It was the most gracious year of our Lord l840 A D. when Papa and I left the tired depleted hills of North Carolina for the Western District of Tennessee. Ever since my sister Jenny and her family had moved to these Indian hunting lands between the Tennessee and Mississippi Rivers, Papa had dreamed of little else.

“Elizabeth MacDougal,” he announced on a cold January morning; “pack up your bags–we’re heading for the Promised Land!”

His pale blue eyes shone with excitement. His thin receding hair was white, his frail shoulders stooped, but his voice was firm and hearty–that of a young man filled with hope, vision, and ambition.

After Andrew Jackson had negotiated with the friendly Chickasaw Indians in the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek for the purchase of this new virgin territory, land hungry settlers had poured through the mountain gaps on primitive trails.

“Maybe I’ll find a husband in your promised land,” I said dreamily. “The pickings are mighty slim around here.”

Lord have mercy, what chance did I have, ugly, skinny, and redheaded as I might be? However, when beautiful Jenny, the belle of the ball in Winston-Salem, had made her surprising choice of a husband by marrying quiet, colorless Tom Collier, I had questioned whether beauty indeed was the answer to all problems.

In His Omnipotent Wisdom, surely somewhere in this expansive new world, God had created a husband–lover–just for me! A man who would cherish, respect, and protect me–a man whose contentment would rest with my magnanimous power as I filled his life with joy and pleasure.
Surely happiness was waiting to be plucked from the tree of life. I looked forward to new opportunities and new worlds with Papa in the Western District of Tennessee–with a life surrounded by hopes and dreams, sunshine and passionate love!

PROLOGUE

The idea erupted like an artesian well in the barren desert, so preposterous and unbelievable that she doubted the ability of her mind to even validate its existence. It suddenly occurred to her that all great ideas in the history of mankind–the inventions and discoveries, the literature, paintings, and music–had all originated from a single gleam in the darkness of someone’s soul.

Evolving through the centuries, pushing aside all other unknown thoughts, it emerged from the unexplored oceans of the subconscious into living, breathing, reality. Once an idea was born–there was no unbirthing it. As stunned as she was by its sudden appearance in her mind, she was equally amazed that it had not occurred to her sooner. She would murder her husband!

THE LEGEND OF BIG HATCHIE

In the swamp lands of Big Hatchie
In the state of Tennessee,
Natives roll their eyes in terror
When they tell this tale to me.

Indian warriors left this legend
Of a swamp that has no end;
Many paleface dare to enter–
But never come back out again.

Once there dwelled a happy people
In Big Hatchie’s Hunting Ground;
Living on fruits and berries,
And the wild life that abound.

Chief War Thunder had a daughter
Who was known both near and far;
Of the fair, she was the fairest
And they called her Falling Star.

Came a handsome blue-eyed hunter
Leaping across the river bend;
Stole the lonely heart within her,
And she named him Laughing Wind

Oh, their love was sweet and tender–
Greater love could not be known;
But War Thunder would not listen,
And he bid the hunter go.

*********

Should some night you watch the heavens
Just above the river bend,
Should you see a star that’s falling–
Listen close for Laughing Wind.

Where he goes, there yet she follows,
Gently watched by Hanging Moon,
While her father vainly seeks her
In that dismal dark lagoon.

Evil spirits guard Big Hatchie,
Casting fearful, frightful spells,
And no white man dares to enter
In that wild and tangled Hell.

Up and down that gloomy river,
Eighteen red eyes flash and burn;
Should you bravely wish to enter–
Fare thee well–you’ll not return!