Every Sunday morning, they would dress in their best clothes, which weren’t much, but they were clean and pressed, and walk together down the dirt road to the small white clapboard church with its tall steeple and handcarved wooden cross.

William Hood served as a deacon and Martha helped organize the church socials and potluck dinners.

In the tight-knit community of Wildcat Valley and the surrounding hollers, everyone knew everyone.

Families had lived on the same land for generations.

Their histories intertwined through marriages, feuds, and shared hardships.

Reputations mattered.

Honor mattered.

And when a man’s word was given, it was as binding as any legal contract.

Life moved in predictable rhythms.

Planting in spring, harvesting in fall, church on Sundays, and Saturday nights when young people would gather at someone’s house for music and dancing.

Fiddles, banjos, and guitars would fill the mountaineire with old-time tunes passed down through generations.

Bertha attended these gatherings occasionally, though William kept a watchful eye on his daughter.

She was approaching the age when young men would start calling, and William was protective, perhaps overly so.

He knew the boys in these mountains.

Many were good, hard-working souls, but others had hot tempers fueled by moonshine and pride.

By November 1930, Bertha had caught the attention of several young men in the area.

She was beautiful, kind, and came from a respected family, a prize catch in a community where eligible young women were few.

But Bertha showed no interest in courtship.

She was focused on her studies and her responsibilities at home.

Two boys, however, had become particularly persistent.

Roy Roins and Shorty Hopkins.

Roy Roins was 15 years old, the same age as Bertha.

He lived with his father, Frank Roans, on a small farm in Wildcat Valley about 2 mi from the hood place.

Roy was a thin boy, barely 5’7, with shaggy, dark hair that fell into his eyes and a narrow, angular face.

His brown eyes had an intensity to them that some found unsettling.

He rarely smiled, and when he did, it never quite reached his eyes.

Royy’s mother had died giving birth to his younger sister when he was 8 years old, and the loss had changed him.

His father, Frank, was a coal miner with a drinking problem and a short temper.

Roy had grown up in a household marked by violence and neglect.

Learning early that the world was cruel and unforgiving.

At school, Roy was known as a loner.

He sat in the back of the classroom, rarely participated, and got into fights with other boys over perceived slights.

His temper was legendary, quick to ignite and slow to cool.

Teachers gave him wide birth, and other students learned not to provoke him.

But around Bertha Hood, Roy became a different person.

He softened.

He smiled.

He tried to engage her in conversation, walking beside her on the way home from school and offering to carry her books.

Bertha was polite but distant, uncomfortable with his intensity.

“I appreciate your kindness, Roy, but I can manage,” she would say, clutching her books closer to her chest.

Roy didn’t take rejection well.

Shorty Hopkins, real name Howard, but everyone called him Shorty because he stood barely 5’5, was also 15.

He lived with his family on a larger, more prosperous farm on the other side of Wildcat Valley.

Unlike Roy, Shorty came from a respected family.

His father, Thomas Hopkins, was a successful landowner who also operated a small sawmill.

The Hopkins family had money by Appalachian standards, and they weren’t afraid to show it.

Shorty was stocky and muscular with sandy blonde hair cut short and a round freckled face.

He had a loud, boisterous personality and was popular among his peers.

He played baseball, attended every social gathering, and was known for his quick wit and infectious laughter.

But Shorty also had a darker side.

He was possessive and jealous, especially when it came to girls he fancied.

And he had set his sights on Bertha Hood.

The tension between Roy Roins and Shorty Hopkins over Bertha’s attention had been building for months.

In late October 1930, it finally boiled over.

It was after school on a Thursday afternoon.

Bertha was walking home along the railroad tracks, her usual route, when Shorty Hopkins caught up with her.

He was carrying her books before she could protest, chatting animatedly about the upcoming church social.

You going to be there Saturday night, Bertha? There’s going to be dancing and everything, Shorty said, flashing his best smile.

I expect so, Bertha replied politely, though her tone was reserved.

Well, I was thinking maybe you’d save a dance for me, Shorty pressed.

Before Bertha could answer, Roy Roins appeared from the treeine beside the tracks.

His face was flushed, his jaw clenched.

She ain’t dancing with you, Hopkins, Roy said, his voice low and dangerous.

