The Secret of the Stones by Ernest Dempsey (reading fiction .TXT) 📕

ancient Native locations that led him to there were four compartments or chambers. So, it was four golden rooms built by ancient Native peoples, not seven cities built by European settlers.”

“What did they use these golden rooms for?” she had to ask.

“That’s just it, no one really knows,” Sean answered. “There are some ideas, but nothing really adds up. They must have been used for ancient ceremonies or rituals. Native Americans did not put a great deal of import on the material value of gold. It was more of a sacred metal to them than anything else.”

“Perhaps, this is where I may be able to shed some light on the story,” Joe interrupted.

Sean set his cup down and listened intently, glad to be out of the spotlight in the conversation. He had a feeling Joe McElroy was about to enlighten them far more than he ever could on the current situation.

The older man’s face looked like he was ready to explode. He started by saying, “There are several local legends that have been passed around for the last fifty or so years that revolve around a constant theme: Indian gold.” After pausing for a second, Joe went on, “Now, you won’t find these stories in any history books. In fact, they’re probably more like family tales than local legends.” His eyes moved dramatically from left to right as he spoke, peering at his audience.

“Most of what I’ve heard came from my father, stories he’d heard from friends or relatives. The first legend supposedly took place not too far from here, up in the mountains where there is a small river that leads to a waterfall. This waterfall is probably around seventy feet high. One day about thirty years ago, some rock climber was scaling the wall behind the falling water. Not sure how you do that without slipping on the wet rocks, but this guy did it. When he got up near the top, he found himself at the lip of a shallow cave. After pulling himself up onto the ledge, he crawled back into the dark space. His eyes fell upon something quite peculiar sitting on the ground in the corner of the small room. What he had found was a stack of gold bars.”

McElroy let what he believed to be a small climax set in with his audience. “The climber picked up one of the heavy bars and took it closer to the edge of the rock face so he could get a better look at what he’d found. Once in the light, he discovered odd characters carved into the shiny yellow bricks.”

Allyson and Sean cast each other a surprised look. “What was it?” she asked, mesmerized.

“An ancient Native form of writing that used a combination of symbols and pictures, much like hieroglyphics,” he replied. “Of course, the man who found the gold was not permitted to keep it since it was discovered on government land.” His tone had become cynical.

Sean laughed, “Naturally.”

“Indeed,” Joe chuckled. “Have to say the Natives were right not to trust our government.” Taking one last gulp of the coffee, he returned the empty mug to the wooden surface. “Now, legend number two spans about two hundred years and contains many fascinating implications.

“Right around the end of the eighteenth century, in the 1790s, there was a wealthy Cherokee businessman named James Vann who lived in the area near Chatsworth, Georgia. He was a powerful leader in the Cherokee Nation and ran one of the most profitable plantations in the state. In 1804, he completed construction of an elegant brick home on his large estate. To this day, it is Georgia’s best preserved historical site.”

Joe stood up and walked over to the fireplace. The flames that had been crackling vibrantly before had died down to just a flicker. He grabbed another log from the stack next to the hearth and placed it in the fire before stoking the coals with an iron poker. The two visitors looked like children sitting around a campfire, listening to ghost stories, so he went on, “James Vann had a charmed life for an Indian, right up until 1809 when he was mysteriously murdered.”

“Murdered?” Allyson chimed in.

“Yes. Murdered. They never found the killer, and no one knows why they did it. Oh, sure, there were suspects. Rival Cherokee leaders, jealous white settlers, even his son, Joseph, was a suspect.”

“His son?” Sean asked.

“Uh huh. In fact, his son stood to gain the most from the death of his father. When James died, Joseph inherited the entire estate. And over the next thirty years after the murder, Joseph became even more prosperous than his father. He owned more land and had accumulated more wealth than any other Cherokee tribesman in the state, and possibly in the nation.”

Allyson had an inquisitive look on her face. “So, what does this have to do with our scenario?”

Joe smiled. “I’m getting to that. In 1838, Andrew Jackson and the federal government ordered the relocation of all Cherokee Indians. They were forced to move to Oklahoma. The Creek Indians had already been removed ten years earlier to separate reservations in the West.”

“The Trail of Tears,” Sean’s voice trailed off. It was one of the most sombering and despicable events in America’s history.

Joey nodded, “One of the most appalling things our government has done in our country’s history. Men, women, and children forced to march through the fierce winter, given little food and even less shelter.” He looked down, seemingly touched personally by the thought of the grim tale. “It was such a strange turn of events. There were around seventeen thousand Cherokee in western Georgia in the 1830s. John Ross, the principal chief of the Cherokee Nation, fiercely