a mile or so distant, and the wagon was already heavy with freight
packages. The road was through a narrow lane, hub-deep with mud, and
what, with stalling and resting, we were more than half an hour getting
to the hotel. My fellow passenger was about my age, and was a
shrewd, well-informed native of the vicinity. He knew the mineral,
timber and agricultural resources, was evidently an enterprising
business man and an intelligent but not voluble talker. He accepted a
cigar, and advised me to see the house in Barbourville where the late
Justice Samuel Miller was born. At the hotel he registered first, and,
as he was going to leave next day and I was to remain several days, he
told the clerk to give me the better of the two rooms vacant. It was a
very pleasant act of thoughtfulness. The name on the register was "A.
Johnson." The next day I asked the clerk about Mr. Johnson. My fellow
passenger was Andy Johnson, whose fame as a feud-fighter and slayer of
men has never been exceeded in the history of mountain feuds. He then
had three or four men to his credit, definitely, and several doubtful
ascriptions. He added a few more, I believe, before he met the
inevitable.

Now, while Mr. Johnson, in all matters where killing seemed to him to be
appropriate, was a most prompt and accurate man in accomplishing it, yet
he was not the murderer that ignorant and isolated folks conceive such
persons to be. The cigar I had given him was a very bad, cheap cigar,
and, if he had merely wanted murder, he had every reason to kill me for
giving it to him, and he had a perfect night for the deed. But he smoked
it to the stub without a complaint or remark and saw that I got the best
room in the hotel. Johnson was a cautious and considerate fellow-man,
whose murders were doubtless private hobbies and exercises growing out
of his environment and heredity.