Introduction

Indian History of Shinbone Valley

This book consists of three parts: “Shinbone Valley,” Stricklands” and “Elders”.  It is not meant to be an official document of facts, perfect in detail as to history, geography, or its people, but is written as seen through the eyes of a child who spent the first ten years of her life in the magic of this valley with its tall trees, bubbling springs and crystal streams.

If inaccuracies are found in description of places, people or things, please be lenient, for I am writing it as I remember it.  Those things that happened before I could remember were told to me for the most part, by my father and mother.  If sometimes the words don’t come out right, I would like to think that is because I have worked more with numbers that with words.

I am writing it for my own pleasure – a story of my valley and my people which I loved dearly as a child with a love that has lingered on through the years.  However, if it should afford even a small amount of pleasure to someone else, I shall be glad.

How far Shinbone Valley extends to the south, to the north, or east, I do not know.  I know only that it lies in the foothills of the Appalachian range of Blue Ridge Mountains, in the evening shadow of Mt. Cheaha, which is in the northeastern part of Alabama.  It is the highest mountain in the state, with an elevation of 2,468 feet.  No other mountain in the state has an altitude of more than 1,600 feet.

There are two mountains on the west side of this valley: First, Horseblock Mountain, then Cheaha, standing majestically above it, joining it with a sort of pack-saddle.  Rain falling on the north end of the mountain flows north in Hilliby Creek, and that falling on the south end flows south in Horse Creek.

From that valley Mt. Cheaha appears to wear a veil of misty blue, and because of that was sometimes called the “Blue Mountain.”  From the top of Cheaha, on a clear day, one may see a seventy-five mile expanse of rugged mountainous grandeur and splendor.  This area was once Indian country.  History teaches that there were great migrations of various tribes of Indians to this section of the country in the years following the explorations by the Spaniards.  Although there are no Indian reservations in Alabama, the state was, at the time of the first white settlements, one of the most heavily populated Indian regions in the United States – Creek, Choctaw, Chickasaw, and Cherokee.  According to history, when the white man came there was an Indian Chief Chinabee on the west side of Cheaha.  What tribe I do not know, but he was called “The Peace Maker.”  ON the east side of the mountains was Chief Shinbone and his tribe of Creek Indians.  Chief Chinabee and Chief Shinbone were friends, and when the white man first came the Indians were friendly to them.

One of the first white settlers west of the mounts was a Mr. McEllery. It is said that whatever the Indians dreamed that someone gave them, they demanded that it be given them.  Chief Chinabee dreamed that Mr. McEllery gave him a certain something.  He went to the white man and demanded it.  The man gave it to him.  Mr. McEllery owned a spotted horse.  Chief Chinabee dreamed that he gave him the horse, so he demanded it.  Mr. McEllery gave him the horse.  Then Mr. McEllery had a dream that the Indians gave him a tract of land.  He went to Chief Chinabee and told him of his dream.  The Chief gave him the land, and it is probably the same location where McEllery’s Station is now located in Talladega County, where Chief Chinabee later lost his life in a riding accident.

Is was to this Indian country—the land of Chief Chinabee in the morning shadow of Mt. Cheaha—that my great grandfather, Ancel Butler Strickland, came when he immigrated to Alabama from Georgia.  After living here for a number of years, he moved to the east side of the mountains, the valley of Chief Shinbone and settled on Ketchamegherke Creek.  Ketchamegherke is an Indian name and was not pronounced by the inhabitants of the valley anything like it is spelled.  It was called “Kichemedogee”.  That is all I ever heard it called, and that is what I shall call it.  Other white settlers came, and in the 1830’s the white man, by various treaties, secured title to all the land.  A pact was made between Grandfather Ancel and Chief Shinbone, whereby the Chief, with his family, lived on Grandfather’s land as long as they lived.  For this privilege, the Chief gave Grandfather his peace pipe.  The pipe is now in the possession of my Uncle Northern Strickland’s family and is valued very highly.

The Indian War was fierce in this part of the country.  Talladega County was one of the bloodiest battlefields of the war, and Shinbone Valley was a part of Talladega County at that time.  David Crockett went to Talladega to fight the Indians, so history tells us.  The Indians were marched off in what is known as the “Trail of Tears” to a land of the white man’s choosing.  Many of them died along the trail.  How sad to think, driven from their beautiful homeland of mountains, tall trees and waterfalls, to an unknown land, never to be free again to roam at will. 

Chief Shinbone and family remained on the Kichemedogee, on Grandfather’s place, his glory, his chiefhood stripped from him—his tribe all gone.  They lived there until they died natural deaths, and are buried, I am told, on top of a little mountain overlooking the valley.  This valley which was named for Chief Shinbone in what is now known as “Shinbone Cemetery”, not far from the Cypress Springs, crystal clear springs bubbling up in a grove of beautiful trees with cypress knees bending all around—shall we say, “bending in prayer and mourning for the valley’s lost children, the Indians”.

When I was a child, there was still evidence of Indians having lived along the Kichemedogee.  One year my father cleared what was known as the “sandy bottoms”, where Chief Shinbone and his family had lived.  It was overgrown in yucca, “bear grass” we called it—the only yucca I ever saw in Alabama, except in Uncle Tol Strickland’s yard.  This “sandy bottoms” was an enchanting place, a never-never land, or a land of yesterday—a great expanse of sand, yucca and Indian relics, bordered on one side by the Kichemedogee Creek and surrounded on the other side by a deep forest.  Papa cut the yucca off and hauled it out into the woods by the wagon loads.  He plowed up the sandy land and farmed it.

We would go with him occasionally, just for the pleasure of it.  Mama would fish and we would play.  We gathered up the Indian pottery that lay scattered over the sand and played house.  There were plates, bowls and every kind of pottery, most of it broken, some only chipped.  They were not pretty, but looked like mud dishes with no ornamentation, so we never thought of taking any of them home.  We left them sitting on the tables of sand; hoping to go back and play with them again sometime.  Chester, my brother, gathered arrowhead and played with them, gave them away and traded with other boys.  Papa took a stone trough used by the Indians to beat their corn and used it for a chicken trough.

There were some Indian graves in the woods on a road that we sometimes traveled to and from school.  They were still mounded up to some extent and were decorated with beads and trinkets.  There were a number of Indian graves in the Union Cemetery.  I have often wondered about the young Indian braves and maids who once roamed these hills.  Many beautiful Indian legends center around this area.  The Indians, a proud, imaginative people whose culture was no less dramatic than our own.  A people so different, yet created by the same hands as we, and who, in their ancient way, communicated with their God.