CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Trak just knew he would find the answers he wanted. He felt certain of it. The Choctaw, Chitimacha, and Coushatta were some of the oldest nations in the area. He decided he would tackle the Choctaw last, hopefully gleaning information from the other two before he visited.

One of the things that intrigued him the most was that the Chitimacha Tribe was the only tribe in Louisiana still occupying a portion of their aboriginal homeland. Once occupying the entire Atchafalaya Basin, southward to the Gulf of Mexico and eastward to the New Orleans area, they now had a reservation near Charenton, Louisiana.

Like other tribes in the area, they survived on agriculture and wild game. Now, they were able to survive with the advent of casinos and tourism.

Trak pulled into the main office building for the casino property, hoping to find someone that would speak to him. Once inside, he found the person he needed.

“Why are you here again?” asked the man.

“It’s complicated,” said Trak. The man said nothing, waiting for him to continue. Trak remembered what Lauren had said. ‘Use your voice.’ So, he did.

“I’m here to help solve a four-hundred-year-old murder of a chief’s son.” The man stared at him, looking directly into his eyes as Trak stared back.

“Are you Chitimacha?”

“No. I’m Navajo. The man in question was Choctaw.”

“I see. And you know this how?”

“DNA.” The other man nodded, waving for him to take a seat.

“My name is Thomas Goodacre. I’m the human resources manager for the casino, but I’m also on the council for our tribe. I’m not sure I can help you.”

“I’m hoping someone will have a story, remember a story, from your ancestors of a time when a chief’s son was sent to try and stop the invasion of white men into Louisiana, Arkansas, Texas, and Mississippi.”

“There are stories, but no names are mentioned. Why is this man important?” he asked.

“They’re all important. We’re all important. He gave his life trying to negotiate with the other tribes, or so we believe,” said Trak quickly. “The arrow found in his back was from another tribe.”

“Do you have the arrow?” Trak stared at the man, shaking his head. “Arrows were specific to tribes. I don’t suppose the feathers would survive, but if it had carvings or paintings, that might tell us something.”

“No. No, unfortunately, we weren’t that lucky.”

“I do admire what you’re trying to do, but I just feel as though it’s pointless,” said the man. “He didn’t succeed in his mission and was probably killed by white men.”

“A white man probably wouldn’t have killed with a bow and arrow. They would have used a rifle or sword. And it wasn’t pointless to him or his family. Yes, they’re all long gone, but if I were to die or one of my sons, I would hope that someone would care enough to find out how I died and who killed me.”

“Good luck to you. You’re going to need it.”

Trak left the casino with a sadness weighing in his heart. He felt for this young man and wanted him to have peace, to know that he made a difference in someone’s life. He would want that for himself.

His next stop would be the Coushatta. Mostly living in the southwestern areas of Louisiana, they were often called the piney woods people of the state. After being displaced by the Spanish, many of the Coushatta people settled in Alabama. But eventually, they were pushed out of that state as well, and many returned to their homeland, hoping to fit in and find peace once again.

One of their major sources of revenue was in basket making, something still practiced to this day.

The welcome center was inviting, with beautiful paintings and photos of the Coushatta throughout history. Trak once again explained who he was and what he was looking for. The young girl at the desk actually laughed at him. When he didn’t share in the joke, she sobered, realizing he was serious.

“Let me get my mother,” she said, disappearing.

Trak turned in a circle, taking in the beautiful colors of the rugs, throws, baskets, and dresses. It was good to see that they were expressing their pride in their history and people. A few moments later, a woman stepped out from behind the counter with her hand extended.

“Hello. My name is Helena. My daughter said you’re trying to solve a hundreds-year-old murder?”

“Yes, ma’am. We believe he’s Choctaw, and from his dress, he was the son of a chief. I was hoping that someone might have stories that were passed down.”

“I don’t have a great story, but my grandfather used to talk about the year that all the nations sent their sons to meet with the French, Spanish, and English, trying to convince them to leave our lands.”

“When was that?” he asked. The woman shrugged, biting her lip.

