little is known about Noah Hoskins’ personal life or background beyond what appears in court and newspaper records.

What is documented is that Hoskins had previously been involved in a violent incident. On Christmas Day in 1932, he shot and killed brothers Ora and Alvin Fultz, ages 17 and 19, following an alleged trespassing dispute on his property. The available records provide few details about that confrontation, but in 1933, Hoskins was convicted and sentenced to two years in prison.

The events that led to the 1939 tragedy unfolded on September 26 of that year. Noah Hoskins and his twelve-year-old son, Oscar, became embroiled in a dispute with John Cyris “Si” Perry, a neighboring landowner. The conflict centered on an outbuilding—often described in accounts as an outhouse—that belonged to Perry and had been washed by floodwaters onto Hoskins’ property.

Perry’s attempts to retrieve the structure and its contents reportedly led to heated exchanges. According to witness statements, Hoskins had warned that Perry was not to remove the building, and neighbors later told authorities that tensions between the two men had been escalating for some time. Some even stated that the men had been “gunning for each other” since the structure washed onto Hoskins’ land.

Rowan County Coroner Lester Caskey conducted an inquest on the Wednesday following the shooting, while Sheriff William McBrayer and County Attorney Richard Clay jointly investigated the incident at Craney.

Sheriff McBrayer later theorized that Noah Hoskins and his son crossed Perry’s land around 7:00 p.m.—the only practical route out of the valley where they lived without climbing the surrounding mountains—and entered Rowan County. The sheriff believed the pair sat on a log near the road when Perry arrived. What followed, according to the investigation, was a gun battle in which both men fired .38-caliber pistols.

Perry told acquaintances that Hoskins had ambushed him near his farm between 7:00 and 8:00 p.m. He claimed that when Hoskins began firing, he drew his own weapon and returned fire.

During the exchange, twelve-year-old Oscar Hoskins reportedly stepped between the two men in an attempt to stop the violence. Tragically, he was struck by a bullet in his side. The wound proved fatal, and the boy died approximately fifteen minutes later. The bullet that killed him did not pass through his body.

Noah Hoskins suffered multiple gunshot wounds. Two bullets struck his head—one entering beneath the left eye and another through the left temple. He was also hit in the left shoulder, and a fourth bullet pierced his heart, causing his death at the scene.

Perry was seriously wounded as well. He was shot in the stomach and the leg but managed to walk nearly a mile and a half up a steep hillside to the nearest house. From there, he was taken to Morehead for treatment of two bullet wounds. According to his wife, the coat he wore during the shooting contained six bullet holes. At the time, Dr. G. C. Nickell stated that Perry’s injuries were considered life-threatening due to his age.

Perry’s empty .38-caliber pistol was recovered at the scene, though Hoskins’ weapon was not immediately located. Neighbors told investigators they had heard at least eight shots fired. Sheriff McBrayer noted that the position of Hoskins’ body suggested he had engaged in the gunfight without rising from where he was seated.

Bloodstains indicated that the shooting occurred on a small rise near Craney Creek and the roadway in Rowan County, just across the creek from Perry’s farm in Morgan County. Hoskins’ farm was also located in Morgan County.

John Perry did in fact survive the assault and was tried in October 1940 for the deaths of Noah and Oscar Hoskins. He maintained that he acted in self-defense. After hearing the evidence, the jury acquitted Perry of both charges, bringing the legal proceedings to an end.

John Perry lived until 1961, but the tragedy left deep and lasting scars. Noah Hoskins was survived by his wife and six children, as a bitter dispute came to a heartbreaking end with the senseless loss of two lives—one of them a child.

Source & Research Disclaimer

All information presented in this article is drawn from contemporary newspaper accounts published at the time of the events described. No modern interpretation, speculation, or undocumented claims have been added. While no formal endnotes are included, every factual detail is based on period reporting from multiple newspapers. As with all historical journalism, accounts may vary slightly between sources, and the information reflects what was known and reported at the time.

The Crough–Pergrem Feud of Bath County, Kentucky

 

Violence at the Olympia Depot, 1930

Bath County, Kentucky has never been as widely associated with family feuds as places like Breathitt or Perry counties, but in the early 20th century, simmering family rivalries could still erupt into deadly violence. One such conflict—remembered locally as the Crough–Pergrem Feud—came to a violent end in the spring of 1930 at the small railroad stop of Olympia, Kentucky.

Bad Blood Between Cousins

At the heart of the feud were two men related by blood: Curtis Crough (sometimes spelled Crouch) and James Pergrem (also spelled Pergram). Court records later described the relationship between the two as one marked by longstanding ill will. What began that animosity is no longer entirely clear—an all-too-common problem in Appalachian family conflicts—but by 1930, tensions had clearly escalated beyond reconciliation.

