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Caudill writes of a murder trial in Breathitt County—or “Bloody Breathitt,” as it came to be known—that ended abruptly when the defendant’s father, “a man of about fifty with huge handlebar whiskers and two immense pistols,” walked up to the judge and grabbed his gavel: The feudist rapped the bench and announced, “Court’s over and ever’body can go. We ain’t agoin’ to have any court here this term, folks.”

After a moment of hesitation and to the astonishment of everyone, the young feudist accepted and shook the proffered hand, which, though he did not know it, had directed the assassination of his sire.

Perhaps no one has distinguished himself as a feudist in the past few decades more than Christopher Hitchens, who in an e-mail gave some helpful hints on how to start a feud — and, more important, how to keep it going.

The World man's Barnum instincts were keen: he almost persuaded Devil Anse to decamp to New York City and charge gawkers $500 a week just to have a look at an authentic feudist, Winchester in hand.

Kentucky was deep in what it likes best: a feudist political campaign.