The Cherokee Queen

THE CHEROKEE QUEEN

By

Larry E. Huddleston

THE CHEROKEE QUEEN copyright ©2009 by Larry E. Huddleston

Smashwords Edition

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Prologue

The blowing snow swirled and eddied, driven by a strong and bitter north wind. Pauline Eliza Ross, niece of Chief John Ross and Stand Waite of the Cherokee tribe, stumbled forward through her billowing silver breath and the quickly piling snow following the vague retreating back in front of her. She in turn was followed by those behind her.

They had been on the trail to Indian Territory, their newly granted lands and home, for the past four months. For the past ten days they had traveled through the intense, bitter cold. And now they fought desperately through the snow. To add to their misery they were all starving to death. Their meat had turned rancid days ago and their other supplies had been exhausted. Now their only choice was reach Fort Gibson or die on this trail of tears from starvation or the elements. Pauline knew there was nothing to replace the rancid meat with, so chose hunger instead. But she was not alone, even the soldiers were cold and hungry; however, they had horses to ride instead of walking through the calve-deep snow.

Pauline was tall, straight, proud and a beauty among her tribe; she gritted her chattering teeth and hugged her shivering, warm body and kept moving. She knew she was dying of the white man’s fever and that there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do about it.

As she forced her way forward she mumbled her prayers and begged her god to protect her people and see them safely to their new home; had they not suffered enough? Many hundreds had died already on this greed inspired ‘Removal’ of her people.

As Pauline went forward thinking the thoughts of the dying, hearing the wind through the trees, as if harbingers from the Land of Shadows were whispering her home, it seemed as if a spirit came down and walked beside her as her guide to the Other Side. She followed; wandering off the established trail made by those ahead and meandered into the surrounding forest following her guide.

Sergeant Jacob Stall watched the tall, pretty Indian maiden leave the trail and walk toward the forest. Other than taking note of her he made no effort to interfere, or stop her. Perhaps it is but a call of nature he told himself. Or mayhap she is of the dying. Either way he dismissed her, then rode on focusing his attention elsewhere along the long winding line of suffering Cherokee people. God, but he was cold and hungry! He blasphemed, then spun his horse around and raced for the back of the line to force the stragglers to pick up the pace. By his reckoning they had crossed into Indian Territory two days earlier and were now only about forty miles from their destination--Fort Gibson on the Illinois River.

In the forest, along a small wet weather creek, Pauline stood in mid-stride, frozen solid with golden tears on her cheek. As she froze even more solid, she began to harden into golden glass, preserved perfectly in every detail.

Four Shamen stood around her at points of the four directions and together they lay their protections upon her, then lay her over onto her side, under a small overhang of earth. They caused the earth to fall around her, burying her completely under ten or more feet of soil, protecting her from those who wouldn’t or couldn’t appreciate her beauty, perfection and rarity. Until such a one comes along who will protect you with his life, we leave you here to rest, our beautiful suffering and selfless Queen of the Cherokee.... they chanted in their guttural, chopped language. When the chanting was over at dawn, the four Shamen turned and went in their four directions satisfied that their queen would be protected until her Warrior came along and brought her back to life, ever how long it took....

CHAPTER ONE

Spring had finally sprung in northeastern Oklahoma. Rivers, creeks and streams ran full with the winter snow melt off. In the trees, showing the first vestiges of new growth, birds sang and were busy with their mating rituals. The mated ones were busy building their nest in which their young would be raised.

On the ground below deer with new fawns nibbled the first shoots of green, while other animals tended their newborns as well. Even the local farmers were busy tilling their land in preparation of planting their seeds and raising crops.

In a large opening in the surrounding forest of blackjack, oak, ash, persimmon, hickory, walnut and a dozen other species of trees, a ramshackle home sat alone and forlorn. Its front porch was crammed with a myriad of items considered by some to be antiques, by others, junk. Whatever one chose to call it, it all sat rusting away into nothingness. Twenty feet away a dilapidated old pickup truck sat, its bed also crammed with antiques awaiting their rightful place on the porch.

