Twenty years ago one of the busiest and brightest mining camps in all Southern Oregon, was located on Williams creek, in Josephine county, twenty-six miles south-east of Jacksonville. Profitable mining is still carried on in Josephine, in fact the bounteous band of nature has sown the sparkling metal all over that rugged region; but the famous old camp on Williams creek has long since been deserted and the midnight howl of the coyote, as it is wafted down in weird reverberations from the crest of the bold mountain that overlooks the desolate site of the forsaken placers, is the long and lonesome requiem of dead hopes and faded dreams.

      The course of the creek through the narrow valley is now dotted with numerous ranchers, some of which are fairly prosperous, but the majority of the people are poor and still live in primitive backwoods style, fraught alike with tears for Niobe and laughter for the Momus.

      Here, still, the school is an intermittent luxury, and here the young circuit rider occasionally wanders, like unarmed Æneas, to bring the message of salvation and carry away the hearts of the buxom beauties of the mountain vale. Here, too, in some places, the pine-knot torch sheds its lurid, smoky glare of the evening meal, and here "Money Musk" and its ever memorable campers of the brave days of old, can make the rude floor of the log cabin heave and crackle with the vigorous tread of the young and joyous devotees of Terpsichore.

      It may be that the railroad has changed all this, but it is a true, though swift and hazy, picture of life in that beautiful and sequestered region as it was not a thousand years ago.

      In the autumn of 187—, at the kind invitation of a resident of this enchanted valley, the writer, one golden October morning, set out from Jacksonville, on horseback, to visit him. It was a strange but delightful ride. The smooth firm road wound in and out among the endless succession of hills with an indolent and graceful abandon that gave one a dreamy sense of lawless luxury.

      The sky was a glowing vault of sapphire, and the rich autumnal sun was dozing on the bronze domes of the oaks which everywhere covered the billowy heights, with only here and there a plumy pine lifting its green shaft into the clear sky, as if, thus arising in the majesty of its fadeless robes, it would call back the sorrowful procession of the passing year.

      Then there were few habitations along that pleasant, winding road. Save for the mournful, receding calls of the quails in the chapparal and the murmur of some hidden stream, not a sound disturbed the mystic stillness that brooded over that autumn scene. It was beauty veiled by a gentle shade of sadness — a smile softened by the mist of a rising tear. Everywhere were signs of despoiled placers in the stripped bedrock, neglected ditches and rotting "Toms" and "rockers." It was a beautiful but forsaken world. The great host that had toiled like Titans there had furled their tents and moved on to some further Ophir or Dorado.

      The great mountain peaks westward were plumed with sunset flames, and the purple shadows of early gloaming filled the deep valley, when at last, weary, hungry and haunted by gloomy fancies, I rode up to the gate of the strong rail fence that inclosed the somewhat pretentious log cabin of my friend. The door was open and the room within was all rose and gold with the cheery light of a royal, old-fashioned fire on the broad stone hearth, for you must remember this was in the heart of the mountains and there was already a crisp, tingling prophecy of winter in the atmosphere of the autumnal evenings.

      Recognizing the promise of rest and food in the hospitable glow of that mountain fireside, my horse lifted his head above the gate and trumpeted a joyous neigh that soon brought F—— to the point with a welcome so exuberant that it narrowly escaped the startling characteristics of an Apache wardance.

      The horse was cared for, and then I was ushered into his bachelor abode, for F—— was unmarried, and, save for the companionship of books and newspapers, a sedate cat and a grim, battle-worn bear dog, lived alone, though not infrequently invaded by parties of young ladies from "down the creek," who came to cheer what they considered his wifeless gloom. He cultivated just enough of his quarter section of land to his own needs and those of his pigs, poultry and stock, and for the rest kept himself within the pale of civilization by mining a little, school teaching a little and doing an occasional bit of literary work for the press.

      Having naturally an artistic turn of mind, and being himself something of a gourmet, F——, in his long years of lonely life and abundant leisure, had become a veritable chef of cuisine, and the bountiful and varied repast to which I sat that evening would have tickled the palate of a Lucullus, as he had the usual farm products to work with as a basis, and fish and game abundant in the woods and waters near at hand.

