Clear Creek: The Moon and Yellowtail

By Don Ballew

This is a portrayal of two plebian families that lived far into the Appalachian Mountains. The fiery Jasper Burnine family, Caucasian, and The Moon Clan, Cherokee, were across from the other on Clear Creek. Surprisingly, they became close. The hot-tempered Burnines became bitter over the ill treatment of the Moon clan. The Moon, the ex-Cherokee warrior, became an enraged madman. Privately he declared war on those that came to molest his family. The intruders that couldnt escape his wrath were left as food for the buzzards and foxes.

This book has a powerful story. It is fast paced, violent, romantic, bawdy, hard bitten, comical, and haunting. Life was hard in the mountains. Half the children died young. In the new nation there was little law enforcement, so each family stayed on guard. The time, 1790 to 1840 was a time of crisis for the new nation called the United States of America. Would it remain a nation? The British were lurking, waiting for an opening. The Cherokees, beaten in war, saw their land taken as white people came to settle the new continent. The Indians worried over this for years. Would they have to move across the big river to the new country?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 15, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450268684

Don Ballew

BALLEW, a long time dentist spent his early years in rural Cherokee, County, Oklahoma. His father and grandmother had Cherokee roll numbers. His education started in a one-room, one-teacher school. High school and college were at Tahlequah, Oklahoma and the dental surgery degree was at the University of Missouri.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

EPILOG

CHAPTER 1

Cherokee County, North Carolina, 1794

Sara had a child on her hip and was mindlessly stoking the fire under a pot of squirrel and dumplings. She was startled back to reality when the dogs, which had been asleep, bounded to their feet. After an instant of sniffing, the mongrels collided as both tried to get through the door at the same time. There was a small fight as each snarled and snapped at the other while passing through the opening. They were soon out of sight as they dashed to whatever had excited them.

Those dogs are going to have a hard time getting back in this house. Every time they leave it’s a fight getting through the door and they stir the dust something awful, Sara murmured to the child on her hip. She cared not that the child was too young to understand. Then she said, You suppose they’re smelling our Jasper? Wouldn’t that be something if it was your Pa?

Her fondest wishes were coming true as she heard her oldest son, Tucker, yelling from outside. It’s Pa! It’s Pa!

Sara hurried to the door and watched as the children ran to embrace their father. She waited there, knowing her time would come as Jasper hobbled along, being careful not to step on the children hugging his legs. She had tears as his long arms pulled her to him. Oh Jas’, I’m glad your back. There are no words to describe how I been missing you. There’s just none. I don’t care if you got the job or not. I’m just glad you’re back.

Oh Sara! You won’t believe what happened. I got it! I got the only job a man could want! Going to pay eight dollars a month. Isn’t that a sight? He mumbled as he hugged her again.

I helped them locate the best place for the mill and I’ll get to build it right from the ground up. Sure gives a man a good a feeling. Paw taught us well. They said Samuel could work for me while I was building it. Samuel and I will run down and build us a house right quick. Paw doesn’t need him right now. I’ll split logs and make a floor in it first off. I’ll not have my pretty wife living in a house with a dirt floor any more. I’ll build us a fine home, the tall thin Jasper said excitedly to his wife, Sara. He had returned from visiting the Indian Agent for the Cherokees.

Oh Jasper, we’re going to break out. I’m so proud of you. I just knew they’d put you on. House with a wood floor? My God! God forgive me for using your name in vain. You sure? You going make it with floors?

I won’t be gone over a week or two or three at the most.

Two days later Jasper and his brother, Samuel, were ready to start over the mountains into Tennessee.

They had a two-wheeled ox-cart loaded to the top with paraphernalia needed to build a house. A saw, axes, trowels, and two fiddles for when they ran out of daylight. Sara helped them load.

Better get that new fiddle I finished for David oiled an lacquered.

Oh Jas’, that lacquer makes me throw up. Besides that, he’s just barely past four.

Save some whining and fighting. He’s already been after Bart’s. I saw them. Both had hold of it, tugging back and forth. Tear up a good fiddle like that. Boys are supposed to have a fiddle and a deck a cards before they get too old.

That preacher said cards are sinful.

I heard that. Preachers don’t know everything. How will they learn to count?

You suppose the Indians over in Tennessee will take to reapings? Sara asked, giggling as she spoke.

Bound to. Once we show them how it’s done. There’s not anybody that wouldn’t like fiddling and dancing, way we do it, Jasper replied with a big grin.

The cart was loaded and Jasper gave his pregnant wife a big kiss on her pretty mouth. Oh, I hate to be gone.

We’ll make do. Knowing we’re breaking out! You’re right. You get a good feeling, knowing.

I’ll have us a house in no time. Jasper was mighty proud. His woman was the best and now he had the only job he ever wanted. He and Samuel headed out, leaving the barefoot Sara and five children behind.

Young, brash, Jasper was a millwright. His father was a millwright, as was his grandfather, and his father before that. As far back as anyone knew, the men had passed the skill down. His ancestors were mountaineers in Scotland. They chose to stay with the familiar and settled in the mountains of the new country. Although almost illiterate, they were a proud people. The Scottish burr was nearly gone from their speech but the language they had created, was a nearly incomprehensible, crude mountaineer dialect.

Running Water, Tennessee, 1794

You went to the village when you thought I was asleep. Did you find anyone? Are any of the men still here? Do we have anything left to give, some horses maybe? The Moon in a more lucid moment was giving vent to his worry about what was going to happen to his squaw, White Dove. Any man would, he thought.