In rural Kentucky at the time, personal disputes were often handled privately, and grudges could fester for years. When firearms were involved, it only took one public encounter for things to spiral out of control.

The Shooting at Olympia

On April 6, 1930, Curtis Crough arrived at the Olympia railroad station armed with two pistols. James Pergrem was also armed. The men encountered one another, exchanged words, and soon became engaged in a physical struggle that spilled onto the ground.

Witnesses later disagreed on exactly what happened next—who drew first, who fired first—but once the men broke apart, gunfire erupted. Shots rang out around the depot, a public place where bystanders were present.

During the chaos, someone ran to summon Marshall Pergrem, James’s brother. Marshall arrived armed, and additional shots were fired. When the smoke cleared, Curtis Crough lay mortally wounded. He later died from his injuries.

The Courts Step In

The killing shocked the local community and quickly drew the attention of authorities. James and Marshall Pergrem were jointly indicted for Crough’s murder in Bath County. Given the notoriety of the case and local tensions, James Pergrem was granted a change of venue to Rowan County.

At trial, Pergrem’s defense centered on self-defense and mutual combat, arguing that the encounter was forced upon him and that Crough had come prepared for violence. The jury ultimately rejected a full self-defense claim but stopped short of a murder conviction. James Pergrem was found guilty of voluntary manslaughter and sentenced to two years and one day in prison.

The conviction was appealed but later affirmed, cementing the case as one of the most violent and publicly documented family disputes in Bath County history.

A Feud Remembered, But Poorly Documented

Unlike some Appalachian feuds that spanned generations and involved multiple killings, the Crough–Pergrem conflict appears to have culminated with the Olympia shooting. Later references to the “feud” are largely retrospective, rooted in the deadly confrontation itself rather than a long series of recorded acts.

Still, the case reflects a familiar Appalachian pattern:

• family ties strained by long memories,

• pride and resentment left to fester,

• and violence erupting in a moment when restraint finally failed.

Final Thoughts

Today, the Crough–Pergrem Feud survives mostly in court opinions and scattered local memory. There are no monuments, no ballads, and few surviving newspaper accounts—but the story remains a stark reminder that even small communities can harbor conflicts capable of deadly consequences.

Sometimes, history isn’t loud or legendary. Sometimes, it’s just a handful of people, a rural depot, and a feud that ended in gunfire.

Author’s Note:
Much of what is known about the Crough–Pergrem Feud comes from surviving court opinions rather than extensive newspaper coverage. Like many rural Appalachian conflicts, the underlying causes were seldom documented in detail, leaving historians to rely heavily on legal records and testimony preserved through the appeals process.

Sources & References

Primary Legal Sources

1. Pergram v. Commonwealth, 241 Ky. 829, 45 S.W.2d 512 (Ky. Ct. App. 1931).
   – This appellate decision provides the most complete surviving account of the April 6, 1930 shooting at the Olympia railroad station, including the prior ill feeling between Curtis Crouch and James Pergram, the presence of firearms, witness testimony, and the legal arguments surrounding self-defense and mutual combat.

2. Pergram v. Commonwealth, 239 Ky. 766, 40 S.W.2d 356 (Ky. Ct. App. 1931).
   – An earlier related opinion detailing the circumstances of the confrontation, the involvement of Marshall Pergram, and the procedural posture of the case before the final appeal.

Supplemental Context

3. Bath County Circuit Court Records, 1930 (Murder Indictment Files).
   – Indictments and pretrial motions involving James Pergram and Marshall Pergram following the death of Curtis Crouch. (Held in county court archives; not fully digitized.)

4. Rowan County Circuit Court Records, 1930–1931.
   – Trial proceedings following the granted change of venue for James Pergram, including jury instructions and sentencing.

Historical Context

5. Appellate court commentary on mutual combat and self-defense doctrine in early 20th-century Kentucky criminal law, as cited within the Pergram opinions.

The Bluegrass Hideout: Al Capone’s Secret Stops in Kentucky

 

During the roaring days of Prohibition in the 1920s, while the rest of the nation struggled with dry laws, Kentucky, the heart of Bourbon Country, was a magnet for the era’s most notorious figures. Among them was the legendary Chicago mob boss, Al Capone, whose visits to the Bluegrass State were as frequent as they were clandestine. His favorite, and perhaps most famous, hideout was in Louisville—a testament to Kentucky’s role in the illicit liquor trade that fueled his criminal empire.