Wood smoke drifted lazily out of an awkward black stovepipe stuck through the shake shingle roof and floated slowly to the northeast filling the gentle breeze with its homey odor.

Through the small four-pane windows a faint yellow light fought to be seen in the coming dawn. The smell of fresh strong coffee permeated the area of the front porch and frying bacon could be scented as well.

Duncan Ross, a big man in his mid forties sat at his kitchen table finishing his breakfast and occasionally sipping his coffee. Around the room on the walls hung military photographs in which Duncan was mostly center stage.

Following his last bite of breakfast he stood and looked out the window at a large, round thermometer. The red hand indicated that the outside temperature was between seventy and seventy five degrees Fahrenheit. He smiled, sipped his coffee and turned back into the room. In five steps he was around the table and opening a wall closet door.

Inside the closet a U.S. Army Class A uniform hung neatly on a hangar. On the sleeve were three chevrons underscored by two rockers indicating the wearer had attained the rank of E-7, or Sergeant First Class. On the left breast panel were four rows of campaign ribbons in a rainbow of colors. One, a pale blue with small white stars, indicated the wearer had been awarded the Nation’s highest medal, the Congressional Medal of Honor. The Green Beret lying neatly on a shelf above the uniform indicated the uniform had belonged to a Special Forces soldier. But, despite all this, Duncan paid no attention to the uniform. Instead he reached past it and grabbed the tall handle of a very elaborate metal detector. It had been a gift from his sister, Samantha - Sam to her friends, for this past Christmas. She knew his love and passion for his Cherokee heritage and finding old things that were lost. In a rack on the handle of the high tech detector hung a set of very expensive headphones especially for the detector.

Duncan looked the detector over carefully, then stepped to a drawer and retrieved four C cell batteries and installed them. Time to take you for a test drive, darlin’, he muttered while carefully removing the stickers and Christmas tags. When they were off he took several coins from his pocket and laid them around the floor and waving the detector over them received a beep. He then took a gold coin and a solid silver one from a metal box and laid them on the floor, then took the detector and waved it over all the coins. It only recognized the gold one. He looked at the control box and flipped a switch; the detector recognized only the silver coin.

Boys, he muttered, looking at the pictures around the wall and smiling. We onto som’thun ‘ere!

One of the pictures was of a younger Duncan in his Special Forces beret and Class A uniform wearing his Metal of Honor and shaking hands with United States President Richard M. Nixon.

We showed ‘em then. We’ll show ‘em again. They’s slow learners. Same as then. He laughed to himself, then taking the metal detector went out the door and to his pickup. He placed the detector on the passenger floorboard carefully and leaned the handle back against the seat. He went around and got in behind the steering wheel. The pickup started instantly and purred with power as he left the yard and drove down the long winding driveway to the highway. At the highway he turned to the right and roared away, the mufflers rumbling in their joy of the power being sent through them.

A while later, on the left, a large sign read ‘Welcome To Locust Grove, Pop. 8000’. Duncan’s pickup rumbled through the intersection of Interstate Highways 82, running north and south, and 33, running east and west, and rolled into a self- serve gas station/convenience store. The pickup stopped at the gas pumps. Duncan got out and pumped gas into the gas tank.

Across the parking lot in the shade sat a brand new Dodge Ram 4X4 pickup. Three men stood around the pickup drinking beer, smoking and talking. Tate Jackson, a big man with a long black beard, wearing Levis, a western style shirt, hat and cowboy boots, was the undisputed leader of the three. He saw Duncan pumping gas and said something to the other two causing them to laugh. Then they went back to staring at Duncan and swigging their beers and blowing their smoke.

Duncan stopped the pump on ten dollars, turned the pump off and hung up the nozzle. He turned and walked toward the front of the store to pay for his fuel.

Duncan, Tate called from the far side of the truck bed. What ‘chu do out there in them woods all alone, boy?

Mind my own business, Tate. Same as you oughta do, Duncan stated, then walked on toward the door.

Tate laughed loudly, then said loudly, Them ‘Cong musta rung your dong good, huh, Ross?

Duncan seemed to ignore the taunt, as he had many others from people who had no concept of what hell on earth really was. He went on