I didn’t go looking for a husband, I missed seeing the children. Those children! They were so excited at seeing me; you would never know anything was wrong. There is so little food left and I had to make sure they had some. I would have stopped living if they had killed them too. No, husband, I didn’t find anyone to take your place, and that is not your concern. And yes, I still have many horses. I told you that yesterday, White Dove answered.

Testiness had crept into her voice. The vigil she’d been keeping was wearing her down. She was also tired of her husband’s persistence in wanting her to catch on with another man before he died.

I learned today what happened to your other wives and children. The cabin was struck by a cannon ball. From what I can find out, they were all killed instantly. Nearly all the cabins were blown up or burned before the battle was over. It’s going to be lonely with them gone. White Dove saw The Moon’s eyes moisten as she told him. The sight of tears in his eyes got her started weeping again.

I wish I could see the children, The Moon said, his voice very weak.

It’s better they don’t see you like this, White Dove answered.

Can I have some food? Just a corn cake? He begged.

No. We can’t waste food. You know that. We went through this yesterday. There’s hardly enough for the children. At times The Moon was difficult. Each day they went over much the same rigmarole with the same answers. His constant demands for food were hard to refuse. He tried to be heroic and understanding, but as he sat helplessly waiting, he had nothing else to do but try to repair family problems or beg for food.

The Moon’s fight was over. He lay dying, waiting for his wounds to kill him. He had a bullet in his leg and another in his shoulder. A bayonet had been rammed through his belly and out his back. When he was bayoneted The Moon had jumped and turned to get away. This quick movement helped his opponent open a huge wound from the front of his stomach around to his side. This was the injury, which would allow poison to accumulate and kill him. There was another long, deep gash on the side of his head where the soldier, thinking he was dead, began scalping him. A fatal error, costing the man his life as the powerful Moon reacted, having enough fight left to slam his tomahawk deep into the man’s skull.

Why don’t you take the children and leave with some of the others? Go some place where there is more food. Leave the water where I can reach it and I will manage, The Moon said. He was justifiably worried as to how his family would survive the winter.

It was only a matter of time. The shamans and other seers of the tribe told him no man could survive such wounds. Fear of the unknown penetrated his thoughts as he tried to see a glimmer of hope in their expressions. He found none. Their eyes were glazed and distant, as they looked uncomfortably at him.

The Chickamaugas were beaten, and The Moon, the invincible one, was down. He would soon die. The headmen of the tribe had boasted that The Moon was probably the greatest warrior in a hundred summers or perhaps forever. He was deadly with any weapon and the part of his brain, which was supposed to show fear, seemed to be missing. In his late teens and early twenties he had begun to show himself as something special when it came to fighting and ball play. He became accustomed to others giving way to him as he assumed this mantle. A celebrity within this small segment of the tribe, spoiled perhaps, but deservedly so. He was their man. The Moon was loved and envied by his own kind and dreaded by the white man.

Now, one by one his close allies and some that were merely curious, came to call. Most were paying their respects, while others had come to see the big man down. He pitied his friends having to perform such a perfunctory, distasteful chore. Remembering his own discomfort in the past as he had tried to soothe fellow warriors as they died. Since he now knew the fears and thoughts of a dying man, he wanted to yell at them, Go home and leave me in peace! For some reason he could not say it. It was hard, this waiting to die.

Some, who came, lacked the courage to tell him the truth, and lied, telling him, The Moon not die. He is the strongest brave. He enjoyed hearing accolades and even liked hearing the lies, telling him he was going to live.

In the meantime he waited. There was plenty of time to think. He wished for a quicker way. I will die slow. The Moon is too strong to go quickly, he told himself. While he waited he also mourned for the others in his family who had died during the last fight. He often wept, asking why the children and the other wives had to die?

He was half-lying, half-sitting, under the protection of an insect infested deerskin canopy. His squaw, White Dove, was his protector and nurse. She had dragged him away from the village and hidden with him in a thicket after the first wave of fighting went past. His house was gone, his other three squaws, and two of his children were dead from the final battle.

For fourteen years The Moon had known little but war and preparation for war. Long ago he stopped counting the scalps he had taken. Now it was over for him and the Chickamaugas. They were a small branch of the Cherokee Indian tribe that had been gallantly fighting the white people.

He did not want to die with only twenty-eight summers behind him but he knew the standout of the Chickamaugas had lived more than most men of eighty summers. Perhaps his time was used up. Just the same he feared the unknown called death. He contemplated his past life and could think of no way he could have changed it and kept his self respect. His conscience told him he had done the correct thing. He wished the rest of the Cherokee tribe had followed Dragging Canoe’s lead. Together they could possibly have caused the white people enough suffering to make them turn back, and give up their plan to settle on Cherokee land.

As he waited he tried not to pity himself, but did. Next he pitied his squaw, knowing she would have a bleak future. How would she manage with him gone? After living with The Moon, all other men were bound to appear as second or third rate. White Dove would understand this, accept it and go on, but the men would be intimidated, knowing she had experienced the best brave.

When they mounted her, they would know she would be wishing for The Moon, a thought impossible to dismiss. Now, so many men had been killed there were few from which to select. A gloom swept over him when such thoughts came. She was such a good woman and would soon have no brave to come home to her. He hoped she would not mutilate herself too badly while mourning him. He had his worst moments when their eyes met; she would turn away, hiding her grief from him.

