The Chimney Rock Files - Lanman's 1848 Visit

Chimney Rock and Lake Lure had been on my mind, even prior to Helene. Now, with so much gone, I'm contemplating how it used to be. But that's a given anytime and anywhere I take a jaunt through these mountains. I've observed a few of the big changes myself and gathered eyewitness accounts for many more. Revisiting my files this week, I’m reminded of the fabulous narratives from the vicinity of Hickory Nut Gap Bat Cave, Chimney Rock Village and other locations along the Rocky Broad River. So I will be sharing those in the days ahead.

Let’s open with a passage from one of my favorite books, “Letters from the Alleghany Mountains.” The author and artist Charles Lanman visited the area in May 1848. While en route from the Oconaluftee River and Cherokee, Lanman stopped off in Asheville, where he crossed paths with a disgruntled horse trader and watched a duel narrowly averted:

The distance from Qualla Town to this place is sixty miles. The first half of the route is exceedingly mountainous and almost entirely uncultivated, but the valley of Pigeon river, down which you have to travel for a considerable distance, is very fertile and well cultivated. A pastoral charm seems to rest upon the scenery, and in this particular forcibly reminded me of the upper valley of the Mohawk.

I occupied the most of two days in performing this trip, and the only incident that I met with which was at all unique, was upon this wise. I had stopped at a farm-house to take my dinner. It so happened that my host was about to erect a new barn, and some twenty of his neighbors were assembled for the purpose of raising the framework to its proper position.

An abundance of whiskey had already been imbibed by a few of this rustic company, and among these was one individual who had recently been grossly cheated in purchasing a horse from a Tennessee horse-dealer. He had given a mule and twenty dollars for the stranger’s gelding, and, though the animal was quite respectable in appearance, it had turned out to be old, unsound, and almost without a redeeming quality. The individual in question was noted for making a fool of himself when intoxicated, and on this occasion he was determined to prove true to himself.

At this time his horse speculation seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind, and in his vehement remarks he took particular pains to curse the entire State of Tennessee, including President Polk. The poor man finally became so completely excited that he swore he would whip the first man he met on the road who happened to be from Tennessee; and so the matter rested.

In about thirty minutes thereafter, as fortune would have it, a man made his appearance on the road, apparently from the West; and in jeering their noisy companion, the farmers remarked that “now he would have a chance to revenge himself.” The excitement of the horse-bitten speculator was consequently greatly increased, and when the stranger reached the hilltop he was accosted as follows:

“May I ask you, sir, if you come from Tennessee?”

“I do. What will you have?” replied the stranger.

The Carolinian then related his trading story, which he concluded by carefully reiterating the determination he had made. The stranger laughed at the idea, and was about to resume his journey, when the reins of his horse were seized, and he found that it was indeed necessary for him to fight his way out of the queer scrape.

All remonstrance on his part was in vain; but at the very moment the fight was to commence, another horseman rode up, who was also interrogated as to his native State. His presence had a tendency to suspend hostilities; but when it was ascertained that he was only a Kentuckian, the Carolinian insisted upon going on with his business. The feelings of the Kentuckian were now enlisted, and he declared his intention of regulating the fight; whereupon he made a large ring, and taking out of his pocket a couple of pistols, he told the combatants “to go ahead,” and at the same time warned the bystanders that he would shoot the first man that interfered. The conclusion of the whole matter was, that the intoxicated man received a cruel thrashing for his ridiculous conduct, and the two gentlemen from the West quietly resumed their several journeys.

On my way to this place, I stopped for a few hours at Deaver’s Sulphur Springs, which are about four miles from the French Broad river, on the road to Clarksville, Georgia. This is one of the most popular watering-places in the South, not only on account of the medicinal qualities of the water, but on account of the surrounding scenery, which is remarkably interesting, and also for the additional reason that the style in which people are entertained is well worthy of even such places as Saratoga.

