The History of the Kentucky State Police Campaign Hat

 

A Facebook post by Trooper Houk is the inspiration for this blog. 

No one can deny that the Kentucky State Police uniform is the best looking uniform in law enforcement anywhere. And the campaign hat is a vital part of that look.

Few pieces of law-enforcement attire are as instantly recognizable—or as deeply symbolic—as the campaign hat worn by troopers of the Kentucky State Police. Often called the Smokey Bear hat, it is more than uniform headwear. It is tradition, authority, and memory—pressed into felt and worn with purpose.

Where the Campaign Hat Came From

The campaign hat traces its roots to the late 1800s. It was popularized by the U.S. Army during the Spanish–American War, adopted by the Boy Scouts of America, and soon embraced by early state police agencies across the country.

Practical at first, the wide brim shielded wearers from sun and rain, while the tall crown gave an unmistakable silhouette. But its real power was symbolic: it projected discipline, order, and command in an era when law enforcement relied heavily on visibility rather than technology.

KSP and the Birth of a Tradition

When the Kentucky State Police was established in 1948, it followed a paramilitary structure common among state police agencies of the time. From the beginning, the campaign hat was part of that identity.

The hat distinguished troopers from local sheriffs and city police officers. It told the public—at a glance—that the wearer represented statewide authority, not a single town or county. In a state with deep regional identity, that mattered.

What Makes the KSP Hat Distinct

While campaign hats are worn by many state agencies, Kentucky’s has its own character:

• Color: Traditionally gray or olive-gray felt

• Crown: The classic four-dent “Montana peak”

• Hatband: Black band with a braided cord and silver acorns

• Badge: A metal Kentucky State Police hat badge centered front

Troopers are taught that the hat is not casual equipment. It must be shaped properly, worn correctly, and treated with respect. Sloppy wear isn’t just a fashion mistake—it’s a uniform violation.

More Than a Hat: What It Represents

Over the decades, the campaign hat has become a powerful symbol within Kentucky:

• Authority – instantly recognizable across the Commonwealth

• Professionalism – a visual reminder of discipline and training

• Continuity – worn by generations of troopers before

• Sacrifice – closely associated with memorials, funerals, and fallen troopers

For many Kentuckians, seeing that hat evokes trust and gravity. It’s not uncommon to hear people say, “When you see that hat, you know it’s serious.”

The Campaign Hat Today

Modern policing has changed. Patrol caps, ball caps, and tactical gear are more practical for daily operations. As a result, the campaign hat is now worn primarily for:

• Ceremonial occasions

• Public events

• Funerals and memorials

• Academy graduations and formal details

Yet despite modernization, KSP has never abandoned it. The campaign hat remains a rite of passage—something earned, not issued lightly.

A Living Symbol

The Kentucky State Police campaign hat is not nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It is a living symbol that connects today’s troopers to those who stood watch before radios, body cameras, or computers—when authority was carried largely by presence, posture, and principle.

It is felt and metal, yes—but it is also history, honor, and duty.

And in Kentucky, that still matters.

The Rope at the Forks of the Road — The 1817 Hanging of Bath County, KY's Ellenor Gillespie

 

Bath County was still young in the summer of 1817 — a place of rough cabins, hard‑packed roads, and the uneasy quiet that settles over a community where everyone knows everyone else’s business. The courthouse at Owingsville was barely a decade old. The Mt. Sterling Pike was little more than a wagon‑worn track. And at the foot of a hill where the road split, a gallows stood waiting for a woman whose story would outlive nearly every record of her life.

Her name was Ellenor (Eleanor) Gillespie, though the spelling shifts depending on which descendant or document you consult. She was a mother, a frontier wife, and by the judgment of the Commonwealth of Kentucky, a murderer.

I. A House Where Violence Lived

The stories that survive about Ellenor’s marriage to John Hawkins are not kind to him. They come mostly from family accounts, passed down through generations of Gillespies and Hawkinses who remembered the man as a drinker, a bully, and a danger to the people inside his own home.

One descendant’s letter, preserved in local genealogical circles, puts it plainly:

“He beat her. He beat the children. He drank and came home mean.” — Family account quoted in regional histories

There were no protective orders in 1817. No sheriff to call. No neighbors eager to intervene in what was considered a man’s domain. A woman’s suffering was her own burden, and the law rarely cared to look inside a cabin unless blood had already been spilled.