White Dove was determined The Moon would not die where the spirits could see an open hole in his belly. She would not let him lie down. Between two trees about six feet apart she stacked a woodpile wide enough to hold him with his seat about six inches off the ground. From there the pile was shaped so he could only recline a little past sitting position. Logs were under his legs, raising them in front, and letting the knees bend. This closed the hole in the belly of the big Indian. A saddle blanket covered the wood. The will of White Dove convinced him he should stay in this miserable position. If he lived long enough, the skin would grow together or if he died in such a position the spirits might not see the wound. Each day she cleaned his wounds and covered them with new mud and moss from the creek. It was the time of year when flies, and gnats, swarmed and this primitive bandage kept them out of the openings.

White Dove had been in love with the big man more than half of her life.

You should see the new brave who came into camp today! He is so strong! His name is The Moon. Guess what? He’s not too old for you, White Dove’s younger sister said excitedly after seeing the young warrior.

White Dove was only twelve when the daring Moon showed up at the village and declared himself ready to be a brave for the tribe. After seeing him that first time, she knew he was the man she wanted even if he was not grown. As she matured she became a beauty and was noticed by all the men. She could only wait and hope, not sure of The Moon’s interest in her.

One morning he came to her father with ten good horses he had accumulated in raids and asked for her hand. Women were sometimes worth up to five horses, but never ten. Her beauty had made her father wealthy. She was as pleased as he when they went through the customary, sharing of the blanket ceremony.

She had time to reminisce about their peculiar life together. It had been one anxious time after another. He led war parties and she had no way of knowing what was happening until he returned. Other warriors, who had died in battle, returned draped across horses. She experienced elation when she saw The Moon, unscathed, sitting proudly on his horse. There was also devastation when some of the horses carried their dead friends and relatives. The warriors who survived would be treated as heroes and the dead mourned. The story of war had changed little throughout the centuries.

White Dove was proud to be his squaw and knew their times had been good considering the circumstances. The Moon had never paid for any of the other squaws he had taken as wives. He had only taken them as a favor when their men had been killed. There were times when she did not like the sharing, but he had a way of letting her know she was the most important. She now wished some of his other wives were alive to help her care for him while he died. Someone to share her grief.

Before she was selected as his squaw, she had to be content with admiring the brash young man from a distance, making sure he saw her. In time he matured and turned into the most handsome man she had ever seen.

Much taller than most, his broad shoulders and long powerful arms exuded tremendous strength and grace. The Moon’s handsome face and body had no smallpox scars. Some unfortunate men were covered by the ugly keloids, taking away much of their confidence. He wore his hair in a huge, thick braid, reaching down his back.

When they scalp me I want them to have something to hold to, he boasted, typical of his brazen nature. Showing disdain for life, he knew it really could end in just such a manner. He was an arrogant young warrior making a joke about something that held terror for all who lived on the frontier.

As White Dove reminisced about him and their past life, she thought how gentle he had been with her and the children. She could see him with a child on each hip and one in a papoose sack, hanging down his back. When he was at home he was the most docile of men.

In contrast, she thought of him at ball play, a brutal, vicious game with almost no rules. A game the Indians called, A preparation for war. The teams had as many as twenty men to a side. This was another place for The Moon to show his audacity and his strength. While playing the game similar to lacrosse, he was such a force his team usually won. He was so sure of his strength and ability he had people bet for him when he entered the fray, no matter what the odds.

Many of the men wore earrings and some wore them playing ball. The Moon also wore them but only he would dare to wear such an impertinent display while playing. For him, it was like a trademark. From each ear dangled, one below the other, two flat, three-quarter-inch square, gold pieces. And below that, hung a one-half-inch gold disc. The glittering appendage was just the size to fit into the palm of a large fist and be jerked out of the ear lobe. The swirling, vicious, nature of the game, with tempers always at the exploding point, lent itself to someone doing just that. However, no one touched his hair or his earrings. It was not worth a broken kneecap or a few teeth left on the playing field. The big Indian was called Ear Tassels by the whites. The long bobs dangling from his ears looked like a tassel and someone coined the name.

White Dove often asked herself, how could one so gentle and one so violent, be housed in the same man.

As The Moon waited, his mind traveled many places in his past life. He was so thankful he had not taken any white women for wives. Many of the men had seemed eager to dip their stem into the captive females. They had repulsed him. With their pale skin they looked frail, mean, and ugly. He hated the sight of children from the couplings of white women and Indian men. They also had many characteristics he so detested. He could not imagine one of the women having the will to care for him, as did White Dove.

The Moon grew weary of his wait for death. White Dove was doing her best to keep him comfortable but he suffered terribly most of the time. She gave him only water. There was little food and she did not want to waste it on the dying. He tried to understand, but at times the hunger got to him and he begged for something to eat. He welcomed the dizziness and chills, for then he did not notice the pain. The hole in his stomach grew together except for an opening in the side, which spewed fluids or at times, just leaked. He lost weight but his belly swelled from the infection inside. The pain was awful and he thought the gash would open again from the protrusion.

I thought you were going to die last night, a weary White Dove said to him one morning after she had prepared her corn cakes for breakfast.

I tried to. The whole night I tried to die. I thought one time I had, but it was a dream.

Maybe you will tonight, she said.

I will try.

The children were staying with another family while The Moon was dying. His squaw kept him away from the village so he could finish his life without disturbing others. It was taking too long. He had been living under the crude shelter for more than forty suns.

A friend of The Moon, Tall Bean, came to visit. He was curious as to why White Dove had not returned to the village. He tried not to show alarm when got a whiff of the terrible odor surrounding The Moon. Only the voice, the earrings, and eyes, were recognizable. The words coming from the emaciated creature before him belonged to The Moon, but they were coming from a withered old thing he had never seen. He could not imagine anyone so depleted still being alive. They talked in low whispers, making sure the wife didn’t hear.

