Trail of tears
Text z Príbehu
- This is my birthday, December 11, 1890, I am 80 years old today.
- On one of my long hunts in the fall of 1829, I found a young Cherokee who had been shot by a band of hunters. He had gotten away from them and was hiding under a low flat rock.
- Knowing many of the Indians and able to speak their language, I was sent as an interpreter into the Smoky Mountain country in May 1838.
- The trail of the exiles was a trail of death. They had to sleep in the wagons and on the ground without fire.
- He was whipping an old, weak Cherokee. The sight of that nearly blind creature lashed by a bull whip was too much for me, so I attempted to stop McDonal. He lashed me across the face, the wire tip on his whip cutting a bad gash in my cheek.
- When Scott invaded the Indian country some of the Cherokees fled to caves and dens in the mountains where they still live today. I have wanted to try and find them, but I have put off going from year to year, and now I am too weak to ride that far. I can truthfully say that I did my best for them when they certainly did need a friend.
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