The several buildings connected with the establishment usually accommodate about two hundred families during the summer months, and they are chiefly from the cities of Charleston and Savannah. The people of Eastern North Carolina do not seem to know that they have such a delightful retreat within their borders which, to a man of genuine taste, is as far ahead of Saratoga as a mountain stream is ahead of a canal.

With regard to Ashville, I can only say that it is a very busy and pleasant village, filled with intelligent and hospitable inhabitants, and is the centre of a mountain land, where Nature has been extremely liberal and tasteful in piling up her mighty bulwarks for the admiration of man. Indeed, from the summit of a hill immediately in the vicinity of the village, I had a southwestern view which struck me as eminently superb. It was near the sunset hour, and the sky was flooded with a golden glow, which gave a living beauty to at least a hundred mountain peaks, from the centre of which loomed high towards the zenith Mount Pisgah and the Cold Mountain, richly clothed in purple, which are from twenty to thirty miles distant, and not far from six thousand feet in height.

The middle distance, though in reality composed of wood-crowned hills, presented the appearance of a level plain or valley, where columns of blue smoke were gracefully floating into the upper air, and whence came the occasional tinkle of a bell, as the cattle wended their way homeward, after roaming among the unfenced hills. Directly at my feet lay the little town of Ashville, like an oddly-shaped figure on a green carpet; and over the whole scene dwelt a spirit of repose, which seemed to quiet even the common throbbings of the heart.

My first expedition on arriving here was to a gorge in the Blue Ridge called the Hickory Nut Gap. How it came by that name I cannot imagine, since the forests in this particular region, so far as I could ascertain, are almost entirely destitute of the hickory tree. It is true that for a distance of four miles the gorge is watered by a brook called after the hickory nut, but I take it that this name is a borrowed one.

The entire length of the gap is about nine miles, and the last five miles are watered by the Rocky Broad River. The upper part of this stream runs between the Blue Ridge proper and a spur of the Blue Ridge, and at the point where it forces a channel through the spur its bed is exceedingly rocky, and on either hand, until it reaches the middle country of the State, it is protected by a series of mountain bluffs. That portion of the gorge which might be called the gateway is at the eastern extremity. From any point of view this particular spot is remarkably imposing, the gap being not more than half a mile wide, though appearing to narrow down to a few hundred yards.

The highest bluff is on the south side, and, though rising to the height of full twenty-five hundred feet, it is nearly perpendicular, and midway up its front stands an isolated rock, looming against the sky, which is of a circular form, and resembles the principal turret of a stupendous castle. The entire mountain is composed of granite, and a large proportion of the bluff in question positively hangs over the abyss beneath, and is as smooth as it could possibly be made by the rains of uncounted centuries. Over one portion of this superb cliff, falling far down into some undiscovered and apparently unattainable pool, is a stream of water, which seems to be the offspring of the clouds; and in a neighboring brook near the base of this precipice are three shooting waterfalls, at the foot of which, formed out of the solid stone, are three holes, which are about ten feet in diameter and measure from forty to fifty feet in depth. But, leaving these remarkable features entirely out of the question, the mountain scenery in this vicinity is as beautiful and fantastic as any I have yet witnessed among the Alleghanies.

At a farm-house near the gap, where I spent a night, I had the pleasure of meeting an English gentleman and tourist, and he informed me that, though he had crossed the Alps in a number of places, yet he had never seen any mountain scenery which he thought as beautiful as that of the Hickory Nut Gap. My best view of the gorge was from the eastward, and just as the sun, with a magnificent retinue of clouds, was sinking directly in the hollow of the hills, and as I gazed upon the prospect, it seemed to me, as was in reality the case, that I stood at the very threshold of an almost boundless wilderness of mountains….

[ Note: An earlier story regarding Hickory Nut Gorge included a continuation of this report from Lanman: https://heartofthecowees.blogspot.com/2024/03/little-people-guarded-hickory-nut-gorge.html ]

'Little People' Guarded Hickory Nut Gorge

 [Here's one of the stories I wrote for Smoky Mountain Living.  The article appeared in the April 2018 edition of the magazine.]