      After supper came the inevitable pipes and seats at the ruddy ingleside, an hour was whiled away in the cosy post-prandial chat to which a satisfied stomach, is always conducive.

      "By way, F——," I at length remarked, "I have been strangely interested as I rode along to-day by the old deserted mines, which are to be seen at intervals all the way from Jacksonville. To me there is something gloomily oppressive in the desolation of those rifled places."

      "You are right," he answered; "the same feeling haunts me, familiar as I am with such scenes. To us I presume these old pines are more impressive than the ruins of Karnak or Thebes, or any of the mighty cities of old would be."

      "Yes, indeed. We are nearer to them and understand them and drink deep of all their pathos."

      "The turn the conversation has taken," said F——, getting up and laying his pipe on the mantel, "suggests an idea. The moon is nearly at the full, and at this hour just in a position to flood the with her spiritual light. The ruins of the once noted mines of Williams creek are only a quarter of a mile away, and as Scott says,

He who would view fair Melrose aright Must visit her by the pale moonlight.

Get your overcoat, and we will go."

      The lingering fatigue of my long ride passed away in an instant, in the enthusiasm awakened by this unexpected proposition, and within a few minutes we were out in the open air. The queenly moon, riding calmly in the Zenith, among her the glorious retinue of stars, shed down upon the mountain scenery around us a light almost as pure and limpid as that of day.

      In half an hour, having paused occasionally to take note of some singularly entrancing view, we were at the ruins of Williamsburg. F—— led the way to a point where we could have a full view the place which had once been the ringing arena of one of this world's numberless fierce battles for gold.

      The site of the old camp, or town, was at the foot and partly up the side of a noble mountain, with Williams creek, calling aloud with a myriad mournful voices in the quiet of the night, hurrying by with its eternal messages to the sea.

      Many of the old cabins and shanties were still standing, though reeling with decay, notably the largest building of them all, which had been a saloon and dance hall, and where the wildest revelry, dashed sometimes by the crimson spray of murder — once had reigned. But doors and windows were gone, the roofs were falling in and through numberless apertures in these old and ruined tenements, which glared at us like skeletons with eyeless sockets, the sweet, calm, mournful rays of moonlight stole and wrought strange phantasies of sheeted, silent ghosts on grimy walls and floors.

      The moon is, after all, a greater limner than the sun. By the enchantment of her pale, soft, spiritualizing light we see the souls and shadowy robings of material things, and this great, rock-pillared world of ours ????roars away from its solid foundation and becomes a realm of fairies and of dreams. We sat perched on a mighty boulder where we could overlook the whole area that had been s i d.???? The whole side of the mountain had been torn and rent and mangled by the gold hunters. Along of every gorge and gully great pyramidal cairns bluish-white boulders, gleaming solemnly in the moonlight, told of the herculean labors of which men are capable when inspired by the accursed lust of wealth.

      For some time not a word was spoken, and we sat gazing before us in silent, sorrowful reverie. Finally F——, touching my arm and pointing up the side of the mountain, said:

      "Do you see those two stately pines, standing almost alone on the bench, up yonder?"

      "Yes, I see them."

      "You can see the ruins of an old cabin there, too, can you not?"

      "I can see the remains of what appears to have been a cabin."

      "Well, a sad and tragical story in woven in among the whirling shadows of those solitary pines, and I will endeavor to relate it just as I received it from some of the old miners who were cognizant of all the circumstances.

      "Let me see," he said musingly, "I cannot remember the exact date, but, at any rate, it was al the time when these mines were in the flood tide of prosperity that a man dropped in here from some unknown part of the outer world and began looking about, apparently for a mining location. In the course of a week or so he bought out the diggings owned by two Swedes on a little gulch over yonder.

