Bloody Williamson

by Paul M. Angle

  He lived for eight days. Before he died he named one of the Bulliner boys, and James Norris, who worked for them, as his attackers. Warrants for their arrest were issued, but three months passed before Bulliner was taken, while Norris was not apprehended until much later. Bulliner was indicted, tried, and acquitted when four witnesses from Tennessee swore that he was visiting there when Henderson was shot.

  The day after the shooting of Henderson, a man plowing a field a mile distant was shot, though not fatally. He had no connection with the Vendetta; the supposition was that he had stumbled on evidence incriminating someone. Shortly afterward another innocent resident was shot from ambush, again for no apparent reason. In August 1874, an attempt was made on the life of George W. Sisney, but the charges of the assailants’ guns, dampened by dew, failed to fire and he escaped. Although he watched his attackers run from the scene he would not reveal their names.

  This wave of assaults and murders terrified the people of the western part of Williamson County. Fearing for their lives, they kept their suspicions, even their knowledge, to themselves, hoping thus to escape the bullets of the feudists. The murder of Dr. Vincent Hinchcliff proved that the hope was futile.

  Hinchcliff was a substantial citizen. His family had lived in the county for many years, and all its members bore good reputations. He himself had been active enough in politics to be rewarded with the postmastership at Carterville, and as a country doctor he had a large number of stanch friends.

  Hinchcliff’s connection with the Vendetta came about through circumstances rather than family connections. He had testified against Tom Russell when Russell was charged with the murder of David Bulliner, and that had aligned him, in the minds of the community, with the Bulliners and Crains against the Hendersons and Sisneys.

  On Sunday morning, October 4, 1874, Hinchcliff made a call on a sick man. Returning home, he was shot from ambush and died instantly. During the ensuing investigation, witnesses testified that they were close enough to hear not only the shots but also the exultant yells of the assassins, yet they could not identify the murderers. Two of the Hendersons were arrested and indicted, but were never brought to trial.

  After the death of Hinchcliff [Milo Erwin wrote], consternation seized every mind; mutual distrust and a want of confidence was felt. The solemn pallor of cholera times hung over our people. Silence pervaded the air. The responsible men were seen standing around in groups, whispering questions that no man dare answer.…

  One of those to whom the all-pervading suspicion and fear became intolerable was George W. Sisney. He knew that he might be chosen to pay with his life for the murder of Hinchcliff; he also knew that he had been lucky, a few months earlier, to escape death. In the fall of 1874 he ran for a second term as sheriff of Williamson County, but was defeated. Soon after the election he moved to Carbondale. There, though only a few miles from the scene of the feud, he thought he would be safe.

  His peace of mind lasted only until the 12th of December, hardly a month after his removal. Early that evening, while he played dominoes with his wife and a young visitor, someone fired both barrels of a shotgun through a near-by window. Sisney was badly wounded; so was his young friend.

  Both victims of the attack recovered. However, because of Sisney’s prominence, and because, by leaving the scene of the Vendetta, he had obviously tried to sever any connection with it, the attempted murder attracted far more notice than earlier assaults. Newspapers made biting comments. “Where this will end,” one editor moaned, “God only knows. Parties have visited Carbondale and ordered … double-barreled shot-guns, swearing vengeance, and boldly declaring that the fun has only begun.” Another, in the county seat, admitted that the name of Williamson County had become “a hiss and a by-word.” Strangers were shunning the region, property was dropping in value, and there was no prospect of exploiting the veins of coal that were known to underlie the topsoil. “To … bring these fiendish outlaws to justice seems to be the universal desire of the people,” the writer concluded, “but to accomplish this seems to be the point that puts to silence the entire county.”