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🏛️ The Seelbach Hotel: Capone's Kentucky Home Base

Capone's repeated visits to Kentucky almost always centered around the luxurious Seelbach Hotel in downtown Louisville. As one of the grandest hotels between Chicago and the East Coast, the Seelbach offered the perfect blend of opulence and utility for an underworld kingpin.

The Oakroom and Hidden Passageways

Capone's preferred sanctuary within the hotel was a small, private alcove in The Oakroom, a space that served as a gentleman's billiard hall and card room at the time. It was here that he would engage in high-stakes poker and blackjack games, all while maintaining a vigilant eye on his surroundings.

• The Guard Mirror: Ever cautious, Capone had a large, custom-made mirror shipped from Chicago and installed in his alcove. This mirror allowed him to see anyone entering the room without having to turn his back—a crucial security measure for a man with many enemies. The mirror is allegedly still in place today .

• The Quick Escape: The alcove was strategically chosen for its proximity to secret doors and passageways. These hidden panels, built into the elaborate oak paneling, led to a network of secret stairwells and tunnels beneath the hotel. This ensured that if a rival gang or the police—especially the revenuers—came calling, Capone could slip away undetected into the Louisville underground. A button allegedly controlled the automatic closing of the doors, giving him precious seconds to escape.

The Rathskeller: Underground Speakeasy

Another notorious spot within the Seelbach was the Rathskeller. This subterranean room, with its unique vaulted ceilings and Rookwood Pottery tilework, was an ideal location for a speakeasy during Prohibition. It’s said Capone enjoyed this hidden grotto and may have used the room's acoustic properties, where sound can travel across the arched ceiling, to eavesdrop on conversations.

Capone's presence in Louisville was primarily driven by the bootlegging trade, as Kentucky’s vast stores of high-quality bourbon were a critical supply for his Chicago Outfit. The Seelbach served as a convenient and glamorous meeting point for coordinating these liquor runs.

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🥃 Louisville: The Bourbon Connection

The Bluegrass State, and Louisville specifically, was central to Capone's operations due to the quality and quantity of its whiskey. Despite the 18th Amendment, high-quality Kentucky bourbon remained a valuable commodity, and the route from Kentucky north to Chicago was heavily trafficked by bootleggers. Capone's visits to Louisville were often tied to managing this lucrative supply chain.

Capone wasn't the only gangster to frequent the Seelbach. Cincinnati-based mobster George Remus, known as the "King of the Bootleggers," was a contemporary and associate who also spent time at the luxurious hotel. In fact, Remus’s high-profile, glamorous, and often violent lifestyle—much of it spent at the Seelbach—is widely believed to have served as the inspiration for F. Scott Fitzgerald's Jay Gatsby while the author was stationed at nearby Camp Taylor. The Seelbach is even considered the model for the hotel where the wedding of Tom and Daisy Buchanan takes place in The Great Gatsby.

While his home base and notorious activities were centralized in Louisville, the search for connections to other parts of Kentucky, such as Lexington, often focuses on the confusion between the city names and the Lexington Hotel in Chicago, which served as Capone's long-time headquarters in Illinois.

Al Capone’s time in Louisville solidified the city's place in Prohibition-era lore, turning a beautiful historic hotel into a shadowy hub for the underworld’s most legendary figures.

You can learn more about the hotel's history and its infamous guests by watching this video. This video explores the very secret tunnels and hidden doors Capone allegedly used at the Seelbach Hotel to escape the police.

How Al Capone Could Have Evaded The Police At The Seelbach Hotel | Secrets Of The Underground - YouTube

The Execution of Oscar Jones: November 4, 1892 – Bath County’s Last Hanging

 

On a chilly Friday morning in the fall of 1892, Bath County gathered to watch a man die.

On November 4, 1892, a Black man named Oscar Jones was publicly hanged in Owingsville, Kentucky, for the murder of Sharpsburg town marshal Taylor Vice. The scaffold stood behind the county jail, near where West Paul Lewis Drive meets Thompson Road today — and it would be the last legal hanging ever carried out in Bath County.¹

Christmas Eve Trouble in Sharpsburg

The story began the previous winter, on Christmas Eve 1891, in Sharpsburg.

That night, Oscar’s son, George Jones, had been drinking heavily and causing a disturbance at the family home. Town marshal Taylor Vice stepped in to calm things down, performing the ordinary but often dangerous duties of a small-town lawman.² Witnesses later testified that George grabbed a club or stick, and Vice wrestled it away from him. In the confusion of the fight, Oscar Jones rushed in and stabbed Marshal Vice.³

Vice’s wounds proved fatal. Oscar and George fled Sharpsburg, but Oscar was captured the next day in Mount Sterling and brought back to Bath County to face murder charges.³

A Prisoner in Danger

From the moment Oscar arrived at the Bath County jail, tension hung over Owingsville.

