CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Pork and Kegger pulled into the tiny information center for the Natchez tribe. They’d learned that the tribe had been absorbed by the Chickasaw and, for the most part, had moved into the Appalachians and Oklahoma. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Opening the door, there was one old man seated behind a desk, enjoying a late morning nap. He had a book on his chest, snoozing peacefully.

“Should we wake him?” whispered Kegger.

“He is awake,” said the man. “Come in. Electricity is expensive, and it’s hot outside.”

“Yes, sir,” smiled Pork. “Good morning. My name is Pork, and this is my friend, Kegger.”

“Pork? Kegger?” frowned the old man. “And they say we have silly names. I’m Charlie Yellowbird.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Charlie. I guess you don’t get many visitors here,” said Pork. The man shook his head.

“No. Our nation is very different now. In order to survive, we’ve had to combine with other nations throughout the country.”

“We knew that,” said Kegger. The old man raised his brow. “We have a very close friend who is Navajo and another that is Choctaw. In fact, we’re trying to help our Choctaw friend.”

“How is that?” asked Charlie.

“Well, sir, it’s going to sound strange, but the, uh, remains of a Native were found on our friend’s property. DNA evidence says the young male is Choctaw. He was shot in the back with an arrow sometime in the 16th or 17th century. Our friend believes that the young man was a chief’s son.”

“That’s a lot of information from a pile of bones,” said the old man, eyeing them suspiciously.

“I guess it is, sir,” chuckled Pork. “But I assure you, we only want to give this family some answers.”

“How much time do you have?” asked the old man.

“As much as you need, sir.” He nodded, standing to turn the sign to closed, and locked the door.

“Take a seat.”

Pork and Kegger took a seat across from the man on a weathered old leather sofa. He pulled his chair around to the front of the desk and leaned forward on his elbows.

“My people came much later than many nations to the Mississippi Valley. It was around the time of the 8th century. The French were responsible for killing off most of our people. If your friend’s ancestor lived in that time, my guess is that’s who he was trying to stop. We were a different people. Even our language was very different from other nations.

“The Natchez were farmers growing corn, beans, and squash. We also hunted and fished, but we were known for our farming ability. It was why other nations wanted to learn from us. The explorer De Soto was the first white man to greet our people and, because of him, spread diseases like smallpox, measles, and the plague.

“It wasn’t long, and the French and Spanish were using our people as slaves as much as they were the Africans.”

“I had no idea,” frowned Pork.

“Not many do, young man. They don’t care anymore. It made it necessary for us to band together with other nations. We became known not only for farming, but our people built many of the sacred mounds you see in the South. It was part of a tribal religion and served as sacred buildings for us. One more thing the white men didn’t understand.

“In 1682, Rene-Robert Cavelier began his expedition, and the resulting expulsion and murder of the Natchez people. I cannot imagine any of my ancestors helping such a man, but I doubt I will ever know for sure. When we lost the wars to the French, we were refugees and forced to join other tribes.”

“Which tribes, sir?” asked Kegger.

“The Chickasaw, Creeks, and Cherokees mostly. We left Louisiana, most of us, for the Appalachians and Oklahoma. The big historical sites and information centers can be found in Natchez, Mississippi.”

“You’ve been more than helpful, sir. Do you recall any stories of a chief’s son being killed or perhaps a Choctaw chief who left no son to take his place?” The old man pursed his lips, then shook his head.

“I don’t remember a story like that. I’m sorry.”

“We appreciate your time and the information. I enjoyed hearing about your people, but I’m sorry for the outcome,” said Pork.

“What is your real name?” asked the man. “I don’t believe your parents named you Pork and Kegger.”

“No, sir,” laughed Kegger. “They did not. My name is Ken Burke, and this is Forrest Milner.” Charlie stared at them, then chuckled, shaking his head.

“I think I like Pork and Kegger better.”

“Next is the Houma, right?” asked Pork. Kegger nodded, leaning against his fist as he drove. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I know. The story he told. Charlie. You and I have been involved in war since we were kids. Eighteen, nineteen years old. But never once did I believe a man, a nation would wipe out my people. That man’s entire ancestry is gone because of French and Spanish settlers. I can’t imagine that.”

“I know. It’s unfathomable for us. For them, it seems a common story. It looks like the Houma survived a little better,” said Kegger.

“Yeah, I was reading the information Code sent us. They’re mostly in six parishes now. Terrebonne, Lafourche, Jefferson, St. Mary, Plaquemines, and St. Bernard. They have a full tribal council and gather regularly.”

“Well, let’s see what they have to say.” The two men went into the much nicer facility than the last, hoping for better luck. Unfortunately, it was not to be so.

“You’re trying to solve a four-hundred-year-old murder?” frowned the woman.

“Yes, ma’am. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s important. To our friend,” said Pork. She nodded at him.

“Well, that would have been about the time that we had first contact with the French, like the other nations in this area. Eventually, we were forced out and moved to settle in Houma.”

“Did you ever hear a story about a chief’s son who was trying to gather the tribes against the French?” asked Kegger.

“I’m afraid not. You’re welcome to walk through our small museum, but it’s not much.”

“Thank you,” they said in unison.

They followed the hallway around the small building, staring at photos and antiquities. There was a timeline showing exactly what the woman had already told them. In the late 1600s, they had first contact with the French. For the next two hundred years, their relationship was combative, eventually forcing them to relocate to Houma and give up their lands.

“I guess we’re out of luck,” said Pork.

“Let’s hope the others have better luck.”