You’re the man I wanted to see. When I’m gone I want you to take on White Dove and the children. We still have some horses left. You could trade them for food. White Dove is my best wife. She’ll make a good crop next year. The Moon tried to sound gracious. He didn’t feel so. He hated what was in store. Still, the proper thing was for him to make an appeal. For weeks he had worried about what would happen to them after he was gone. If she caught on with someone, his death would be easier.

Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll hide the knives so White Dove can’t cut herself while she mourns. Me and my other wives, we’ll make a place for them.

Then The Moon detected the sound of cheerfulness, maybe even a gloating demeanor in Tall Bean. Has the man no tact? He’s supposed to be taking on a large burden. Moments later he saw that he was being jealous. There was no time for that sort of thing. It was better she go with a man who wanted her rather than being cast adrift.

Other men in the village had been discussing who would get the comely White Dove. Tall Bean had come for just that purpose. When talking among themselves the men would ironically try to guess who was going to have such a horrible chore forced upon them. The Moon was wrong in his assumption she would have trouble finding a place.

The Moon did not die. He wasted away further and looked near death, but the spirit would not leave him. He noticed one morning his swollen stomach was smaller, much smaller, and he had no fever. The opening in his side had nearly closed. It leaked only in small dribbles. He had long ago forgotten his other wounds and asked White Dove what it meant.

Maybe the great spirit wanted you without a swollen belly, she said. Could he be healing, she asked herself.

Belly not sore, he said. He showed her as he rubbed his hands from his chest to the pubis and felt no discomfort. Maybe spirit wants me for other things of this world. You give me food. Maybe I not waste it now.

It had rained, filling the stream again, so White Dove went to check the fish trap and brought back a large catfish. She knew the fish was a good sign.

The Moon began his journey back. He had all but seen the other side and now had to think as one going to live. He remembered many occasions when he searched for death, asking it to please come and was disappointed when his spirit did not leave him. Now, as he scratched the itching scar along his mid-section, he marveled at the workings of nature.

The days passed and finally White Dove helped him to his feet. He was shocked to look down and see his wasted body. Giddy at being alive, he laughed too loudly at his thin, slightly bowed legs. They were too weak to hold him without her support.

You want a man with jay bird legs? He laughingly asked her. You make me well, people will call you Doctor White Dove.

They walked every day, increasing the distance each time. In a few weeks he declared himself ready to return to his parents farm.

The treaty allowed them to keep some of their horses and small guns suitable only for hunting birds. The Moon did not abide by the gun provision of the treaty. White Dove hid two large rifles and pretended they were lost. They loaded the children and their possessions on horses and said good-bye to Tall Bean, his family, and what was left of the Chickamaugas. The Moon could not tell if Tall Bean was disappointed.

The children rode the horses while The Moon and White Dove walked. They traveled at a leisurely pace, stopping often to rest. After leaving the Tennessee River they found the Indians living comfortably, and at peace.

The homes in which they stopped each night showed the Cherokee’s desire to adapt to white man’s ways. Most had a spinning wheel, a loom, and a water well, and all had a crib full of corn. There had been a recent harvest and pumpkins were stored everywhere. Other foods, which could be stored, were in abundance. Much of the land had rail fences with horses and oxen held in pastures. The children were learning to read and write in English. The Moon had been fighting all this. Yet the life he saw the tribe living looked so worthwhile.

A coolness developed when their hosts learned what The Moon had been doing for many years. He was not the hero he’d expected to be to the rest of the Cherokees. Far from it. His own people didn’t like him! The Moon was disillusioned. He had followed his impulses, thought he was helping his people, and it had been for nothing. The disapproval was hard to take after all he and the Chickamaugas had been through.

The Cherokee agent made a special trip to see Jasper, surprising him. Maybe he wants to see if I’m earning the money, Jasper thought. There would be indignation in Jasper if he learned the agent had come just for that. That’s one thing the government doesn’t have to worry over, he said to himself. He was well on his way toward damming Clear Creek.

The Cherokee Agent, Colonel Return J. Meigs, had other worries. What I’ve come to tell you about, Mr. Burnine, there’s this Indian that got away. A real bad apple, he is. We thought he’d been killed when they had that last fight. Nobody saw him for a long time.

What’s that got to do with me?

We’ve learned his parents, well all of his family, they live on the south side of this creek.

I met them. They won’t give us a bit of trouble. The daddy’s called the Hawk. He’s right easy to be around.

You don’t understand. This Indian has killed most of the white people he’s seen. Way back, when just a boy, he took up the gun and bow against the white man. Until just this fall he’s never let up. The Indians who’ll talk to us, say he took to the killing and fighting better than anyone, ever. There’s no telling how many men he’s killed or how many women he’s raped. Just no telling.

I still don’t see what that’s got to do with me, Jasper replied.

The man doesn’t have any place to go. He just about has to come and live with his folks. I thought you might want to shut down. Go back home.

You mean quit my job?

Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m saying.

Well I won’t quit. I’m not a tuck tail. You come to the wrong man for that. You fire me. That’s a horse of a different color. I’d leave. But I’m not taking off because some dude is coming back home.

Meigs admired Jasper’s courage but thought he might be carrying it a bit far. You don’t understand. This man is a trained killer. That’s all he knows how to do.

If he gets out of line I’ll put a rifle ball between his eyes.

