*Author's Note*

Thank you for the favs, follows, and reviews.

Got a new feud OC for you guys. His name's Brock Brooksdale and his face claim is Ben Barnes. His role in the feud is simple, but in a way important.

Hope you guys like this chapter.

A Story About Blood Thirsty Hillibies

Brenton POV:

A couple of days after I sent my son-in-law a Western Union, he came walkin' thru the door of Perry's law office. Randall, who was a drunken lump on the leather sofa, didn't seem to pay the politician any mind, but I greeted him simply greeted him wit', "Hello, Billings."

"Hello, Brenton." The senator tipped his top hat at me. Before walkin' over to my brother-in-law's desk, Billings told me, "Nova and I decided that she'd stay at home with the chil'ren; that we didn't want to risk them catchin' a chill or somethin' worse in this cold weather.", so I wouldn't be disappointed 'bout not bein' able to see my daughter an' gran'chil'ren.

"That's fine, I'll see them another time." I assured Billings since I understood that the kids' health came 'fore the prospect of seein' me. This February's been cold, bitter, and harsh. Not the kind of weather toddlers should be out an' about in.

"Billings, please come take a seat at my desk. We've got much to discuss." Perry told his longtime friend, flickin' his wrist in a showcasin' way at the chair he wanted the senator to sit in.

"Nothin' to discuss. Devil Anse an' his demons are plannin' on killin' us all." Randall drunkenly spat out, takin' a guzzle from his shine bottle as Billings walked by my desk and ov'r to Perry's.

"Well, I'd say that's something to discuss." Billings retorted, takin' a seat at Perry's desk and removin' his hat in one sweepin' motion. "Now, the Western Union I received said that Hatfields are murderin' your bounty hunters and deputies." The senator stated matter-of-factly as I placed his hat on his friend's desk.

"Yes" Perry nodded. Sitting up a bit straighter in his chair, we explained the situation at hand with, "They're killin' the men we send out like they're nothing more then fruit flies. They even pinned a letter addressed to me and Rand'l to one of the dead men a few days back and it was a written confession 'bout wantin' to kill us all here in Kentucky."

"Well, I'll be sure to have a word wit' Governor Buckner 'bout thi when I get back to Frankfurt, but for him to easily side wit' us we need the public on our side. They must cry out for justice for us and the only way to do that is to get the press involved."

"The paper's done stories before, Billings. Articles in the paper can't help us, but the governor can." Perry dryly told the senator with a pointed look and a slight head tilt.

"I'm not talkin' 'bout the backwater rag you call a paper, Perry. I'm talking 'bout a national paper: The New York Globe.

"How can you get a paper that big and renowned to do an article of the McCoys' troubles?"

"My brother, Brock, is friends with one of the main article writers of The New York Globe. He's also friends with somebody that works at a publishin' house too, but it's his friendship with the journalist he met at one of my Washington dinner parties that'll help us."

"I wasn't 'ware your brother had friends in such high places." I remarked with a quirked brow. From the few times I met Brock, he came across as an entitled shit, so hearin' that he had real friends took me aback.

"Yes, well, he does."

"Splendid." Perry clapped his hands gleefully. Pointin' at Billings, he said, "Go tell your brother to get on the next train to New York. I want to be readin' 'bout the McCoys in The New York Globe as soon as possible."

Rand'll, havin' finally put down the bottle, stared stonily at everyone while bitterly declarin', "I don't care 'bout a story 'bout my family's grievous loses. I just want justice."

Perry looked at Rand'll in a way that reminded me of a parent scolding their petulant child while explainin', "Rand'll, the newpaper story'll help us get justice. It'll show everyone in the country our struggles; ensure that you'll get justice."

"My brother's been livin' in our old family house in Prestonsburg ever since he graduated university so I'm gonna go pay him a visit; tell him what he needs to do." Billings announce before risin' from his chair and exiting the law office.

Hell, looks like I'm payin' Sully a visit tonight.

Brock POV:

Whenever I answered the knock at my front door, only to find my older brother I knew something was up. Billings never came to the hills to pay me a visit. He detested our old family home in Prestonsburg; in fact, he was a bit upset that I was practicin' law out of my study, that was located right off of the main entrance hall, instead of in a large office somewhere in the city. Eh, after nearly dyin' of dysentery my last year of law school I decided that city life wasn't for me.