Shorty turned, his expression shifting from friendly to confrontational.

And who are you to say what she does or doesn’t do, runions.

Leave her alone, Roy warned.

Or what? Shorty stepped closer, his chest puffed out.

You think you’re tough, you scrawny piece of the first punch came fast.

Roy swung wildly, catching Shorty on the jaw.

Shorty stumbled back, then charged forward, tackling Roy to the ground.

The two boys rolled in the dirt beside the tracks, fists flying.

Blood quickly appearing from split lips and noses.

“Stop it! Stop it right now!” Bertha screamed, but they ignored her.

Other students who had been walking home gathered around, some cheering, others trying to pull the boys apart.

Finally, two older boys managed to separate them.

Both Roy and Shorty were breathing hard, faces bruised and bloodied.

“You stay away from her,” Roy hissed, spitting blood.

She ain’t yours, Runions.

Shorty shot back.

Bertha was shaking, tears streaming down her face.

I don’t belong to either of you.

Leave me alone.

She grabbed her books from where they’d fallen in the dirt and ran, her footsteps echoing on the wooden railroad ties.

That night, Bertha told her father what had happened.

William Hood’s face darkened with anger.

Those boys have no right to fight over you like your property, he said, his voice tight.

I’ll speak to their fathers.

Please, Papa, don’t make it worse,” Bertha pleaded.

William looked at his daughter, his precious girl, and saw the fear in her eyes.

He softened slightly, placing a large, calloused hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll handle it quietly,” he assured her.

“But this stops now.

” Over the next few days, William Hood did speak to both Frank Roans and Thomas Hopkins.

Both men assured him their sons would stay away from Bertha.

Frank Roins was apologetic.

Thomas Hopkins was defensive but ultimately agreed.

For a brief time, it seemed the matter was resolved.

But on the evening of Saturday, November 1st, 1930, Bertha Hood was seen walking near the railroad tracks with both Roy Roins and Shorty Hopkins.

Witnesses later reported that the three of them appeared to be arguing, their voices raised, though no one could make out the words.

By Sunday morning, everything would change.

November the 2nd, 1930 dawned cold and gray.

Frost covered the ground and the mountains were wathed in thick fog.

The Hood family rose early as they always did on Sundays to prepare for church.

Martha made a simple breakfast of biscuits, gravy, and fried eggs.

The family ate together at the worn wooden table in the kitchen, saying Grace before the meal.

Conversation was minimal.

William was tired from a long week at the store, and the children were still half asleep.

After breakfast, they dressed in their Sunday clothes.

For Bertha, this meant a modest navy blue dress with a white collar, cotton stockings, and her only pair of good shoes, black leather with small heels that her mother had bought for her last Christmas.

The family walked together to church, their breath visible in the cold morning air.

The service was typical.

hymns, prayer, a sermon from Reverend Clayton about faith in difficult times.

Bertha sang in the choir, her voice clear and strong.

After the service, the congregation lingered outside the church, talking and making plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving.

William spoke with several men about work and weather.

Martha chatted with other women about recipes and children.

By early afternoon, the Hood family returned home.

Martha prepared a simple Sunday dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans.

They ate slowly, savoring the one day of the week when work could wait.

As evening approached, the sky darkened early, heavy clouds promising rain.

Bertha helped her mother wash dishes while her brothers chopped wood for the stove.

At around 6:30 p.

m.

, Bertha announced she was going to the evening prayer meeting at church.

“It’s getting dark, honey,” Martha said, concerned in her voice.

“I’ll be fine, Mama.

It’s only 2 mi and I know the way,” Bertha assured her.

“Take a lantern,” William said firmly.

“Yes, Papa.

” Bertha pulled on a heavy wool coat, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and picked up the kerosene lantern from beside the door.

She kissed her mother’s cheek and waved to her father.

“I’ll be home by 9,” she called out.

And with that, Bertha Anne Hood stepped out into the gathering darkness, walking down the dirt path toward the railroad tracks.

Her lantern bobbed like a firefly as she disappeared into the mist.

She would never make it to church and she would never come home again.

The prayer meeting at the Free Will Baptist Church was scheduled to begin at 7:00 p.

m.

By 6:50, families had begun arriving, their lanterns and flashlights creating small pools of light in the darkness.