Jones was a Black man accused of killing a white marshal during an era when mobs often carried out “justice” without the courts. Rumors of a lynching spread quickly.⁴ Jailer Sam Nixon armed himself and his son Will, determined to protect the prisoner.

On the night of February 21, 1892, a masked mob forced its way into the jailer’s living quarters, intending to drag Oscar out and hang him. Instead, they met Nixon and his son standing firm with shotguns, announcing they would protect their prisoner “to the death.” The mob backed down.⁴

In a time when racial violence often replaced due process, this moment is unusual and historically significant.

Trial, Sentence, and Bascom’s Field

Oscar Jones was tried in March 1892 and convicted of murdering Marshal Vice.⁵ The judge sentenced him to death by hanging, and officials selected a spot behind the jail — Bascom’s Field — for the execution.¹

The hanging was first scheduled for May 20, 1892, but an appeal delayed it. When the appeal failed, the governor reset the execution for November 4.¹

Public executions were still legal in Kentucky, and they often drew large crowds. It would not be until the 20th century — especially after the infamous 1936 hanging of Rainey Bethea in Owensboro — that the state abolished public executions entirely.⁹

November 4, 1892: Bath County’s Last Legal Hanging

When the day finally arrived, people poured into Owingsville.

A large crowd gathered at Bascom’s Field that morning. Around 9:30 a.m., Sheriff C.C. Hazelrigg led the guarded procession from the jail to the gallows.⁷ Jones was dressed entirely in black and wore white gloves — a detail that stuck in local memory.¹

He took time for prayer and a final chew of tobacco.¹ A black hood was placed over his head, and the rope adjusted around his neck. At approximately 10:00 a.m., the trap was sprung.¹

Local physicians Dr. F.P. Gudgell and Dr. Robertson examined the body and declared death at 10:11 a.m.¹ This would be Bath County’s last legal hanging.¹

A Last-Minute Confession?

Local tradition — passed down through families and recounted in later interviews — claims that Oscar Jones may have confessed the night before his execution, saying that his son George delivered the fatal blow and that he took the blame to save him.¹¹

No surviving newspaper account verifies this claim. Contemporary reporting simply notes that “Oscar Jones (colored) was hanged at Owingsville Friday for the murder of Marshal Taylor Vice…”⁶

It remains one of those Appalachian stories that sits somewhere between memory and myth.

Race, Justice, and the Line Between Law and Mob

Looking back, the Jones case exposes several uncomfortable truths about 19th-century justice in Kentucky.

• Race: Black defendants in this era faced harsh sentencing, limited legal protection, and frequent threats of lynching.¹⁰

• Law vs. Vigilantism: Jailer Nixon’s refusal to surrender Jones to the mob stands out as a rare act of defiance against racialized mob violence.⁴

• Public Spectacle: Executions were community events — moral theater as much as punishment. It took decades for Kentucky to move executions behind prison walls.⁹ ⁶ ¹²

Oscar Jones’s execution sits on the dividing line between frontier-style public justice and the more restrained but still controversial capital punishment of the modern era.

Walking the Ground Today

If you walk behind Family Drug in Owingsville today, down West Paul Lewis Drive toward Cemetery Street, you pass close to where the gallows once stood.¹ Some locals say the area still feels heavy — a sudden chill or the sense of someone walking beside you.

Whether viewed as a straightforward case of crime and punishment, a tragedy shaped by race, or a haunting memory of public death, the execution of Oscar Jones remains one of Bath County’s most enduring and somber historical moments.

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Endnotes

1. Narrative History of Bath County, Kentucky, Vol. 1.

2. “Execution in Bath County.” Bath County News-Outlook.

3. Montgomery County Sentinel (Mt. Sterling), Dec. 26–30, 1891.

4. Lexington Morning Herald, Feb. 22, 1892.

5. Bath County Court Records, Commonwealth vs. Oscar Jones, March Term 1892.

6. Semi-Weekly Interior Journal (Stanford), Nov. 8, 1892.

7. Mt. Sterling Advocate, Nov. 9, 1892.

8. Bath County Historical Society Archives.

9. Kentucky Historical Society, “The Last Public Execution in Kentucky: Rainey Bethea, 1936.”

10. Equal Justice Initiative, Lynching in America: Kentucky Supplement.

11. Bath County Oral History Project, Paul Lewis Interview (1974).

12. Smithsonian Magazine, “Public Executions in the United States,” 2016.