It was safe to say that over the last few years my mindset changed and, well, his didn't. It cause a slight rift between us, but so be it. Not like we were that close to begin wit' since he's a good decade older than me. He was the oldest and I was the youngest; we were also the only chil'ren to survive into adulthood.

Leanin' 'gainst my doorframe, I folded my arms over my chest and dryly greeted my brother with, "What brings you down to my backwater hovel, Billings?"

"Invite me in and I'll tell you."

"Or you can just tell me here." I countered since I really didn't feel like entertaining my brother, who I haven't seen for years, with coffee and burnt cookies. Yea, I still haven't gotten bakin' down even tho I've been livin' by myself for years. At least I can cook decent meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner tho.

Billings narrowed his eyes at me. "You're insufferable. You know that, Brock?"

"Yes, I know that since you've been tellin' me so ever since I decided not to practice law in Louisville, Washington, or some other large city." I deadpanned, fighting my unyieldin' urge to roll my eyes at my big brother.

"You're a fool for being a lawyer here. There's no money in it."

"Was good enough for our father." I countered him with a smug look.

"After he retired from politics, shortly after you were born might I add."

"Just tell me why you're here so I can get back to writing wills and land deeds for clients." I ordered since I didn't have anytime to be dawdlin' 'round and talking to him all goddamn day.

My brother stood up straight in what I could only describe as his politician's posture and told me in a commandin' tone, "You need to go to New York and pay your friend that works for The New York Globe a visit; tell him to write a large piece on the tragedy that's fallen on the McCoys."

"I don't need to do anything, Billings." I flatly reminded my brother. "Well, except pay taxes and die that it." I added in smugly.

"For god's sakes, Brock Samuel, this is a family matter." Shit, he used my full name. Not good. I kept a bored look on my face as Billings explained, "The McCoys, who are cousins by marriage, need our help to get justice for all the atrocities committed by the Hatfields."

"They're your cousin's by marriage, not mine. Remember, you married Perry's niece; not me." I reminded him since I didn't want anything to do with his in-laws and extended family. I didn't like those people, plain and simple as that.

"Goddamnit, brother, why can't you just do this one thing? This one small, but very important thing."

"I live here, Senator Billings, not you so I know how bad, bloody, and fucked up this feud is. Having it told on a national scale in a popular paper'll paint the entire area in a bad light; have people viewing us as unciviled hillbilly savages instead of decent folks."

"Brock, the feud needs national attention so that Governor Buckner'll do more to help catch and put down the Hatfields."

"And if I do this what's in it for me? Hmm?" I asked, my brow raised up as I stared Billings down.

"You'll be helpin' a good family get justice for a string of murders." My brother said in one of those 'do gooder' voices. God, no wonder he keeps getting relected. He's good at puttin' on the thick bullshit.

"I was there during election day you know. I saw what happened and I've heard 'bout the aftermath. I don't need you to tell me that I'll be helpin' a family get justice."

"Brock, please, just get on the next train to New York and do me this one small favor." My brother begged desperately, something he's never done before in his life.

"Fine, but you owe me." I relented in a heavy sigh of defeat. "Now leave so I can pack and get goin'."

Billings nodded. "I expect to read a big expose on the McCoys within the next week." My brother told me 'fore turnin' 'round and walkin' off my porch; towards his buggy.

I just shook my head and slammed my door shut. I leaned my head 'gainst the wooden door and let out a sigh. How did I let myself be lassoed into the MCcoys blood feud with the Hatfields? Damn, I thought I was smarter than this.

Shaw POV:

Just like the past couple of nights, I was sittin' in a bar drinkin' curtosy to my time travelin' ring. I was, ironically, sittin' in Satan's Circus in Five Points, New York City, circa late 1800s or ealy 1900s by the way everyone was dressed. I had bought a bottle of cheap whiskey an' was sittin' in a back-corner table, nursin' it. I studied the patrons of the bar as they came an' went. A few whores propositioned me, but I turned them down since I was a happily married man.

I was only here for whiskey, not a fuck. I got a wife at home that's more then happy to do that for me.

Anyways, I was takin' a swig from my bottle whenever a fine dressed gentleman, who reminded me of Billy Russo from The Punisher, walked up to a table that a man dressed in a nice, but nowhere near fine, suit was sittin' at. For some reason, I kept my eyes trained on that table. I don't know why, but I was curious as to why I gentleman would be meetin' an average lookin' man at a dirty, whore an' whiskey filled bar.

"Brock, what's the meanin' of this impromptu visit of yours?" The man sittin' at the table, nursin'a glass of whiskey, asked the gentleman as he sat down at the table.