“I’m honestly not sure. Maybe in the 1600s or early 1700s. It would have been long before New Orleans became a major city. Anyway, he said they all met, but some were reluctant to push back on the white men. They believed that they would make them more prosperous and, worse, leave our lands alone.”

“I see,” nodded Trak. “Was there any mention of specific tensions between tribes?”

“No. I’m sorry. My grandfather is long gone, and I wish every day that I’d paid more attention to his stories. If you believe he’s Choctaw, have you visited their center?”

“That’s where I’m headed next,” said Trak. “I do thank you for your time.”

“Who were your people?” she asked.

“Navajo.” She raised her brows in appreciation, nodding at him.

“I wish you success. It makes me feel good knowing that someone still cares about what happened to our young men. Thank you.”

Trak left feeling slightly better that the women knew the story, although had no details at all. Although the Choctaw were primarily in Texas, Mississippi, some in Oklahoma, they had a large presence at one time in Louisiana.

The Choctaw actually absorbed several smaller tribes due to population loss, disease, and, of course, war. Tensions were high within the Choctaw because different groups wanted to trade with different white men. Some wanted to trade with the French, while others wanted to trade with the English. Those who wanted nothing to do with either began moving into Louisiana.

The Choctaw Nation Cultural Center was by far the most impressive of them all. The beautiful, newly constructed building looked like a formal seat of government. In many ways, that’s exactly what it was.

Tired and frustrated at having found nothing, Trak was hopeful that someone would have a story of their missing son. Waiting for someone to assist him, he began strolling through the exhibits. A pride filled him. Although not from his tribe, they were still brothers. He realized that he was suddenly feeling what his grandfather would have felt.

Time marches on.

Approaching an exhibit of baskets and native articles, he casually looked up at a painting and froze. Stunned by the likeness, he stepped back, staring at the sign explaining the painting.

Chief Kills Many wishes his son, Eagle Feather, luck on his journey to meet with the traders and other tribes.

“May I help you?” asked a young man.

“This painting. Is it from a real story?” asked Trak.

“Very much so. Chief Kills Many sent his only son to meet with other chiefs and their sons. The sons were to meet with French, Spanish, and English leaders to discuss the encroachment on our lands.”

“What happened?” asked Trak. He realized he hadn’t introduced himself and shook his head, extending his hand. “My name is Joseph Redhawk. I am Navajo. I’m trying to find out who killed that young man.”

“I’m sorry. Did you say you’re trying to find out who killed him?”

“Yes.”

“It’s believed that he joined forces with the French, leaving his tribe,” said the man. Trak shook his head.

“I can assure you that he did no such thing. His body, his remains, were found on my friend’s land. There was an arrow in his back.”

“How would you know his name?” asked the man suspiciously.

“It’s. Complicated. More than complicated, but I’ll ask that you trust me in this. That young man did not leave his tribe. He was murdered, and I want to find the killer.”

“Well, it would settle something for us as well,” said the man. “His father died of a broken heart after his death.”

“Who would have wanted to kill him?” asked Trak. The man laughed.

“Everyone. The whites so that he wouldn’t rally the other tribes. He was in their favor and a wonderful speaker and storyteller. The other chief’s sons might have been jealous of his abilities. He spoke some English, French, Spanish, and several dialects of native language.”

“Are there no other stories about him?” asked Trak.

“I’m afraid not. Killing someone like him would have been a very big deal. Most men would have bragged about it. I have a book that might interest you. It’s about his father, but there are several references to him. Would you like it?”

“Very much,” said Trak.

Taking the book, he sat down in the small snack bar and ordered some fries and a soda. Immediately, he read through the small book, taking in everything he could about Tahlako’s father and of him.

As they’d suspected, he was a remarkable man. One who was missed by his people. Leaving the center, he called the others only to find out that no one had anything more than he did. It was a literal dead end.

“Don’t give up hope, Trak. We haven’t heard from Lauren, Marie, Ella, and Rose yet. They got to the center for the Atakapa about fifteen minutes ago. Come on back, and we’ll wait to hear from them.”