The church itself glowed warmly from within, its windows casting yellow rectangles onto the frostcovered ground.

Reverend Clayton stood at the door greeting parishioners as they entered.

He was a tall, thin man in his late 50s with white hair and a kind face weathered by years of mountain living.

He shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and welcomed everyone to the evening service.

By 7:15, the service had begun.

The small congregation, maybe 30 people, sang hymns and listened as the reverend led them in prayer.

But something was off.

Reverend Clayton kept glancing toward the door, expecting someone.

After the service ended around 8:30 p.

m.

, he approached Martha Hood’s sister, Elizabeth, who had attended with her family.

“I didn’t see Bertha tonight,” Reverend Clayton said.

“Is she feeling poorly?” Elizabeth’s face went pale.

Bertha, she left home around 6:30 to come here.

She should have arrived by 7:00 at the latest.

A cold dread settled over both of them.

Maybe she changed her mind and went home, Reverend Clayton suggested, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Bertha wouldn’t do that.

If she said she was coming, she’d come,” Elizabeth said, her voice rising with panic.

“Word spread quickly through the remaining congregation.

Within minutes, several men had volunteered to search the path between the Hood Homestead and the church.

They grabbed lanterns and flashlights and headed out into the night, their voices calling Bertha’s name into the darkness.

Meanwhile, at the Hood Homestead, William and Martha had begun to worry.

It was past 9 cows.

And Bertha hadn’t returned.

“William paced the porch, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists.

“She should be home by now,” he muttered.

“Maybe the service ran late,” Martha offered weakly, though she didn’t believe it herself.

At 9:30 p.

m.

, Elizabeth and her husband arrived at the hood house breathless and panicked.

Bertha never made it to church.

Elizabeth blurted out, “We’ve been looking for her along the tracks, but there’s no sign of her.

” “William Hood felt his blood turned to ice.

Without a word, he grabbed his coat, his rifle, and the strongest lantern in the house.

“James Samuel, come with me,” he commanded.

“We’re finding your sister.

” Martha collapsed into a chair, tears streaming down her face.

Please, Lord, let her be safe.

The search began in earnest.

William Hood, his two sons, Elizabeth’s husband, and half a dozen men from the church spread out along the railroad tracks in the surrounding woods.

They called Bertha’s name until their voices were.

Lanterns swung back and forth, casting eerie shadows through the trees.

The temperature had dropped and a light rain had begun to fall, making the search even more treacherous.

The railroad tracks were slick and the ground beside them was muddy and uneven.

William’s mind raced with terrible possibilities.

Had she fallen and injured herself? Had she been attacked by a wild animal? The mountains were home to black bears, though they usually avoided people.

Or had something worse happened? He pushed the thought away, focusing on the immediate task, finding his daughter.

Around 11 Sorggi p.

m.

, one of the search parties, a group of three men led by a local coal miner named Henry Walsh, made a discovery.

About a/4 mile from the railroad crossing near Wildcat Creek, just off the tracks in a shallow ditch overgrown with brush, Henry’s lantern illuminated something that made his heart stop.

A shoe, a black leather shoe with a small heel.

Over here, Henry shouted, his voice cracking.

The other men rushed over, their lanterns converging on the spot.

And there, partially hidden by tall grass and brambles, they found her.

Bertha Anne Hood lay on her back, her arms at her sides, her face turned slightly toward the sky.

Her navy blue dress was soaked with rain and mud.

Her eyes were closed, and her skin was deathly pale in the lantern light.

But what made the men gasp in horror was the dark stain spreading across the front of her dress just above her heart.

“Blood.

” “Dear God,” Henry whispered, dropping to his knees beside her.

He placed trembling fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse he knew he wouldn’t find.

“She’s gone,” he said, his voice barely audible.

One of the other men ran to find William Hood.

William was searching along the creek bank when he heard the shouts.

He turned and saw a figure running toward him through the darkness.

Mr.

Hood, Mr.

Hood, we found her.

William’s heart leapt with hope, but the expression on the man’s face crushed it instantly.

Is she? William couldn’t finish the sentence.

I’m sorry, Mr.

Hood.

She’s dead.

William Hood let out a sound that was half roar, half sobb.

It echoed through the mountains, raw and primal, filled with a grief so profound it seemed to shake the very earth.