"I've got a big story proposition for you, T.C.. One that'll make you one of the most famous journalist in the country; not just New York."

"Really and what would that be?" T.C. (Where have I heard that name before?) asked Brock (Who the hell would name their kid a name that rhymes with rock?) with a curiously raised brow.

Leanin' forward and grabbin' both the bottle that was in the middle of the table and the empty glass next to it, Brock answered his friend with, "A story 'bout blood thirsty hillibies killin' off their neighbors that live across the river all cause of spats that erupted into a feud." What? Is this guy arranging for a newspaper to cover the feud? Sweet Jesus, why do I always end up in a bar that has fuckin' feud connections? Pourin' himself his drink, only to take a small appraisin' sip of it, the man added in with a tone that was both charming and forebodin', "A feud that's bloody and murderous. More gruesome then the simple back alley murders that're listed in the obituaries of your New York paper."

Intrigued, the journalist asked, "Tell me, my friend, where's this great American story at?"

"Pikeville in Pike County, Kentucky. Right smack dab in the Appalachian Mountains, my friend." Brock simply answered, knockin' back his whiskey shot and settin' the glass back down on the table.

"You know, my boss'll be intrigued by an investigative piece of murderous hillbillies." T.C. chuckled, pourin' more drinks for him an' his fine dressed friend, who had ties to the feud somehow.

"I thought as much." Brock shrugged, grabbin' his whiskey glass from off the table. "The sooner you run this past your boss and get down to Pikeville to interview Mr. McCoy and Lawyer Cline, the better."

"Hmm, a lawyer other than yourself is involved?"

"I'm not involved, T.C." Brock dryly informed his friend. "Not every lawyer is a snake." He added in a spat before risin' from the table. "I'm headed back uptown to my hotel. Have a nice rest of your night, my friend." Brock told T.C. before walkin' away from the table and into the direction that'd take him to the bar's front door.

Well, looks like it's time for me to sneak off into the back alley and portal myself back into Uncle's Jim's fucked up rehab. I've had enough eavesdroppin' for one night.

Sully POV:

I was sleepin' in my bed whenever I was roughly shaken awake by Uncle Jim. His crochety tone echoed throughout the room with, "Get up, Sully. Brenton's here with information for ya."

"Oh dear, him comin' twice in one week isn't good." I sighed, sittin' up in bed and rubbin' the sleep out of my eyes.

"Yea, I know." Jim agreed with me. "Now get on out there an' talk to him so I can get t'bed." My crochety uncle grumbled out in a rough order.

"What? You're gonna take my bed?" I asked, astonished, as I swung my legs over the side of my bed; pressin' my bare feet onto the wooden floorboards.

"Yes, unlike you I work hard for a livin' an' need my sleep." My uncle told me as I stood up and walked away from my bed.

"Teachin' a room full of brats is hard work too, Uncle Jim. Much harder than patrolin' a saw mill." I countered my uncle, who quickly hopped into my bed, as I went over to the door.

Uncle Jim didn't say a word, just pulled the blankets over his head and snuggled into my matress. Jackass. I just shook my head and walked out into the main room.

The fire roarin' in the fireplace was the only source of light in the room, but it brightened the room well enough that I was able to see my best friend, Brenton, sittin' ramrod straight in one of the sittin' chairs propped up infront of the fireplace. Walkin' over to the empty chair by his side and takin' a seat, I greeted my friend with the truthful statement of, "Uncle Jim says that you're here with more information for me."

"Yes." He nodded before going on to say, "Perry called on my son-in-law, Billings, to help sweet talk Governor Buckner into siding with the McCoys when it comes to hunting down your family." He let out a sigh before continuing with, "Billings sent his brother to New York City to garner help from a journalist friend. A journalist that works for the New York Globe, Sully."

"Senator Billings has a brother?" I asked, a bit floored, since I never realized or stumbled across that small fact before in my feud research and in my years of comin' and going from the Tug Fork area.

"Yea, Brock." My best friend confirmed with a nod. My face pulled up curiously, causin' Brenton to tell me the little-known facts of, "He's about 10-years younger than Billings, give or take a couple of years, and practices law out of his house in Prestonsburg."

"Hmm…interestin'…" I scratched my chin. Seems like once Brenton leaves, I need to sneak into my son's detox room and snatch the ring from him in order to return to my trailer in Tulsa and do some quick research on this Brock Brooksdale. Of course, I'll return the ring to my son once I'm down since I'm not an Indian giver and would never keep something that I gave him for his own protection.

