Myths and Legends of Our Own Land, vol 8 | Page 6

from a convenient nook, he watched
for the intruder. The tamaracks crooned in the wind, the Yuba mumbled
in the canon, the Sierras lay in a line of white against the stars. As he
crept along to a point of better vantage he came to a tree with
something tacked on it--something that shone in the dark like a match.
In its own light he read, "Notice! I, Thomas Bowers, claim this ground
for placer mining." Raising his hand to tear off the paper, he was
amazed to feel a thrill pass through it, and his arm fell palsied at his
side. But the notice was gone.
Now came the sound of water flowing, and, as he angrily caught his
gun and turned toward the sluice, the letters shone again in
phosphorescence on the tree. There was the sound of a pick in the
gravel now, and, crawling stealthily towards the sluice, he saw, at work
there, Tom Bowers--dead, lank, his head and face covered with white
hair, his eyes glowing from black sockets. Half unconsciously Jim
brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired. A yell followed the report,
then the dead man came running at him like the wind, with pick and
shovel in either hand.
Away went Brandon, and the spectre followed, up hill, in and out of
woods, over ditches, through scrub, on toward Pike City. The miners
were celebrating a new find with liberal potations and a dance in the
saloon when, high above the crash of boots, the shouted jokes, the
laughter, and the clink of glasses, came a sound of falling, a scream-
then silence. They hurried into the road. There lay Brandon's rifle, and
a pick and shovel with "T. B." cut in the handles. Jim returned no more,
and the sluice is running every night on Misery Hill.

THE QUEEN OF DEATH VALLEY
In the southern part of California, near the Arizona line, is the famous
Death Valley--a tract of arid, alkaline plain hemmed in by steep
mountains and lying below the level of the sea. For years it was
believed that no human being could cross that desert and live, for
horses sink to their knees in drifts of soda dust; there is no water,
though the traveller requires much drink; and the heat is terrific.
Animals that die in the neighborhood mummify, but do not decay, and
it is surmised that the remains of many a thoughtless or ignorant
prospector lie bleached in the plain. On the east side of Dead Mountain
are points of whitened rock that at a distance look like sheeted figures,
and these, the Indians say, are the ghosts of their brethren.
In the heart of this desert is said to be the ruin of a pueblo, or village,
though the shape and size of it suggest that it was made for a few
persons rather than for a tribe or family. Long ago, the tale runs, this
place of horrors was a fair and fertile kingdom, ruled by a beautiful but
capricious queen. She ordered her subjects to build her a mansion that
should surpass those of her neighbors, the Aztecs, and they worked for
years to make one worthy of her, dragging the stones and timbers for
miles. Fearing lest age, accident, or illness should forbid her to see the
ending of her dream, she ordered so many of her subjects to assist that
her tribe was reduced to practical slavery.
In her haste and heartlessness she commanded her own daughter to join
the bearers of burdens, and when the toilers flagged in step in the
noonday heat she strode among them and lashed their naked backs. As
royalty was sacred, they did not complain, but when she struck her
daughter the girl turned, threw down her load of stone, and solemnly
cursed her mother and her kingdom; then, overcome by heat and
weariness, she sank to the earth and died. Vain the regrets and
lamentations of the queen. The sun came out with blinding heat and
light, vegetation withered, animals disappeared, streams and wells
dried up, and at last the wretched woman gave up her life on a bed of
fever, with no hand to soothe her dying moments, for her people, too,
were dead. The palace, half-completed, stands in the midst of this
desolation, and sometimes it seems to lift into view of those at a
distance in the shifting mirage that plays along the horizon.

BRIDAL VEIL FALL
The vast ravine of Yo Semite (Grizzly Bear), formed by tearing apart
the solid Sierras, is graced by many water-falls raining down the
mile-high cliffs. The one called Bridal Veil has this tale attached to it.
Centuries ago, in the shelter of this valley, lived Tutokanula and his
tribe--a good hunter, he, a thoughtful