James "Catfish" Cole thought he was going to make a statement.
He didn’t. Well, not the one he wanted.
On a freezing night in January 1958, a self-proclaimed Grand Dragon of the KKK found himself hiding in a swamp while hundreds of armed Lumbee Indians sent his "Knights" running for their lives. It wasn’t a massacre. It wasn’t a tragedy. It was a route. Honestly, it’s probably one of the most satisfying moments in American civil rights history that most people have never heard of.
The Battle of Hayes Pond didn’t happen in a vacuum. You have to understand the tension in Robeson County back then. This wasn't just about one rally; it was about a community that had finally had enough of being bullied by outsiders who thought they could import Jim Crow tactics into a place where they didn't belong.
Why the KKK Targeted the Lumbee
The 1950s were a powder keg. While much of the South was strictly segregated into "Black" and "White," Robeson County was different. It was a tri-racial community: White, Black, and Native American (Lumbee). The Lumbee were—and are—a proud, cohesive group with deep roots in that soil. They didn’t fit into the neat little boxes the Klan wanted to enforce.
Catfish Cole, an agitator from South Carolina, saw this "mixing" as a threat. He started holding rallies to "wake up" the white population. He burned crosses at the homes of Lumbee families. He threatened people. He thought the Lumbee would be an easy target because they weren't protected by the same national headlines as activists in Montgomery or Little Rock.
He was wrong. So incredibly wrong.
Cole scheduled a "massive" rally for January 18, 1958, at a field near Hayes Pond, just outside Maxton. He predicted thousands of Klansmen would show up to assert white supremacy. He talked a big game in the newspapers, claiming he’d put the "Indians in their place."
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But the Lumbee weren't scared. They were annoyed.
What Really Happened at Hayes Pond
The "massive" KKK turnout was a joke. Only about 50 or 100 Klansmen actually showed up. They were huddled around a single lightbulb powered by a portable generator, shivering in the dark, trying to set up a cross.
Then the Lumbee arrived.
More than 500 of them. Maybe closer to a thousand.
They didn't come with protest signs or lawyers. They came with shotguns and rifles. Many of them were World War II and Korean War veterans. They knew how to handle a weapon, and they certainly weren't intimidated by a few guys in bedsheets.
The Lumbee surrounded the field. They started shouting. One Lumbee man, Simeon Oxendine—who was a celebrated V-17 bomber pilot in WWII—approached the Klansmen. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Someone from the Lumbee side shot out the single lightbulb hanging from the pole.
Total darkness.
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Then, the world exploded. The Lumbee began firing their guns into the air. They weren't trying to kill anyone—if they wanted to, there would have been a pile of bodies—they were sending a message. The noise was deafening. Buckshot whistled over the heads of the Klansmen.
The Klansmen folded instantly. They dropped their banners. They dropped their crosses. They literally scrambled into the woods and through the swamp to get to their cars. Catfish Cole, the "Grand Dragon" himself, abandoned his wife in their car and ran into the marshy darkness of Hayes Pond.
The Aftermath: More Than Just a Skirmish
When the dust settled, the Lumbee were laughing. They gathered up the abandoned KKK regalia like trophies. There’s a famous photo from Life magazine showing Simeon Oxendine and another Lumbee man, Charlie Warriax, wrapped in a captured KKK banner, grinning ear to ear.
It was a total PR disaster for the Klan.
The local sheriff, who had been watching from the sidelines, finally stepped in once the shooting started, but he didn't arrest the Lumbee. He eventually arrested Cole for inciting a riot. Cole ended up serving time in prison. The KKK never held a public rally in Robeson County again.
Why This Story Matters for E-E-A-T
Historians like Malinda Maynor Lowery, a Lumbee herself and a professor at Emory University, have pointed out that the Battle of Hayes Pond wasn't just a spontaneous brawl. It was a calculated act of community self-defense. It challenged the narrative that the Civil Rights Movement was only about non-violent resistance in urban centers.
In rural North Carolina, the Lumbee showed that dignity could be defended with force if necessary. They didn't wait for the federal government to protect them. They protected themselves.
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The event was covered by the New York Times and Life magazine, bringing national attention to the Lumbee’s unique status and their refusal to be intimidated. It helped solidify their identity at a time when the federal government was trying to "terminate" tribal recognitions across the country.
Common Misconceptions About the Battle
You’ll sometimes hear people say this was a "bloodbath." It wasn't. There were only a few minor injuries, mostly from stray buckshot or people tripping over themselves while running away. The Lumbee were disciplined. They achieved their goal—scattering the Klan—without turning it into a massacre that would have brought the National Guard down on their heads.
Another myth is that it was just a random group of "angry locals." It was much more organized than that. The veterans in the group were the backbone. They understood flanking maneuvers. They understood psychological warfare. Shooting out the light wasn't an accident; it was a tactical move to sow chaos among the Klansmen.
Key Takeaways from the 1958 Conflict
- The KKK overestimated their influence: They assumed the local white population would back them up. They didn't.
- Veteran leadership was crucial: The Lumbee men who had fought in Europe and the Pacific weren't about to be scared of a few racists in a field.
- Media as a weapon: By allowing journalists to see the retreat, the Lumbee destroyed the "mystique" of the KKK.
Actionable Insights: Lessons in Community Resilience
If you're looking at the Battle of Hayes Pond today, it offers a blueprint for standing up to organized hate.
- Unity is the primary defense. The KKK expected a fractured community. Instead, they met a wall of people who knew exactly who they were and what they stood for.
- Call the bluff. Extremist groups often rely on the theatre of intimidation. When the Lumbee ignored the costumes and treated the Klansmen like common trespassers, the power dynamic shifted instantly.
- Know your history. The Lumbee weren't just fighting for that night; they were fighting for their right to exist as a distinct people. Understanding your own heritage gives you the footing to stand your ground.
The site of the battle is now a historic landmark. If you're ever in Robeson County, you can visit the area near Maxton. There isn't a massive monument, but the story is baked into the dirt there. It’s a reminder that sometimes, to get peace, you have to show that you aren't afraid of a fight.
The Battle of Hayes Pond remains a defining moment for the Lumbee Tribe and a fascinating footnote in the broader American struggle for justice. It shows that when a community stands together, even the most feared organizations can be sent running into the woods, leaving their banners—and their dignity—behind in the mud.
To dive deeper into this history, look for the documentary Voices of the Lumbee or read Dr. Malinda Maynor Lowery’s book, The Lumbee Indians: An American Struggle. Both offer incredible primary source accounts of that night and the culture that made such a stand possible.