"If ya say so." Brenton dryly scoffed. Giving me a serious look, he told me, "Anyways, if you're smart you'll convince Devil Anse to contact the New York Globe's biggest rival, The Examiner in San Franscico once the article gets printed so that a large paper can cover the Hatfield family and counter whatever's being printed 'bout the McCoys."

"Don't worry, Brenton, I'll talk to Anse about the paper." I assured my friend, earnin' me a relieved nod from him.

As soon as Brenton left, I rushed to my son's room, slipped inside, and grabbed the ruby-eyed snake ring out of his shirt pocket. My son was sound sleep, most likely passed out from his withdrawal (I assume he's white knucklin' it since his ring is in his pocket and not on his hand), as I told the ring where to take me. My trailer on the outskirts of Tulsa a few days after I left for that class fieldtrip (cause that way I'd be able to use my computer).

I was sitting at my desk, scrolling down the one and only page I found with information about Brock on it. The page read:

The Other Brooksdale Brother: Brock Samuel Brooksdale

Brock Samuel Brooksdale was born on August 20th, 1854 and died on December 12th, 1937 at the age of 83. His common-law-wife of 45-years, Jessamine, died a few weeks later of pneumonia and a broken heart. Brock was a step-father of three along with being a father of the two children he had with his beloved wife.

Not much is known about his early life, other then he grew up in Prestonsburg, Kentucky as the youngest son of Clarke and Elisbeth 'Betsy' Brooksdale (nee Hastings). His father was a lawyer as well as a retired politican while his mother was the daughter of a former mayor. His oldest brother, Billings Brooksdale, became a successful lawyer in Lousiville before running for senate in 1874. Brock, like his brother and father before him, attended the University of Louisville for the study of political science and legal studies. In 1878 at the age of 24, Brock contracted Cholera in a large dormitory outbreak and barely survived it.

After graduation, he returned to Prestonsburg to take over his late parents' house. He also took over his father's law practice. He wasn't releva nt to the McCoys' side of the feud until 1883, whenever he made a trip to New York City to convince his friend, journalist T.C. Crawford (Who became a famous feud writer), to do an investigative piece of the McCoys and their bloody feud with the Hatfields for a front page expose in the New York Globe.

Being young and ambitious, T.C. Crawford took his friend's advice and became the first writer to get a feud story, let alone an interview with the McCoy family. Throughout the course of the feud, T.C. Crawford often traveled between New York and Eastern Kentucky, at his friend's behest along with his editor's urging, to write numerous articles on the Hatfield and McCoy feud.

While Senator Billings was whispering in Governor Buckner's ear; getting him to side with the McCoys, Brock was silently sitting back and watching the feud unfold before him. He often guided T.C. with certain story topics due to his inquisitive and studious nature.

Not much is known about how he met his wife. Old accounts have it that she once came to him for help during the feud and they struck up an affair, even tho he couldn't help her, while other accords have it that they met a short time after she was widowed.

He worked as a lawyer in Prestonsburg until 1904, which is when he and his wife along with their two children moved to St. Augstine, Florida with their third oldest child in order to help him raise his newborn son since he was a widower. That son just happens to be the famous swashbuckling writer E.J. Brooksdale.

Once in Florida, Brock opened up a law office and worked as a lawyer until 1920, which is when he retired and passed on his business to his son, Brock 'BeBe' Jr.

His role in the feud was small, but in reality, was the biggest of all because without him neither the New York Globe nor The Examiner would've covered the feud in their papers. Without Brock, neither T.C. Crawford not Asa M. Merriweather would've become famous journalist.

Jessamine? No, it can't be. I shook my head, clearing it from the absurd thought that was trying to push thru.

I closed my laptop, now knowing the name of the journalist I needed my cousin to ask for when he contacted The Examiner. Asa M. Merriweather.

Having the information that I needed, I returned to my son's detox room and put the ring back into his pocket before heading out into the main room to sleep on the lump sofa.

AN:

Well, things sure are heating up feud wise. Fun fact, T.C. Crawford was a New York journalist who got rare interviews with the feud families; he even published a book about the feud in 1889 too. Of course, I just had to make Brock Brooksdale friends with the guy, lol.

Sooner rather then later Asa M. Merriweather's going to be covering the feud as the lead investigative journalist for the San Francisco Examiner. Oh, how the plot thickens, muhahaha.