They say you can’t kill the man. The Indian shamans are telling he was cut in two and grew back together. That’s never happened before but that’s the tale that’s come to us. A lot of people have tried to kill him and are no longer around.

If I shoot something, it’ll by-dang stay shot.

The agent didn’t know what to do. He’d come, assuming if he explained the circumstance, his new millwright would look for safer ground. Instead he’d found another side to the mountaineer. He was a hothead, undaunted by wild tales about some warrior coming home. Of all the things he didn’t need: it was a cantankerous hillbilly mixing it with this monster, or whatever he was.

On his way home he criticized himself for not having the courage to fire Burnine. Had he done so, he wouldn’t be worried about the man’s safety. On the other hand, he’d promised the tribe a mill in that area. Promises made were promises kept, Miegs said to himself. The Burnine fellow was certainly getting the work done. We’ll see what happens, he thought.

As they neared home, The Moon found the same thing, a coolness among other Indians. He was thankful there were no such reservations when he arrived at the home of his parents. They were delighted at seeing their long lost son. Both had long ago, assumed he was dead. And of course, The Moon was pleased to see parents. They were in fine spirits and appeared little older than when he left.

The fourteen-year gap in their lives quickly closed. The farm had grown to accommodate his brother and sisters who now had families. He would have a place to live until he built a log house. The elated family gathered for a party to celebrate his return. The party lasted all day.

The Moon changed from warrior to farmer. Farming was white man’s work or worse, woman’s work, so it took some time for him to adjust to his new role. His body healed before his mind adjusted to clearing land, planting and tending crops. But he did change. He found it gratifying to harvest a crop in which he had played a major role in producing.

Life will be hard for you. You will awaken wishing for some exciting war to fight and instead you will have to follow the oxen all day as they pull the plow, The Hawk had told him earlier. I now feel good about the way I can provide for my family. It is better this way, his father continued.

The Moon blended his family in with those of his parents, brother, and sisters. This was communal living at its best. He could have all the land he wanted to farm. He would never own it outright because it was the land of the Cherokees and always would be. He owned all the improvements he created and he would never have to leave the land, so it was as good as ownership.

After a time it became a habit to end each workday by ambling down the hill to see the mill and dam being constructed. On his first visits he stopped on the hill above where Jasper and Samuel were working. The Moon was a dour figure as he watched, trying to understand what they were doing.

That’s that Indian the agent was telling of. Has to be. By dang, he’s a whopper isn’t he, Jasper said. The presence of The Moon sent a shiver through the brothers.

What you reckon he’s up to?

Might be figuring to build himself a dam and a millrace and a mill.

Bet he’s not. He might be going cut out our nuts, roll them in meal, and fry them for breakfast in the morning.

"Samuel, you think of the worst shit. I know one thing. He don’t pester me, I won’t bother him. I still can’t believe he’s as bad as they say.

You got to admit, these Indians working with us, there’s not a lazy bone in the bunch. Once you get them to understand what we want, they work hard.

Yeah, but that big dude, I’d hate to have to boss him. I’ve never been around a killer before.

Abner Fix shot his pappy-in-law right between the eyes. You were around him.

That doesn’t count.

How come?

He kept pestering Abner’s wife. Even after they were hitched, he kept sneaking around, trying to get a little. Way I see it. Abner was in the right. That doesn’t make him a trained killer like that guy on the hill.

As time passed The Moon came closer, captivated by the project. Jasper and crew of Indians were building the mill close to where the creek emptied into the Ocoee River. Samuel, nearly a mile up the creek, had men helping him construct the dam and millrace.

The race was a massive undertaking. Dug high on the bank, just slightly lower than the top of the dam, it was four feet wide and four feet deep. The race funneled the water from the dam to the big water wheel. It crooked back and forth, following the contour of the land, the drop barely perceptible. To keep it from eroding they lined it with split logs and staves.

The Moon was eventually seen all over the job site. One day while trying to understand the surveying instrument, he hunkered down behind the thing and peered through it. Afterwards he gestured funnily, unable to fathom the device.

By this time Jasper and Samuel had decided the Moon stories were lies or the man had had a change of heart. Neither of them feared him. When he wasn’t busy farming he was there. He bantered and joked with the other Indians, and they too, were comfortable with him.

The day when the mill went into operation was a festive occasion. A large crowd assembled to witness the start of a new era. When everything was in readiness, Jasper fired a pistol as a signal to Samuel to open the water gate on the dam. The few minutes wait for the water to arrive felt like an eternity. When the water hit the wheel Jasper said under his breath, Turn, you big bastard.

Everything worked. Some of the more daring women had brought small sacks of corn, which were poured, into the hopper and in moments turned into meal. It was a great day. They would no longer have to go through the drudgery of pounding their corn between two stones.

The Moon family built a large log home. It had two rooms at ground level with a dogtrot in between and an upstairs attic where the children slept. The children attended the mission school and learned to speak English.

The Moon was pleased.

The Appalachian Mountains along the Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee border, 1803.

The Moon pulled on his pipe as he tried to hear what the women were saying. He was waiting outside his home while his wife was birthing their sixth child. He worried she might die as she was having a difficult time. He was not one to let his emotions show but he cared deeply for his beloved White Dove.

He never had to beat her to keep her from nagging. He knew men who had to beat their wives often for some reason or other. His wives who had been killed during battles with the white men nine summers ago were good women, but he had always preferred this one. It had been his good luck she had lived. No one else could have nursed him back to health.

