The next day, Lawrence and I went to find Milt Haley’s grave on the West Fork of Harts Creek. It had been two years since our initial trip up the Guyandotte Valley and I was excited to once again plant my feet on the grounds of Ed Haley’s childhood. We followed Bob Adkins’ directions to the West Fork of Harts Creek, where we found a confusing sign labeled “East Fork Road” pointing us across a stone bridge and past a somewhat large red brick church. Lower West Fork was very much different from my memories of main Harts Creek — more sparsely settled. It was surprisingly beautiful farm country with a view of an almost-forgotten agrarian way of life. There were old barns, cattle and tiny farms all along the nice little road.

Not surprisingly, Lawrence and I were unable to find the Milt Haley grave, which we figured was located in a thicket on top of one of the surrounding mountains. Hoping for the best, we decided to ask for directions at a nice-looking house. We chose a neat little white home, where an older lady came out and showed almost complete confusion as we asked about Ed Haley, Milt Haley and a grave. Once she figured out what we were talking about, though, she introduced herself as Iris Williams, said she was part-Brumfield and pointed toward the grave just down the road and to the right on a hill. She said her older brother Lawrence Kirk would know all about it. She went back inside and called Lawrence, who said he’d come right over and tell us what he knew about Ed Haley and the Haley-McCoy murders.

It wasn’t long until Lawrence Kirk pulled into the driveway and popped out of his car. He was a short stocky 70-something-year-old fellow with thinning hair and glasses. He made his way toward the porch, grinning and waving a newspaper. He said he had seen me on TV and unraveled the paper, which featured a front-page story about our recent visit to see Lynn Davis in Huntington.

In one of those “strange contact moments,” I introduced him to Lawrence Haley. It was a first-ever meeting of men whose ancestors had shot it out along Harts Creek over one hundred years earlier. They seemed to like each other right away and made it clear they held no grudges over their ancestors’ troubles. This was great news — no barriers to information flow. However, I have to admit, I got a little adrenaline rush in thinking that Lawrence and I were now in “enemy territory.” In my mind, the 1889 feud was still smoldering in the hearts and minds of at least a few people.

Instead, we all sat on Mrs. Williams’ front porch with Mr. Kirk, who remembered Ed well.

“I’ve heard Ed Haley play up there at the courthouse square many of a time in Logan with Ed Belcher,” he said. “They’d get together up there sometimes and play all day. I’d be with my dad up there when I was a youngster. I kinda got acquainted with the old man, enough to speak to him. He’d always ask you who it is. ‘Yeah, I know some Kirks,’ he’d say.”

Mr. Kirk said he used to see Ed and his wife on the Logan-Williamson bus that ran between the coalfields and Huntington.

“I felt sympathetic towards them,” he said. “They were blind — handicapped — and I’d notice them. I can’t remember that well about him. I can’t remember too much how he was dressed. It bears on my mind about ever time I ever saw him he was bald-headed. I’m not sure…but he played that fiddle.”

Mr. Kirk last saw Ed play music on a Sunday just before the election of 1948 or ’50 at the Harts Tavern. His uncle Taylor Brumfield was the owner of the tavern. Ed was there with Bernie Adams, who Mr. Kirk called “a pretty good guitar player.”

“Bernie was bad to drink,” he said. “He just drunk liquor until it finally killed him, I reckon.”

Ed was “being pretty sassy” at the tavern.

“They wasn’t giving him enough money to please him, you know,” Mr. Kirk said. “They was buying him a few drinks but he felt like fellows ought to throw him in a few dollars of money along. But that bunch there, they had to have their quarters to buy some beer with.”

Ed told Bernie, “Well hell, let’s go. This tight bunch here won’t buy a man no beer. Can’t get a crowd together no how.”

Bernie said, “Now, Ed. Don’t get to talking too rough about these fellows around Harts. Some of your folks didn’t have too good a relation with these Brumfields around here.”

“Aw, to hell with these damn Brumfields,” Ed said. “There’s nobody afraid of these Brumfields.”

I almost fell off the porch laughing.