I had scarcely formed the thought when I heard once more the rumble, more distinct, nearer every instant. In spite of my eagerness to hear and see, I am confident that every hair of my head began to rise. Audibly sounder slept my doughty cousin.
Suddenly the rumble ceased, and a sharp gust of wind swept down from the mountain which lay at my right. I turned my face in that direction. The height was enveloped in a mist, and a light mist, hardly more than a haze, floated in the air around me. While I looked it began to assume form and color. It was a horrible dragon with outstretched claws and yawning mouth; no, a man-warrior with flecks of blood upon his shield. But even as I looked the awful presence took the dim outlines of a woman’s shape. I pinched myself. I was wide awake.
STRAWBERRY VALLEY CAMP
“My hammock swung under the centuried pines of Strawberry Valley.”
A moment more, and the figure stood out, distinct as the clear lines of the landscape—a woman having the dark copper skin and the gleaming eyes of the Indian race, but with the height and bearing of the stateliest Caucasian. Her long blanket of scarlet and white hung trailing from her shoulder. Scarlet cords were around her wrists and ankles. A glittering chain of shells and nuggets encircled her neck, and a single massive nugget shone in her long, black hair which was held in place by a scarlet band. She raised her arm in a gesture, perhaps of silence. The hand was large and perfect and the arm well moulded. She looked at me a moment and then spoke.
“I am the Tahquitch Maiden. My people have many legends regarding me, but no Red man has seen my form nor heard my voice since the day I disappeared from yonder valley. For many generations I have dwelt upon the peak named for the Evil Spirit, whom my Indian kin believe I serve. Often I have yearned to tell the story of my fate—a fate so strange that none have guessed aright its cause and meaning. Often I have left my rocky fortress to hover near to them who seemed of mind and spirit like my own. But I have sought their comradeship in vain. In a long round of years, once only am I seen or may I speak. Whenever, upon the anniversary of the last night of my stay among my people, another golden moon lights up these scenes of beauty, if any wander near these mountain heights, whose hearts believe in truth and fortitude and noble love; if, unsleeping, they have watched throughout the hours which mark the time when last I suffered among mortals—to them I may appear and tell in language of their own my story.
“This is the fateful night. For many scores of years no other has been like it; and no one lives whose heart has heard my story.”
The maiden paused, and turned her face toward the mists of Tahquitch Mountain. I held my breath in silence, but my gaze followed hers. The distant peaks remained wrapped in clouds, which seemed too dense for sun ever to lighten.
“Until they melt away,” she said, following my thought, “none call me to return.”
Then she began her story.