He ran toward where the lanterns were gathered, his boots slipping in the mud.

When he reached the spot, the men parted to let him through.

William fell to his knees beside his daughter’s body.

He gathered her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he had when she was a little girl.

Her body was cold and stiff.

Bertha,” he sobbed.

“My baby girl, my sweet baby girl.

” The men stood in silence, tears streaming down their weathered faces.

Several removed their hats and bowed their heads in prayer.

After several long minutes, Henry Walsh gently placed a hand on William’s shoulder.

“Mr.

Hood, we need to get the sheriff.

This ain’t an accident.

Somebody shot her.

” William looked up, his face twisted with anguish.

Who who would do this to my girl? I don’t know, sir, but we’re going to find out.

Two men were sent to fetch Sheriff Amos Bentley and Wise while the others carefully carried Bertha’s body back to the Hood homestead.

William walked beside them, one hand resting on his daughter’s shoulder, unwilling to let go.

When they arrived at the house, Martha Hood saw them coming up the path and knew immediately.

She screamed, a high keening whale that pierced the night and collapsed on the porch.

Neighbors rushed to support her as she sobbed uncontrollably.

They laid Bertha’s body on the dining room table, covering her with a clean white sheet.

Martha sat beside her daughter, holding her cold hand, rocking back and forth and whispering prayers.

William stood at the window, staring out into the darkness, his jaw clenched so tightly it achd.

His grief was already transforming into something else.

Rage.

Someone had murdered his daughter, and he would find out who.

Sheriff Amos Bentley arrived at the Hood Homestead around 2:00 a.

m.

, accompanied by his deputy, Carl Porter, and Dr.

Thomas Mullins, the county coroner.

Sheriff Bentley was a stocky man in his early 50s with graying hair and a thick mustache.

He’d been sheriff of Weise County for 12 years and had seen his share of violence.

bar fights, domestic disputes, the occasional killing over moonshine or feuds.

But the murder of a 15-year-old girl shook even his hardened demeanor.

Dr.

Mullins examined Bertha’s body while the sheriff questioned William Hood and the men who had found her.

Tell me everything, Sheriff Bentley said, pulling out a small notebook.

William recounted the events of the day, the church service, the Sunday dinner, Bertha leaving for the evening prayer meeting.

His voice was hollow, mechanical, as if reciting facts was the only way to keep himself from falling apart.

“Did she have any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt her?” the sheriff asked gently.

“No,” William said immediately.

“Everyone loved Bertha.

She was a good girl.

She never caused trouble.

” But then he paused, his expression darkening.

“Wait,” he said slowly.

There were two boys.

They’d been fighting over her.

Just last week, they got into a fist fight after school.

Sheriff Bentley looked up from his notebook.

What boys? Roy Roins and Shorty Hopkins.

Both of them from Wildcat Valley.

The sheriff knew both families.

The Roans were poor, scraping by on a small farm.

The Hopkins family was more prosperous with influence in the community.

What happened between them? Sheriff Bentley pressed.

William told him about the fight, about the warnings he’d given to both fathers, about the witnesses who had seen Bertha with both boys the previous evening.

Sheriff Bentley made notes, his expression grim.

I’ll need to talk to both of them.

Dr.

Mullins finished his examination and approached the sheriff, speaking in a low voice.

Single gunshot wound directly to the heart.

Entry wound is small, likely a 22 or 32 caliber.

No exit wound.

The bullet still inside.

Death would have been nearly instantaneous.

No signs of struggle or anything else.

Time of death? The sheriff asked.

Based on the body temperature and rigor mortise, I’d estimate between 6:30 and 7:30 last evening.

Sheriff Bentley turned back to William.

Mr.

Hood, I know this is an unbearable time, but I need you to trust me.

I will find who did this.

William Hood looked at the sheriff, his pale blue eyes now cold and hard as steel.

You find them, sheriff.

You find them or I will.

As dawn broke over the Cumberland Mountains on November 3rd, 1930, word of Bertha Hood’s murder spread through Wise County like wildfire.

Neighbors arrived at the Hood homestead with food, flowers, and condolences.

Women from the church came to help Martha prepare Bertha’s body for burial.

Men gathered on the porch, speaking in low, angry tones.

The community was in shock.

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