Hickory Nut Gap was one of the few passes to the east for the Cherokee, a gateway they believed was guarded by magical little people.

Geology and hydrology go a long way toward explaining the rugged landscape of the Hickory Nut Gorge, southeast of Asheville. But science can only go so far toward helping us understand the mystique of that area.

When the writer and artist Charles Lanman traveled the Southern Appalachians in 1848, he spent time among the Cherokee.  From them, he learned how the ancients brought back tobacco through the Hickory Nut Gorge. Said Lanman, “I heard it from the lips of a chief who glories in the two names of All Bones and Flying Squirrel, and occupied no less than two hours in telling the story.”

Long, long ago, a wandering stranger from the east introduced tobacco to the Cherokee. They grew quite fond of smoking the sacred herb from their large stone pipes. When the supply dwindled, they were anxious to obtain more tobacco. This herb of the distant past was not the common tobacco of commerce in later times, Nicotiana tabacum, but a wild form, Nicotiana rustica. The Cherokee used the plant for many ritual and medicinal purposes, as a sacred incense, as a guarantee of any solemn oath, and as a means of seeking omens or driving away witches and evil spirits.

Traveling from the mountains to the flatlands where tobacco grew in abundance was no easy task. Hickory Nut Gap was one of the few passes to the east, gateway to the most direct route for finding the plant.

Unfortunately, the gap and the gorge were constantly guarded by a multitude of Little People and other spirit beings. Whatever Chief Flying Squirrel might have said about the Little People, Lanman omitted from his retelling. Ethnographer James Mooney, in the course of his work among the Cherokee decades later, collected many accounts of the Little People. These creatures, known as Yunwi Tsunsdi in the Cherokee language, lived in rock caves on the sides of mountains. Small of stature, they barely reached up to a man’s knee, they were well-proportioned and they had hair so long it almost touched the ground. With a strong affection for music, they spent half their time drumming and dancing.

Ordinarily, they were helpful and generous, and had been known to lead lost children back to their parents. But the Little People did not like to be disturbed at home and would cast spells over strangers who discovered their habitations. The hapless intruders, bewitched and bewildered, were doomed to wander about in a daze forever after.

Hickory Nut Gorge was one of the places the Little People considered their own, and they wielded many magical powers to expel trespassers. For the Cherokee, a journey through the gorge was essential for bringing back the tobacco they craved. The wise men of the nation held council to discuss the challenge, knowing that extreme peril faced anyone bringing even a knapsack full of tobacco through the gorge.

One young man, determined to prove himself, stepped forward to volunteer for the mission. Full of confidence, the young warrior departed, never to return.

With their stores of tobacco almost exhausted, the elders reconvened. This time a clever magician rose to offer his services, promising that he would find a way to bring back the tobacco and satisfy the demand for the weed.

The magician turned himself into a mole, a ploy which almost succeeded, until the guardian spirits detected his tunneling and chased him back home without any spoil.

Changing form again, the magician turned himself into a hummingbird, threading his way through the gorge. As a mere hummingbird, though, he could only carry a tiny amount of treasure.

His friends back home were at the point of death for want of tobacco. The magician filled a pipe with the small portion he had smuggled through, he blew the smoke into their nostrils, and they were all revived and happy.

The magician was quite certain he could do better. He vowed to avenge the loss of the young warrior and to gain sole possession of the tobacco growing beyond the gorge. This time he turned himself into a whirlwind. Spinning violently through Hickory Nut Gorge, the whirlwind stripped the trees and shrubs from the mountainsides, scattered huge boulders up and down the rivers and streams, and exposed the rock cliffs still visible from Hickory Nut Gap to Chimney Rock and Lake Lure.