  One reason for this state of affairs—perhaps the only reason—was the ineffectiveness of the county authorities. The leading participants in the feud had influence, and weak-kneed officials were afraid to proceed against them. When Tom Russell was cleared, on preliminary examination, of the murder of Dave Bulliner, a deputy sheriff with a warrant for Russell’s arrest on another murder charge in his pocket allowed him to walk out of the courtroom unmolested. The sheriff himself refused for months to arrest his cousin, Jim Norris, who was charged with the murder of James Henderson. But the worst delinquent was the State’s Attorney, J. D. F. Jennings. According to Erwin, who doubtless wrote with prejudice, this worthy was “a professional doctor, lawyer, preacher, fiddler, horn-blower and libertine” and thoroughgoing hypocrite. “He was a rowdy among the rowdies, pious among the pious, Godless among the Godless, and a spooney among the women.” But he could preach a sermon so persuasively that his hearers would still be shaking with remorse while he himself was gleefully drunk. His performance as a law-enforcement officer was on a par with his activities in the pulpit.

  No wonder that a reporter for the St. Louis Democrat, writing a long account of the Vendetta a few weeks after the assault on Sisney, concluded: “As far as the officers of the law are concerned as to making arrests and prosecuting criminals, Williamson County might as well be without them.”

  The people of Illinois were coming to the same conclusion. If the local authorities could not be depended upon, then the time had come for the state government to act. In January 1875, soon after the General Assembly convened for its biennial session, a member introduced a bill directing the governor to take such action as he might find necessary to secure the arrest and conviction of the Williamson County outlaws, and authorizing him to spend ten thousand dollars for that purpose. Stubborn opposition developed. “The feeling seems strong,” a correspondent wrote from Springfield “… that the proper thing is to leave the Williamson County murderers to go on killing each other till they are all exterminated.” A sharp communication from the governor, and a petition from the sheriff, treasurer, county clerk, and leading citizens of Williamson County kept the bill alive, but its opponents succeeded in reducing the appropriation from ten thousand to three thousand dollars. Thus amended, it passed the House, but too late for the Senate to act upon it. The movement to obtain state aid served only to publicize the county’s shame.

  While the legislators wrangled over the relief bill, Jennings, the State’s Attorney, disappeared, taking with him nine hundred dollars of public money. Soon afterward the office was declared vacant. At a special election in June, J. W. Hartwell, an able young lawyer and a man of courage, was elected to it.

  During the first half of 1875 a few minor disorders were the only evidence that the Vendetta persisted. Then the feud blazed again. Once more the victim was George W. Sisney, and this time luck favored the assassin.

  The circumstances were almost identical with those which had prevailed a few months earlier. On the night of July 28 Sisney retired early. About nine o’clock a friend knocked on his door. The man needed money and wanted Sisney to endorse his note. The ex-sheriff came downstairs, lighted a lamp, signed the note, and then sat and talked with his visitor before an open window until the blast of a shotgun ended the conversation. “As soon as we heard the shot,” a neighbor said, “we knew that George Sisney was killed; everybody knew it would be Sisney’s turn next.” A crowd gathered. Inside the darkened house the hysterical sobs of women could be heard. Someone battered in the front door. Sisney, still erect in his chair, had a gaping hole in his chest. He was dead.

  They took his body to Crainville for burial. On the day after the funeral service, several of his friends gathered in the store of William Spence, the principal merchant of the village. As they talked, Spence lost his Scotch taciturnity long enough to remark that if he told what he knew, someone woul
d suffer for Sisney’s murder. And, he added, they should.

  The next morning Spence was found dead in his store, a shotgun wound in his body and pistol holes in his head and chest. Neighbors admitted that they had heard shots during the night, but none had been bold enough to investigate.

  Two murders in quick succession shocked the people of the state as no previous killings in the Vendetta had done. Four days after the murder of Spence Governor Beveridge wrote a stern letter to the sheriff of Williamson County: “The State’s Attorney must prosecute; grand juries must indict; witnesses must testify; courts and juries must try; and the Sheriff must execute the orders of the court.” He had no funds with which to ferret out local criminals, he added, nor could he act unless called upon by the county authorities. He could, however, authorize the enrolling and equipping of local militia. But the law, he explained to a newspaper reporter, only allowed him to offer a reward of two hundred dollars, which would be a farce under the circumstances. The county officials, through whom he had to act, had not yet notified him of their inability to enforce the laws.

