Tomahawk Creek, William Jones built a small log cabin in hope of bringing his wife to live in it.

“Perry, the cabin you see was my first home,” his grandma Sarah (Jones) answered.  The grandmother then told her grandson about how William Jones had returned to middle Tennesee to find his wife with child and very ill.  At the birth of the child, her mother died.  William was helpless in trying to raise the baby girl.

“I lived with the missionaries until the U.S. Government forced us off our land.  We were taken to Wayne County, Tennessee to leave for the Cherokee’s new home.  We were rounded up like criminals into the stockades.  My father sent a letter by Amos to tell me of a house and land ready for me.  I was in the stockade when Amos rode into the place and asked for me.  When he saw the suffering of the Cherokees caused by the forced removal, he was very upset.  He asked the officer in charge to have me released in his care.  He told how my father was of the Old Settlers and would have come for me himself if he had not been hurt while cutting a tree to make a raft.  The general refused to let me go with him.  He said, “Of course, if she were your wife, I could not stop you.”  Amos then asked me to marry him and my adopted father married us.”

We then started over the trail my people called “The Trail of Tears.”  Waiting on the east bank of the Mississippi River, I saw my father, my real father, whom I never knew.  He was a tall, thin man with dark skin and straight black hair.  He greeted us with a smile.  Amos explained to him that we were married, and this, too, he received with a smile.  I found myself falling in love with these two men who seemed to care so very much for me.  It was easy for me to love my real father because I had been taught respect for the Cherokee by the missionaries.  I have learned a new kind of love for my husband.

We crossed the big river on the raft Amos and my father had made.  On the other side of the river, a pack mule waited for us to continue our trip to that cabin.  We walked beside the pack mule through high cane breaks and over rough, rocky hills.  At night, when we lay down, we could hear the screams of panthers.

Yes, Perry, my father built that old log house.  It was our first home and your Uncle Jesse and Enoch were born in that cabin.  Adaline was born there too, but Sarah and Wayne were born after we built our new home.”

“Grandma, what happened to your father?”  Perry asked.  Sarah again dipped her needle deep into the cloth.  The light became too dim to continue quilting and the evening sun was behind a hill.  The warm glow of the fire made a shadow appear.  She thought of her father moving like an elusive shadow into the West.  It had been years since she had received the letter.  It contained a paper showing he had signed the Cherokee Roll for himself and his wife, giving both their ages as “40 years old.”  There was another paper inside the envelope with words from a stranger.  The words flashed back into her mind.  “This man rode up to our door sick.  He died two days later.  He said we could have his horse and belongings for taking care of him.  His request was to mail you these papers.”

She began the story in a matter of fact way; 

We all lived together, my father, Amos and I in that log house.  My father was always hunting and fishing along the river.  He was of the Bear Clan, which is one of the seven Cherokee clans.  He viewed the bear as being an intelligent beast.  He didn’t fear the bear, but gave it respect.  He and his friend, Marion, would hunt bears.  Oh, not to kill them, but to capture a cub.  He would prove to the young boys what a great friend the bear could be.