The storm was so intense that all the Little People fled. Free from the interference of the spirit guards, the magician searched and searched until he found the bones of the young warrior in the river bed and brought him back to life. The two of them returned home to the mountains heavily laden with tobacco. Ever since that time, tobacco has been plentiful throughout the land of the Cherokee, and Hickory Nut Gorge has never been the same.

[Addendum – Immediately after re-posting this article, I came across additional information which warrants mention.]

The observation of “little people’ was not unique to the Cherokee, but was spoken of by native people and European settlers in many parts of North America.  To cite one example, the Crow Indians spoke of little people in Montana’s Pryor Mountains.  These were fierce beings who guarded the mountain passes and had a strong craving for tobacco. 

While in South Dakota in August of 1804, the Lewis and Clark expeditioners were cautioned to avoid the little people who inhabited that area.  William Clark wrote:  

In my absence the Boat Passed a Small river Called by the Indians White Stone River [Vermillion River].  This river is about 30 yards wide and runs thro: a Plain & Prarie in its whole Course    In a northerley direction from the mouth of this Creek in an imence Plain a high Hill is Situated, and appears of a Conic form and by the different nations of Indians in this quarter is Suppose to be the residence of Deavels.    

That they are in human form with remarkable large heads and about 18 Inches high, that they are Very watchfull, and are arm'd with Sharp arrows with which they Can Kill at a great distance; they are Said to Kill all persons who are So hardy as to attempt to approach the hill; they State that tradition informs them that many Indians have Suffered by those little people and among others three Mahar men fell a Sacrefise to their murceyless fury not many years Since—    So much do the Maha, Souis, Ottoes and other neighbouring nations believe this fable that no Consideration is Suffecient to induce them to approach the hill.

A paper on the folklore of Canada’s Metis people  includes this note:

Albert Lightning says: “I have heard stories and read about the May-may-quay-so-wuk, known to the Cree as little people who live far under the ground, among rocky places, and under the water in marshy areas… Some say it was the task of the little people to record history and that their writings can be seen on rocks in the wilderness, yet no one can read them anymore.” In Diane Meili, Those Who Know: Profiles of Alberta’s Native Elders. Edmonton: NeWest Press, 1991: 80-81

Stories from Sand Town

 [In a couple of weeks the NC Trail of Tears Association will hold a ceremony to dedicate an historic Cherokee village site known as Sand Town. Click here for details via the Cherokee One Feather.  The upcoming event brought to mind some notes from September 11, 2017.]

One of my favorite cemeteries is behind a little church, off the beaten path, in the Cartoogechaye section of Macon County, NC. The church itself has an interesting history, and if not for the unforgettable Rufus Morgan, the chapel would have been long gone. Who knows what that might have meant for the cemetery. Stories of Rufus Morgan must wait another day, though.

One monument in the cemetery is the most memorable of all, marking the graves of Chief Chuttasotee (also known as Jim Peckerwood) and his wife, Cunstagih.

I’d known just a little about Chuttasotee and the Sandtown Cherokees for years, but learned a lot more with the discovery of an article that appeared in The Franklin Press in 1934. I’ll post the newspaper article, written by Margaret Siler, in its entirety, after a couple of shorter stories regarding the village and its people.

But there's a story inside a story here, and it gets buried in the details.  So, I need to invert the usual way to tell the tale.  As will be expanded upon later, Sand Town was a small Cherokee settlement in the Catoogechaye section of Macon Co., NC,  during the decades after the Removal.  And we have some vivid accounts of the individuals who lived there, and particularly the settlement's headman and his wife, whose lives are commemorated in the cemetery.

The story inside the story is how the marker got there.

Chuttasotee and Cunstagih died in August of 1879.  Neighbors came from all around attend their church funerals.  Among the many mourners were four little girls who lived near Sand Town.  