The Moon had considered taking on new women but the white missionaries had convinced most of the Cherokees it was proper to have only one wife. It had something to do with the white God. The children, his mother, and White Dove, all hinted to him that he should have only one wife. To keep peace in the family he didn’t bother to look for other women.

The tribal council decided it was best for the Cherokees to take up the white man’s ways. After a time this included taking their religion. The children had been going to the Moravian mission school. They delighted in teaching him some of what they had learned about the white man’s religion.

For most of his life, The Moon had nursed a hatred of the white man because their truths never lasted. Now he was changing even that assumption. As time passed he met whites who were not deceitful and greedy. The whites at the Moravian mission did not yearn for material things. They received an immeasurable pleasure when the children learned and their eyes glistened when they taught about the Great White Father.

Initially the Moravians were allowed to teach school if they remained silent about their religious beliefs. They did such a wonderful job teaching the children how to read, write, and cipher that the Indians later allowed them to teach their religion to the tribe. The Moon could not fault that.

The Moon found no shortcomings with his neighbor who lived to the north, across the creek. He wasn’t sure about the man’s wife. She was a skinny, ugly thing, with lots of pale, wormy looking children. Most of the white men who brought needed skills to the tribe took the beautiful Indian squaws for their wives. The Moon could understand their attraction. This man, Jasper Burnine, had gone the other way. He had brought this pitiful looking white woman to come and live with him while he toiled for the Cherokees.

The Moon admired the millwright. He was a hard worker and could fix anything. He had dealt with Jasper on many occasions and found him worthy. They had trouble talking but the children had found it easy to learn both languages. Since the children were often under foot, they served as interpreters.

Everyone knew by now that Sara was the best mid-wife in that part of the country. Her mother had been a mid-wife and Sara was following in her footsteps. The Moon hated the thought of having to go after her to help with White Dove’s birthing.

The Moon’s cogitations were disturbed by the sounds of someone coming. The dogs were having a barking fit. A bark, which announced the coming of strangers. Then the mounted troop came into view. There were ten uniformed men carrying rifles accompanied by an Indian. The Moon vaguely remembered seeing the Indian at tribal meetings.

They stopped at the edge of his yard. The Moon scolded his dogs until they calmed down.

Get down and have some water, he said amicably, although he wanted no such thing. Their leader’s surly expression told The Moon nothing good could come from the group.

We can’t get down, we in a hurry. We carry big message, the Indian interpreter said to him. The Indian did not introduce the corporal or any of the troops.

Can I bring water to you while you stay on horse? The Moon asked again. What message can these men bring! He listened to the exchange between the Indian and the corporal.

Water no change message. No need water, the Indian said.

The Moon took a deep breath and looked at the troop. He would wait. Moments later he heard the corporal say to the Indian the words, which would be said to The Moon. The corporal’s arrogance showed. It was obvious the man enjoyed being the bearer of bad news.

This land not yours. You will have to move, was the message.

The attractive log home, the well tended farm, the fenced live stock, in good order, all set in the beautiful mountains of northern Georgia, made it difficult for the interpreter to force enough air from his lungs to make the words. He had been giving the same horrible message to the Cherokees for days.

The Moon thought he must have misunderstood, and said, No understand.

The Moon listened as the corporal spoke louder, Tell that big son-of-a-bitch this isn’t his any more. It belongs to Georgia, he’s got to leave.

The interpreter left off the corporal’s slurs and told The Moon again, This land not yours. You will have to move. He was careful to say the same words.

A chill swept The Moon’s body. It took a few moments for him to regain his composure. Then he said, You are wrong. This land is Cherokee. Belong to tribe forever. The tribe has a treaty.

The same scenario had repeated itself time and again for the troop. For many, it was a message of death. The Cherokees would resist leaving the burial grounds of their ancestors.

The State of Georgia has declared that the land the Cherokees claim they own, the part that is in Georgia, belongs to them and the Indians have to leave. The interpreter said without consulting the corporal.

What about the treaties we have with the United States, and our father, the President? The Moon asked.

Georgia did not make that treaty and Indians have no rights in Georgia. The governor of Georgia and the legislature has spoken these words.

Except for the problem of an occasional fight with the Creeks, the Cherokees had been enjoying the good life. The people were becoming educated, food was plentiful, and the corn was ground at the mill. They were making cotton into clothing. The women were now called housewives instead of squaws. They had few ways of acquiring money but had little need for it. Life had been good.

You have told others of this? The Moon asked.

Yes, for days, the interpreter replied.

There will be a tribal meeting. We will talk to our chiefs. The Moon said, hoping the headmen would have something better to tell them.

The troop and The Moon were distracted when The Moon’s teenage daughter, Anna Lea, came hurrying from the house.

Grandmother and Aunty have decided you should get the mid-wife. The birthing is not going well.

The troops were stunned by the girl’s beauty and wondered how many like her were hidden inside. They carried on a tasteless guffawing among themselves about the girl.

The interpreter became alarmed when one of the privates blurted out, You reckon I offer him a quarter he let me take that pretty thing to the barn for a few minutes.

Stop the men from saying such things. You don’t know how much he understands! The Interrupter said.

What’s the hurt? He can’t do anything. He’s outnumbered, the arrogant Corporal quipped.

The Moon can do plenty. He has killed many, and there are only ten of you. Moon can’t be killed, he’s dangerous. The legend of The Moon had lingered, embellished by the way in which he had cheated death.

You guys knock it off. We aren’t here for trouble. Keep mouthing off and we could end up in a fight, the corporal spoke firmly.

You mean that big dude would take on ten of us? one of the troop asked.