By midsummer, the tension in the Hawkins home had reached a breaking point.

II. The Night of the Killing

The most consistent version of events goes like this: Hawkins came home drunk, as he often did, and collapsed into a stupor. Ellenor and her teenage son, Jacob Gillespie, stood over him in the dim light of a tallow candle.

“Ma,” Jacob whispered, “he’s gonna kill you one of these days.”

Ellenor didn’t answer at first. The rope was already in her hands — coarse hemp, the kind used for tying livestock or hauling feed. She had likely handled it a thousand times. But never like this.

“Help me,” she finally said.

Jacob hesitated only a moment before taking the other end.

They looped the rope around Hawkins’s neck. One pulled one way, one the other. It was quick, brutal, and silent except for the scrape of boots on the floorboards.

When it was done, Ellenor sank onto a stool, shaking. Jacob stood over the body, breathing hard.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“We tell the truth,” she said. “And we pray the truth is enough.”

It wasn’t.

III. The Arrest and the Jailhouse Plot

Bath County’s justice system moved fast in those days. Hawkins’s death was ruled a homicide, and Ellenor was charged with murder. Jacob, being a minor, was treated with leniency — a detail that would later fuel whispers that the boy had been coerced or misled.

Ellenor was locked in the county jail, a crude structure of logs and iron bars. It was there that one of the strangest episodes in early Kentucky criminal history unfolded.

A local man named George Lansdown(e) — described in some accounts as a friend, in others as a would‑be rescuer — visited her in her cell. What happened next became the stuff of Bath County legend.

“Ellenor,” he said quietly, “I can get you out of here.”

She looked at him, exhausted. “There’s no way.”

“There is,” he insisted. “But you’ll have to trust me.”

Lansdown began to undress — boots, trousers, shirt — until he stood in his underclothes. He handed her the garments.

“Put these on. Walk out with your head down. They’ll think you’re me.”

It was a desperate plan, but desperation was all she had left.

Ellenor dressed in the ill‑fitting clothes and stepped into the corridor. For a moment, it worked. She made it nearly to the door before a guard — David Fathey — narrowed his eyes.

“George?” he called. “That you?”

Ellenor froze.

Fathey stepped closer, suspicion turning to certainty.

“That ain’t George.”

He grabbed her by the arm, and the escape was over.

Later, Lansdown and Fathey fought in the street over the incident. Fathey won. The story spread quickly, becoming one of those tales that frontier communities never quite forget.

IV. The Gallows at the Forks of the Road

The execution was scheduled for July 26, 1817. Public hangings were community events then — grim, moralizing spectacles meant to reinforce the power of the law.

The gallows stood “at the forks of the road at the foot of the hill on the Mt. Sterling Pike,” a place chosen for visibility. People traveled from miles around. Children sat on their fathers’ shoulders. Ministers prayed loudly enough for the crowd to hear.

Ellenor was brought out in a wagon, her hands bound. Jacob was not permitted to see her.

A witness later recalled that she walked “steady, but pale.”

The sheriff read the sentence. The noose was placed around her neck. The crowd fell silent.

If Ellenor spoke final words, they were not recorded. The trap was sprung, and her life ended before the sun reached its highest point.

She was buried in what is now Owingsville Cemetery, her grave marked simply, without mention of the crime that defined her legacy.

V. What Remains After Two Centuries

Ellenor Gillespie’s story survives in fragments:

• DeathPenaltyUSA lists her as a white female, executed for murder on July 26, 1817.

• Executed Today published a historical summary on the 200th anniversary of her hanging.

• Find‑a‑Grave preserves her burial information and a brief retelling of the case.

• Local genealogists have passed down letters and oral histories describing Hawkins’s abuse and the jailbreak attempt.

None of these sources alone tells the whole story. But together, they paint a picture of a woman trapped in a violent marriage, pushed beyond endurance, and judged by a legal system that offered her no mercy.

Her son lived on. Her descendants scattered across Kentucky and beyond. And the gallows at the forks of the road rotted away long ago, reclaimed by the land.

But the story remains — a reminder of the harsh realities of frontier life, and of the women whose suffering was seen only when it was too late.

Sources & Notes

• Executed Today, “1817: Ellenor Gillespie, hanged in Bath County, Kentucky,” July 26, 2017.

• DeathPenaltyUSA database, Kentucky executions, entry for July 26, 1817.