Jump forward 53 years, and those same four, grown up and then some, vowed to raise a suitable memorial to the couple that they knew and loved.  In her 1934 newspaper article, Margaret R. Siler explained that the monument replaced some old makeshift markers:

...[from] the marble top of a dresser broken in two and placed at the heads of the graves of the faithful couple in the shadow of their loved mountains. But today a nobler monument rises above the graves of the last chief of the Sandtown Indians and his wife. There were four little girls at the funerals of these devoted old lovers who are living today. Now they are Mrs. Maggie Gillespie Slagle, Mrs. Laura Siler Slagle, Mrs. Maggie Stalcup Cunningham and Mrs. Andy Setser.

In 1932 this group of ladies...revived interest in the love story of Chah-chah and Cun-stay-gee and started a movement for the erection of a permanent marker above their graves. On July 30, 1932, a beautiful monument, hewn from the strong, gray-blue granite of Macon county, was unveiled with appropriate exercises.

And that's how the monument got there!

Lanman Meets Hog-Bite

Charles Lanman met many a hermit on his travels through America in the 19th century. When Lanman visited Macon County in May 1848, he crossed paths with a Sandtown Cherokee named Hog-Bite:

The most interesting character whom I have seen about Franklin is an old Cherokee Indian, His name is Sa-taw-ha, or Hog-Bite, and he is upwards of one hundred years of age. He lives in a small log hut among the mountains, the door of which is so very low that you have to crawl into it upon your hands and knees.

At the time the greater part of his nation were removed to the Far West, the "officers of justice" called to obtain his company. He saw them as they approached, and, taking his loaded rifle in hand, he warned them not to attempt to lay their hands upon him, for he would certainly kill them. He was found to be so resolute and so very old, that it was finally concluded by those in power that the old man should be left alone.

He lives the life of a hermit, and is chiefly supported by the charity of one or two Indian neighbors, though it is said he even now occasionally manages to kill a deer or turkey. His history is entirely unknown, and he says he can remember the time when the Cherokee nation lived upon the shores of a great ocean (the Atlantic) and the color of a white man's face was unknown.

Sandtown Protest

Twenty years after Charles Lanman's encounter with Hog-Bite, James Peckerwood earned a place in the history books that warrants mention. In July 1868 a treaty was ratified between the United States and the Cherokees residing west of the Mississippi River. The Congressional Record for January 1869 includes a “Memorial of Headmen and People of the North Carolina or Eastern Cherokees” protesting against the ratification of that treaty.

Essentially, those Eastern Cherokees objected to the treaty because they would not receive any payments from the government as had the members of the Cherokee Nation (Oklahoma). The signers of that petition were from various communities in Western North Carolina.

While many of them were from “Qualla,” others (like Jim Peckerwood) were from Sand Town. Others communities where small remnants of Cherokees remained in the late 1860s, were identified as Buffalo Town, Hewassee Town, Cheoah Town and Hangdog Town:

JOHN WAYNENA, chief, Buffalo Town

LONG BEAR, Sand Town

ALLEN BUTTER, Sand Town.

TRAMPER, Buffalo Town.

WM. MCLEMORE, Hewassee Town.

JOHN AXE, Hangdog Town.

SOWANOOKAH, Buffalo Town.

JAMES BLYTHE, Buffalo Town.

SKEEGEE, Bufi'alo Town.

JOHN ELIJAH, Qulla Town.

WILLSON AXE, Sand Town.

MINK, Buffalo Town.

KURSKEELESKEE, Qulla Town.

TAHQUAHTEEHEE, of Uheou Town.

LITTLE JOHN, Qulla Town.

ISAAC DAVIS Qulla Town.

JACKSON BLYTHE, Qulla Town.

BEN NEWTOWEE, Qulla Town.

JAMES PECKERWOOD, Sand Town.

OO-SOWEH, Qulla Town.

JOHNSON KATEGUH, Sand Town.