  To many people over the state, the governor’s attitude was inexcusably pusillanimous. From Cairo and St. Louis to Chicago, editors attacked the chief executive’s supineness. What Williamson County needed was a hangman, with a governor in Springfield courageous enough to give him something to do.… The entire state was being disgraced by the lawlessness of a single county, and it was the governor’s responsibility to find a way to restore order.… “This Williamson County business marks a black page on the annals of Illinois, and by the honor and power of the State there should be no more of it.…” “Let the Governor take a hand: the people will sustain him in driving out the ruffians.…” “Why does he not offer rewards for the apprehension of the Williamson assassins? What reward does he expect for his neglect of duty in this matter? Who can explain his conduct?”

  This deluge of criticism had its effect. The Williamson County Commissioners offered rewards of one thousand dollars each for the arrest of the murderers of David Bulliner, James Henderson, Vincent Hinchcliff, and William Spence. And Governor Beveridge, suddenly discovering that he had more money at his disposal than he had at first supposed, offered additional rewards of four hundred dollars each for the arrest and conviction of the murderers of these men, and a like amount for the arrest and conviction of the killers of George W. Sisney and George Bulliner. Shortly afterward the Jackson County Court offered rewards of four hundred dollars for the murderers of Sisney and George Bulliner, both of whom had been killed within its jurisdiction.

  Nothing more was needed. A woman, to whom one of the killers had talked too freely, told her brother that she knew who had murdered William Spence. The brother decided that Benjamin F. Lowe of Marion—a former town marshal who had turned professional gambler—was the man to turn justice into a profit. Lowe agreed, and undertook to bring about the arrest of the murderers.

  In less than a month he arrested a ne’er-do-well named Samuel Music at the post office in Cairo. The suspect had lived in the western part of Williamson County for seven or eight years, making a meager living as a teamster. He was illiterate and a drunkard. And he was the man who had gabbled about the killing of William Spence.

  All the way from Cairo to Marion, Music drank steadily. When he reached his destination he was ready to talk. On the basis of his revelations the sheriff arrested John Bulliner, Samuel R. Crain, and three other members of the Crain family who went by the names of “Big Jep,” “Black Bill,” and “Yaller Bill.” Lowe found Allen Baker, another Bulliner ally, at Du Quoin, arrested him, and brought him back to Marion. Marshall Crain, more directly implicated by Music than were any of the others, could not be located. Lowe heard that he was in Missouri. Soon afterward he ran him down in northeastern Arkansas. In a short time Crain was behind the bars of the Jackson County jail at Murphysboro, charged with the murder of George W. Sisney.

  While Lowe was tracking his man, John Bulliner, Samuel R. Crain, and Allen Baker were arraigned before a justice of the peace. Music, the principal witness for the prosecution, testified that Marshall Crain had killed Sisney, and that the three men in court were his accomplices. Samuel R. Crain was released for want of evidence, but Bulliner and Baker were committed to jail. Soon afterward, they were indicted for murder.

  Their trial opened at Murphysboro on October 8, 1875. Music, the star witness, told a lurid story. Early in July, he related, he had been present when John Bulliner offered Marshall Crain three hundred dollars if he would kill Sisney. Crain agreed. On the 28th of the month, Music continued, he had been in Carbondale where, by chance, he met Crain, who admitted readily enough that he was there for the purpose of killing Sisney. Music, unconcerned, went about his business.

  The next day he met Crain and Allen Baker in Carterville. Crain related that about nine o’clock on the previous evening he had started for Sisney’s home. Aided by rain, he reached there without being seen. The house was dark; evidently its occupants had gone to bed. He was about to give up hope when Sisney’s visitor arrived, thus giving the killer his opportunity.

  After firing one fatal shot, Crain ran. The rain, now a violent thunderstorm, aided him to escape. He made his way out of town, and then stumbled through swamps and mudholes until his reached his mother-in-law’s home, nine miles from the scene of the killing, just before dawn.