You not know how many rifles pointed at you. Large family here, the Indian said, trying to scare some sense into the soldier.

If The Moon or his daughter overheard the outrageous remarks nothing was said.

Get some horses ready and we will go as soon as the troop leaves. The Moon told his daughter.

When the girl was too far away to hear, The Moon’s curiosity made him ask the Indian, How much time do we have?

No one spoke that to us, he replied.

The corporal could think of nothing else and said, We told him. Let’s get moving.

The Moon watched until the troop was out of sight, remaining visible in case one of them turned to look back. Not trusting them, he hated to leave. It would take him at least an hour to get the mid-wife. The white men could return and do much harm in that time. He could not send word to other members of his family to come and help because they would need to be home to watch over their property when the troop came.

Anna Lea brought three horses. The wagon was useless when traveling the rough terrain north into Tennessee. The Moon went in and spoke to White Dove before leaving. She appeared to be very uncomfortable.

What did the men want?

I will tell you when we get the baby. It’s not important, he told her. She had no business knowing the dreadful message he had received.

The Moon and Anna Lea had to travel single file down a narrow trail across Clear Creek and up the hollow to the Burnine place. The floodgates were open on Clear Creek and it was swollen from recent rains. The rushing water shoved against the horses, forcing them to struggle against the current as they crossed.

CHAPTER 2

As was usually the case, David Burnine had been left at home while his two older brothers had gone to the mill with their father. They were repairing the millrace and the two older boys were able to do the work of men. David, tall, thin, and nearly fourteen, thought he could too. It galled him to have to stay home to help with the other children and hoe. He especially did not like the hoeing. He occasionally was allowed to work at the mill, which, to him, was much more in tune with his abilities. To his dismay, most of the time he was a baby sitter and a field hand. His father gave him the same admonishing each morning.

You keep watching out for the corn. If it wasn’t the corn it was the potatoes or beans. There was always something, which needed to be guarded. We don’t need any ‘coons eating half the crop. Another thing. Aim before you shoot. Don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. We don’t have any shot to waste. Big fat ‘coon would be good eating if you don’t bust the scent bag. If a bear shows up, you give him a wide course and run on to the house. You don’t need to be trying to kill a bear. You high tail it over and get me. The ground is dried out enough you ought to get the rest of the corn done before nightfall, Jasper admonished.

David politely half-listened, resenting being treated like he was still a child. He particularly begrudged being told not to kill a bear if he got a chance. If a bear came to eat the corn and strawberries, it was going to be one dead bear. The boy knew he was not going to run and get someone else to do the killing.

David and James, his younger brother, took their water jug, hoes, and rifle to the far side of the cornfield. It was a sultry, still day. The hounds found a shade at the edge of the field and rested while the boys, working two rows at a time, went about their task.

Being the age they were, distractions came easily, but most of the time they worked steadily. The family’s existence was marginal and this was well understood by the children. They had gone to bed hungry enough times to know their part of the work was important. The parents never stopped carping at them about the importance of each child’s labors.

A buzzard flying high above was cause for comment and maybe a pause. Wonder if I could shoot him from here? James mumbled.

Daddy says you aren’t supposed to shoot something you can’t eat, David answered.

I know it. Doesn’t hurt any to wonder. I heard they sometimes peck the eyes out of calves that’s fresh barned. You could shoot them for that.

Both checked the sun often, trying to make it move faster so they would get a noon break. Ol’ mite, whose bark sounded like a small explosion, interrupted the boy’s work. Then tanner, with her yelp, joined the barking.

David ran to get the rifle. They weren’t just barking at some sound they could hear a mile away. Might be a bear, he hoped. He doubted it would be a raccoon because one whiff of the hounds would send a raccoon in another direction.

When the boys got to the dogs, they were aimed toward the creek. They bounced and circled as they barked. Their tails were wagging high over their backs and they appeared to be laughing. Whatever was out there, they weren’t scared of it. The dogs were so noisy the boys failed to hear The Moon and Anna Lea. They were momentarily startled as the big Indian and his daughter emerged from the brush.

David calmly asked, Hi Mr. Moon. Hi Anna Lea, what can we do for you?

David instantly focused on Anna Lea. It had been nearly a year since he had seen her. At that time she barely had tits. Now her blouse was brimming full. He had always thought she was pretty and now she was beautiful. Being astride her horse pulled her skirt up almost past her knee. It was hard for him not to stare at that much leg.

Momma is birthing and we came to see if your mother could come and help her, Anna Lea said, being careful with her enunciation.

Each word sounded like a melody to David. He all but missed what she said. Soon he recovered and spoke. Oh! Okay, let me take the rails apart so we can hurry to the house.

One section of the fence was taken down and reassembled after the horses came through. David and James straddled the other horse and led The Moons around the cornfield and past the garden to the house.

The Moon saw a child every place he looked. He could not imagine one woman having so many children. How did the parents tell them apart? There were seven younger than David, with one in diapers. He wondered why white people exercised so little control over their production of offspring.

When the fiery Sara learned the purpose of The Moon’s visit she took charge. It’s time for us to eat dinner. It’s already ready. I just have to put it on. There’s room for you all at the table and we have plenty, so sit down with us. All these kids have to get fed or they’ll get wrathy. Be whining their heads off, she said to Anna Lea. The compassionate Sara wanted to drop everything and tend the woman but knew her family had to eat.

The Moon wanted to skip the food but he was afraid he might offend the woman if he refused to eat her cooking. He had heard white women were sensitive about such things. He wondered if everything was clean. It appeared to be. They were in a hurry. Surely the woman knew that. He could not understand Sara’s screeching but it was obvious the children could. Her commands put life into them and in moments the long table was set. All but the smallest child had a task.