Margaret Siler Recounts Life in Sandtown


CHEROKEE LORE, by Margaret R. Siler, Article III, THE INDIAN LOVE CALL, Franklin Press, March 1, 1934

BETWEEN Muskrat Gap and-the Winding Stair nestles a small valley, protected on the East, North and West by sheltering mountains, and open only to the warm winds from the South. Rushing down from the mountain to the North, Muskrat brook curves around one side of the valley.

On the other side ripple the. clear waters of Cartoogechaye creek. Situated in this ideal spot was a Cherokee settlement, the last in Macon county, known to the white people as Sandtown, because, it is thought, the clay soil in that vicinity contained a portion of sand. This sheltered little valley must have been the home of old Chief Santeetla, whose threats failed to deter those young bloods, Siler and Britton, from settling on the banks of Cartoogechaye creek a few miles East.

The brave pioneer, Jacob Siler, remained to make fast friendship with the Cherokee tribes that peopled the region. Returning later to his home near what is now Asheville, he persuaded his brothers, William, Jesse and John, to come over the mountains with him and settle in this virgin country lavishly endowed by nature with beauty, food and noble trees from which to build homes.

The brothers erected dwellings within a mile or so of each other, William Siler choosing for his site a sheltered nook near the point where Wayah creek joins Cartoogechaye creek. For many, years he was the closest white neighbor of the Sandtown Indians It was here that Albert Siler, my father-in-law, grew up.

The first conversation I had with Albert Siler about his old neighbors made me realize how deeply he was attached to them. He said they were like trustful children and were always loyal to their friends.

The Cherokees, "Father" Siler told me, were easily moved, although they did not always show it. He related how as a young man he would visit Sandtown on Sunday afternoons and read lhe Bible to the Indians. Frequently, he said, when he raised his eyes he saw that the faces of his listeners were streaming with tears, although some of them could not understand a word he was reading to them.

Especially was this true in the cabin of Jim and Sallee Peckerwood, as they were known to their white friends. Their Cherokee names were Cha-cha Chuta-sotee and Cun-stay-gee Chuta-sottee. When the federal government rounded up the Cherokee and was marching them to the far West the Indians were beset with a scourge in Tennessee.

One night Cha-cha and Cun-stay-gee and some of the other Sandtown Indians escaped and fled back to their old homes. From time to time they were joined by others of their tribe, ragged, hungry and footsore after their escape from the caravan being prodded Westward across the Mississippi. William Siler was so moved by the plight of his old neighbors that he deeded back to them some of the land which they had been forced to leave under heart-breaking circumstances, that they might continue to live in the mountains they loved so well. The Indians were deeply grateful.

Chief Chuta-sottee loved William Siler with the devotion of an ardent Indian nature. When the latter died the bereaved Cherokee was his self-appointed chief mourner, following directly behind the hack which carried the body from the home on Cartoogechaye to the cemetery in Franklin. This was; a journey of eight miles and Chuta-sottee plodded through the mud, step by step, with his head solemnly bowed.

I was surprised when "Father" Siler told me there were class distinctions among the Indians. He said Cha-cha Chuta-sottee was an aristocrat and his wife, Sallee, or Cun-stay-gee, was a plebeian. Despite this difference in rank, however, they were a devoted couple. Sallee had strength for the long, weary trek back from Tennessee. Perhaps the hardships of that fearful journey helped to knit their hearts together more strongly. Who knows?

We can but conjecture concerning the courtship of the brave young couple, but their beautiful life was a thing of positive knowledge to many. After the dignified and courageous young Chuta-sottee led his straggling band back home they made him their chief. But although they were now living on their own land, deeded to them by William Siler, the threat of ejectment was not yet over.

In 1843 Major James Robinson (father of the James Robinson who became Lieutenant Governor of North Carolina) was appointed by the authorities in Washington to persuade the Cherokees still remaining East of the Mississippi to join their fellow-tribesmen in the West. On the day appointed Chief Chuta-sottee gathered his band together.

