Around them stands the throng of bloodthirsty white savages, reared in the midst of a Christian country, and from which every year go missionaries and fortunes in money to foreign lands to make man better and rescue him from savagery. But somehow this region had been overlooked. Not one voice is raised in pity or favor of the victims, an unfortunate man, a youth and a child. The monsters dance about them in imitation of the Indian. They throw guns suddenly into their faces and howl in derision when the thus threatened prisoner dodges as much as the bonds which hold him will permit. Alex Messer now approaches closely to Phamer McCoy and deliberately fires six shots into different parts of his body. This is not an act of mercy, to end the man's suffering. No, he has taken care to avoid the infliction of any instantly fatal wound. Messer steps back, views the flowing blood and pain-distorted face and--laughs. Ellison Mount, supposedly the most savage of them all, now proves more merciful. He carries a long-barreled, old-fashioned hunting rifle; he throws it to his shoulder, takes careful aim, and blows out the brains of Tolbert McCoy who, immediately before the shot fired, had thrown his arm to protect the face. The bullet penetrated through the arm into the head. Only the little boy, Randolph McCoy, Jr., is left unharmed, as yet. Will they spare him? Some favor his release, one or two demand it. But this idea is hooted down upon the ground that he is as guilty as the others, and even if he were not, now that he knew the assassins of his brothers, it would be utter folly to leave such a dangerous witness alive to tell the story. "Dead men tell no tales," cries one of the heartless wretches, and impatient of the useless delay, approaches the boy and with a double charge of buckshot blows off his head. The entire band then fires a farewell volley into the bodies of the dead. We said "the entire band." This is not correct. For one of the Hatfields had remained on the other side of the river. "The Bible condemns murder," he had said. But this good man volunteered to stand guard and prevent any interference or interruption of the butchery. The foul deed accomplished, the murderers recrossed the river and entered West Virginia. Then Val Hatfield, the justice of the peace, this officer of the law, with solemn formality administered to the murderers the oath never to betray the name of a member of the band even should death stare him in the face. What is an oath to such depraved creatures? There, standing on the banks of the river, surrounded by that throng of midnight assassins, in sight of the spot that bore the frightful evidences of the dastardly work, Val Hatfield commanded them to raise their bloody hands to heaven. Each and all solemnly swore to stand by each other, never to reveal the secret of that night's work, asking God to witness their oath. What supreme blasphemy!