They were all seated with Sara at the head of the table. The Moon, Anna Lea, and two children were on her left. David sat at the other end of the table and four youngsters were on a bench at Sara’s right. The child in diapers was at the corner of the table next to Sara. As all were settled, a four year old, standing on the bench, was about to reach for a corn cake when Sara smacked him across the hand with a long willow switch.

Rutherford Wayne! Look at your hands! They are filthy! Sara yelled.

The excitement of company had made the boy forget his manners. Tears came quickly to his eyes and his lower lip protruded, giving him a most persecuted expression. He sucked in his breath and made no sound.

In unison, some of the other children yelled, Catch the spit when he steps on his lip.

Cynthia, get him cleaned up! yelled Sara.

Everyone waited until the child was back at the table with clean hands. The Moon could not believe the woman had hit a man-child. He was certain the infant would have permanent psychological injury. This woman had to be the most repulsive human he had ever seen.

Sara said a prayer. All the heads bowed, the palms together, and the silence, except for her, told The Moon she was praying. One minute the woman was switching her child and the next moment she was saying words to the white god.

Dear lord, we give you thanks for blessing our home…bless our food as we partake of it…may it help our bodies serve your needs…oh lord, be with me and help me as I serve this woman in need…all things we ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Immediately after the prayer Anna Lea said, Amen.

It was the most beautiful Amen David had ever heard. He wished he could have thought to say an Amen.

The Moon liked nearly any kind of food and was surprised at how good this tasted. In spite of the bickering, crying, and laughing, the meal was quickly eaten. The children, again like an army of ants, soon had the kitchen in order. David readied a horse for his mother. They were accustomed to such emergencies. Most of the time when Sara went to mid-wife, all the children went along, especially if it was not far. It was an excitement for them as they seldom went anywhere.

Sara scribbled a small note to her husband, Jasper, and they were on their way. The Moon, Anna Lea, and David each carried two children with them on their mounts. Sara rode sidesaddle, carrying the youngest in a papoose board on her back. There was apprehension as they forded the swift, clear creek, but the horses carried them safely across. The Moon could hear the woman shrieking at her children. He assumed she felt it necessary to let them know the roaring creek was dangerous.

Sara grew anxious as she approached The Moon home and asked Anna Lea, does your father understand I might not be able to help his wife? That I am just someone who has assisted many women while they barned? That some died?

Anna Lea said a few words to her father in Cherokee and he answered with affirmative nods of his head. Sara had a small understanding of the aborigine’s language but could not converse.

Anna Lea turned to Sara. He understands what you are. He was told you have been very helpful to lots of women.

The Moon found it hard to say good words about Sara.

I have worked in homes where no English was spoken and got by but it was hard. Can you be there to help me? Sara asked.

I will be there, Anna Lea replied, the anxiety making her stumble over the new language.

Sara kept her crude paddles and towels as clean as she knew how, wrapped and ready at a moments notice. After cleaning her hands and putting a smock over her clothes she went to work. She found a sister and sister-in-law and the mother of The Moon attending White Dove.

Their eyes showed fear. Sara was concerned over her inadequacies but did her best to hide it by greeting each of them with a smile. Her mother had told her, The patient must never see your doubts. She wished for more knowledge, maybe as much as a doctor. She put her hands on White Dove’s abdomen, gently feeling the hard mass underneath. With her hands she was trying to convey confidence.

The rough terrain and the creek along with the language, all served as a barrier, but still the wives had become acquainted. They borrowed back and forth and the families always helped each other during butchering.

Sara had even gotten over her fear of The Moon. The first time she had seen him he had given her a terrible fright. On that particular day the dogs had made little noise and the huge man seemed to have appeared from nowhere, sticking his head in her half door and yelling bluntly, Jaspie, se-du-le. (I want)

She had heard him described but the first sight of him still took her breath.

As time passed she had gotten accustomed to his dour expression and thought that in his own quaint way, he liked her.

Sara found the membrane broken and the child’s buttocks trying to enter the birth canal in a breached position. She explained to Anna Lea that she would try to turn the fetus around so it could have a normal passage. Anna Lea in turn passed this information on to The Moon’s mother and the other women.

White Dove’s fears eased little even though she understood her problem. Her other children had been born with little effort. This one had stopped with such finality; she held grave doubts for the unborn and herself. The thin-boned mid-wife was her only hope.

The Moon had been told of the backward birth as he waited in the shade of the dogtrot. Women generally died from that. The news made him contemplate getting the shaman soon if the white woman was not able to help. He kept such thoughts to himself. He really did not want the witch doctor, but he wanted all avenues covered.

The biggest problem he had at the moment were the white woman’s children and some of his own, with their constant bickering. They were either screaming at one another or crying, or laughing non-stop. Did they ever just sit?

The Moon liked David. He was the mediator, the fixer of wounds, and kept his siblings from serious trouble. The boy appeared to sense that his mother’s mission was indeed grave, and made sure she was not disturbed.

Sara pushed other thoughts aside as she concentrated on the fetus and White Dove. With one hand inside and the womb and the other kneading the abdomen, she slowly rotated the child. It was a slow process, pushing against the contracted muscles.

White Dove was laid across the bed so Sara could position herself between the legs. Sara remained in that posture for over three hours. She dared not move until the child was turned around. She then encouraged White Dove to push. She did not need to. The little chooch or man-child was soon born. She talked and guided the infant