They listened respectfully while Major Robinson painted in glowing colors a picture of the Happy Hunting Grounds to which he wanted to take them. He made a forceful argument for emigration of the Cherokees; but when he had finished speaking Chief Chuta-sottee rose with the dignity of a king and, lifting his right hand majestically, replied with simple but convincing solemnity: "In sight of that mountain I have lived. In sight, of it I expect to die. My talk is ended."

Major Robinson knew well enough that the old Cherokee chief’s decision was absolutely final. No one ever again suggested that this loyal Cherokee leave his native home. His wish was granted that he might die in sight of the sloping, almost level-topped mountain between Muskrat Gap and the Winding Stair. His door, facing the West, caught the last rays of the golden sun as it slipped behind the mountain.

Here he lived his remaining days. “Father” Siler visited Chuta-sottee often during his last sickness and one day after reading him the Bible, the old chief said gently as he watched the last rays of the August sun light his doorway: "Al'ert, Jim going soon. Bury Jim like white man." Mr. Siler at once promised to bury him in the Siler family cemetery in the yard of little St. John's Episcopal chapel; at the foot of the same mountain where the chief lived.

The late Rev. J. A. Deal, who lived in Franklin forty-odd years, was the rector of St. John's and often made pastoral visits to Jim and Sallee Peckerwood. Jim told Mr. Deal of the request he had made of "Al'ert" Siler and Mr. Deal assured him the service would be all he could desire. A few days after this "Father" Siler again called on Jim, late one, afternoon.

As the sun sank behind the mountain the old chief, who was about 80 and who had witnessed so many heart-rending changes wrought by the white man in his paradise, said in a quiet voice: "That the last time Jim see the sun set over his mountain, Al'ert."

Early next morning one of Jim Peckerwood's sons, named Will Siler after my father-in-law's father, came and called "Al'ert" from his bed. Jim Peckerwood had died in the night (about 4 a.m. August 15, 1879.) He was buried the next morning in the little church yard of St. John's chapel with all the care and reverence that could be given the best citizen in the community, for Jim Peckerwood was held in high esteem by both white people and Cherokees for miles around. The little church yard was filled with his friends of both colors.

"Father" Siler said Jim and Sallee had lived together for more than 50 years and he felt so sorry for the Indian woman in her bereavement that he visited her late in the afternoon after the funeral. She was seated in the doorway, her head resting against the side and her face turned to the west. Her sad eyes, "Father" Siler said, seemed to pierce the setting sun and see beyond. He sat down beside her and said all the comforting things he could think of, but she only looked into the sun, seeming not to hear him.

Finally, she came out of her reverie and said gently: "Jim calling Sallee, Al'ert. Sallee go to Jim before another sun set." Very early the next morning Will Siler Peckerwood went to Albert Siler and told him, "Sallee gone to Jim." So, two days after Jim was laid away the same friends laid Sallee beside him and she, too, was buried with the Christian ritual of the white man.

“Father" Siler's daughter, Nettie, had the marble top of a dresser broken in two and placed at the heads of the graves of the faithful couple in the shadow of their loved mountains. But today a nobler monument rises above the graves of the last chief of the Sandtown Indians and his wife. There were four little girls at the funerals of these devoted old lovers who are living today. Now they are Mrs. Maggie Gillespie Slagle, Mrs. Laura Siler Slagle, Mrs. Maggie Stalcup Cunningham and Mrs. Andy Setser.

In 1932 this group of ladies, with the aid of The Franklin Press and Highlands Maconian, revived interest in the love story of Chah-chah and Cun-stay-gee and started a movement for the erection of a permanent marker above their graves. On July 30, 1932, a beautiful monument, hewn from the strong, gray-blue granite of Macon county, was unveiled with appropriate exercises.

Among those taking part in the exercises was Chief Bly from the Cherokee reservation in Swain county. After he had heard other speakers tell of Chief Chuta-sottee, he remarked with typical Indian brevity: "They say all good Indians are dead. This must have been a good Indian.”