• Find‑a‑Grave memorial for Ellenor Gillespie, Owingsville Cemetery.

• Bath County genealogical accounts and family letters referencing the Hawkins/Gillespie case and the Lansdown escape attempt.

• Local oral histories preserved through regional historical societies.

Manley Vaughan: An 18-Year-Old Caught in the Tug River Strike Zone

 

In May of 1921, the coalfields along the Tug River were anything but quiet. The narrow valley that separated Kentucky from West Virginia had become a flashpoint in what history now calls the Coal Wars—a brutal struggle between coal miners fighting for union recognition and the forces aligned against them: coal operators, private detectives, law enforcement, and state troops.

Into that volatile environment stepped Manley Vaughan, an eighteen-year-old member of the Kentucky National Guard from Lawrence County. Within days, he would be dead.

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A Region on the Brink

The Tug River region was under immense strain in the spring of 1921. Union organizers moved through mining camps while coal companies fought back with evictions, armed guards, and legal pressure. Shots were exchanged across hillsides. Tensions regularly spilled across the Kentucky–West Virginia border.

To maintain order, the Kentucky National Guard was deployed along the river. Their presence was meant to deter violence—but in practice, it placed young, minimally trained men directly into the center of a labor war already smoldering with resentment and fear.

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The Night Manley Vaughan Was Killed

According to contemporaneous reporting in the Daily News of Pikeville, Kentucky, shots were fired one evening from the Kentucky side of the Tug River near Nolan, West Virginia—an area actively involved in strike activity.

A detachment of Kentucky Guardsmen crossed into West Virginia to investigate. Among them was Private Manley Vaughan.

The soldiers encountered four men believed to be involved in the disturbance. As the Guardsmen attempted to search them, one of the men reportedly drew a pistol. What followed was sudden and violent.

Manley Vaughan was shot through the head, dying instantly. A West Virginia state trooper, identified in reports as Keckley, was also killed in the exchange. One suspect was wounded, and the remaining men were arrested.

Newspaper accounts described the suspects as union strikers, a label that reflected both the tense reality on the ground and the strong anti-union tone common in regional press coverage of the time.

The incident occurred in what the paper bluntly called the “Tug River Strike Zone.”

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Who Manley Vaughan Was

What makes Vaughan’s death linger is not just how he died—but who he was.

He was barely eighteen years old.

The Daily News described him as a young man favorably known throughout Kentucky, active in church work and serving as a State Sunday School Association worker. His life, already marked by hardship, carried responsibilities far beyond his years.

Manley’s mother had died three years earlier. In her absence, he helped care for his younger siblings, taking on adult burdens while still a teenager. He worked when he could, supported his family, and was described as devoutly religious and dependable.

When he joined the National Guard, it was not out of recklessness—but duty. Like many young men of the era, service offered purpose, structure, and a way to contribute to something larger than himself.

Instead, it placed him in the middle of a conflict far bigger than he could have fully understood.

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Community Grief and Aftermath

News of Vaughan’s death sent shockwaves through Lawrence County and surrounding communities. The newspaper noted that the area was “tremendously stirred by this awful tragedy.”

His body was returned home in the early hours of Thursday morning, arriving around 1:00 a.m. Funeral services were held Friday afternoon, with burial in Louisa, Kentucky.

The language used in coverage left little doubt how he was viewed: as a good boy, a good soldier, and a loss felt deeply by everyone who knew him.

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A Death That Reflects a Larger War

Manley Vaughan’s story is not unique—but it is deeply representative.

The Coal Wars claimed miners, guardsmen, lawmen, and civilians alike. Young men were pulled into violent confrontations shaped by economic desperation, corporate power, and political failure. Many never lived long enough to see the reforms that would eventually come.

Vaughan did not die in a declared war. There were no medals, no national memorials, no official remembrance beyond newspaper columns and family grief. Yet his death was every bit a casualty of conflict.

He was an eighteen-year-old standing on a riverbank that had become a battlefield.

And like so many others lost in the coalfields, his story deserves to be remembered—not as a statistic, but as a life cut short in one of Appalachia’s most turbulent chapters.

A few days ago, my friends Leo & Heather of "The Hillbilly Files: Legends & Locations" did a video about Manley's murder.  You can watch that here:

https://youtu.be/QlKXD9KOI2o?si=JPxklPKty7YswWaP

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.