  From Carterville, Crain and Music went to Crainville, where they met John Bulliner. Again Crain described what he had done on the preceding evening. Bulliner gave him fifteen dollars and promised to pay the balance of the blood money when he sold his wheat. He had wanted Sisney killed, he added, because he believed that the ex-sheriff had been connected with the deaths of his own people.

  The next day Music, Marshall Crain, and Big Jep Crain were passing the time in a card game. After several drinks Big Jep announced: “The next man to kill is Spence.” The others agreed. Twenty-four hours later the three, with Black Bill, met in a field near Crainville. After the little town was dark and quiet Marshall Crain knocked on the door of Spence’s store and called out the owner’s name. From an upstairs window Spence asked who was there. “John Sisney,” Crain answered. “I want to get shrouding for a child.” When Spence appeared Crain fired both barrels of his shotgun into the storekeeper’s abdomen, then put pistol shots into his victim’s heart and brain.

  From this story Music could not be shaken; no amount of cross-questioning could confuse him.

  After Music had testified, Marshall Crain took the stand in his own defense. He knew nothing, he swore, about the murder for which he and the other two defendants were on trial. At this development, counsel for Bulliner and Baker produced a letter that Crain had written to their clients before the trial. In that communication he had asked his codefendants to have several people swear that he was at a surprise party on the night Sisney was killed, and at the home of a friend when Spence was murdered. In return he would testify that Music had admitted killing Spence. All three—Bulliner, Baker, and Crain himself—would then go free.

  When Crain heard this letter read he knew that he was trapped. He also realized that Bulliner and Baker intended to help themselves as much as they could by establishing his own guilt. Enraged, he told the truth, corroborating Music’s testimony on every material point. Thus he made his own fate certain, but he also assured the conviction of his accomplices. The jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and Bulliner and Baker were sentenced to twenty-five years in the state penitentiary.

  A few days later Marshall Crain was brought before the Williamson Circuit Court at Marion to stand trial for the murder of William Spence. When arraigned he pleaded not guilty, but on the following day he changed his plea to guilty and threw himself on the mercy of the court. The case was continued until witnesses could be called and examined. Their testimony established the guilt of the defendant beyond question.

  After the last witness stepped from the stand Crain was called before the bar and asked why sentence of de
ath should not be pronounced. The prisoner replied that he had been dominated by wills stronger than his own. “I was dragged into this work by other parties,” he said. “I had a higher power and influence over me. I could not resist. I don’t think I have done enough to be hung for. Spence was harboring parties that were trying to kill me.… I was influenced by John Bulliner, a man of good mind and education, but I am not a man of good mind, and no education.”

  Uninfluenced, the judge pronounced sentence: that Marshall Crain “be hanged by the neck until he is dead” on the 21st day of January, 1876. “And,” he concluded, “may God have mercy upon you.”

  When the condemned man left the courtroom he was taciturn and apparently emotionless. Within two days, however, he lost his assurance and asked for permission to tell all that he knew about the Vendetta. Before the grand jury he confessed to killing both Sisney and Spence. Then he broke into loud lamentations, and continued his wailing for several days. At the same time, he sought peace in religion. A month after sentence was passed upon him, a heavy guard escorted him to a near-by millpond, and there, dressed in a long white robe, he was baptized and taken into the church.

  At dawn on January 21, 1876, the town of Marion began to fill with people. In the jail Crain, who had slept well, ate a hearty breakfast. Throughout the morning he talked with his wife, relatives, and friends. Just before noon he dressed in a white suit, over which he put his baptismal robe. After saying farewell to his wife he walked to the window of his cell and called out to the crowd that now filled the jail yard:

  “I must make a statement in regard to this matter. I feel it my duty to God and man to do so. I am guilty of killing the two men. My soul is stained with blood, and my punishment is just. I hope all will forgive me. I pray God to guide and prosper this country.”