      He told some one that his name was Grayson, John Grayson, but beyond that nothing could be learned of his history or antecedents. He was a strange, solitary, moody man, did not drink or mingle socially with his fellow miners and could not be drawn into the commonest of commonplace talk. He was of middle age and was a man of fine stature and physical development. His face was good had it not been marred by what appeared to be a mingling of the shadow of despair and the scowl of irrevocable hate on its otherwise manly features — the sinister effect of which was heightened by the cold, unsympathetic stare of his steel blue eyes and the matted mass of his iron gray hair.

      "He won't do, boys," said Bill Graham, one of a group of miners whom Grayson had just passed, one evening, in silence, the sullen look deepening on his half-averted face.

      "No," added another, "I would not crawl out of my blankets for the sake of meeting that fellow by moonlight alone."

      "There is danger in that black face and panther-like eye, or I'm no sinner," said light-hearted Harry James, as he glanced somewhat nervously over his shoulder at the retreating form of the stranger.

      "Ay, and bloody danger, too," growled big Tom Bates, as he blew a great cloud of smoke from his mouth, like smoke from a Delphic cave; "and mind you, boys, we shall hear from that ugly rooster before many moons have dropped into the sea behind the ramparts of old Gray Back yonder."

      "Darn my sister's black cat! if I don't think he's goin' to be pizener than mule meat to this camp," chimed in Jeff Reaves; "he's an out and out 'hoodoo' if there's any such varmints loose in this neck of the Oregon woods."

      Such was the general opinion, and it deepened from day to day as Grayson continued to hold himself aloof in his armor of reserve, and refused to be inveigled into any sort of friendly act or speech by those who toiled almost at his side in the affluent placers.

      He built himself a snug little cabin up there under those wailing pines, and the singular thing about that cabin was that not a ray of light could penetrate the interior save through the open door; there was not a single window in it, and his actions were utterly protected from outside surveillance.

      There he lived alone, with not even a dog or a cat to bear him company. When thoroughly domiciled he began to work his claim. The chilling atmosphere which enveloped his inscrutable personality seemed to contain some electric, repellant force, which held even the boldest at a distance. No one was reckless enough to visit him, either at his cabin or at his sluices in the gulch, and it was therefore not known how his purchase was paying. He seemed to have plenty of money, invariably exchanging minted gold and silver for what he bought, instead of the virgin metal. And so this grizzled mystery toiled sullenly on, and day by day became more the vague, indefinable terror of the camp. At evening, when the smoke of his solitary cabin fire was seen curling up among the plumes of those sentinel pines, like incense from the altar of some unholy incantation, the bronzed gold-diggers, gathered in groups below to wait for the uncanny signal, would wag their heads significantly and turn silently away. To those bold, frank, free-hearted men it was a fearful thing to be threatened and dominated by an unknown danger. Like mighty Ajax, raging on the dusky field of Troy, their prayer was for light:

"Give me but light to see my foeman's face."

      Some days, at considerable intervals, Grayson did not appear at his mine, and from the rude chimney of his cabin no blue column of smoke could be seen wreathing upward between the somber pines. "Old Grayson is holding another council with the devil," they would say, jocularly enough, but with something very much like the drip from an icicle careering down their vertebral columns, and so let the matter pass. One day, however, a startling thing occurred. At an unusual hour, with his four horses lashed into a furious gallop and all afoam, the driver of the stage from Williamsburg to Jacksonville dashed into camp and gasped out that he had been robbed, on the Applegate, the day before! The news spread like a flash, and soon all the miners, with the exception of John Grayson, were up from the gulches, and a storm of excitement raged. Many of the miners were in the habit of sending their gold to a banker at Jacksonville and having it cashed, as it is the passion of some men to have their wealth in the minted form, with the eagle of the great republic on its shining disks. Therefor, it so happened that a number of men had lost heavily by this robbery, the first that had ever occurred on the line.

      The young driver, Jack Hogan, who had been born and brought up in Josephine county, and was not for a moment suspected, then, ghastly pale and trembling like an aspen, told how a solitary highwayman, with a flour sack over his head and a double-barreled shotgun in his hand had stepped from behind a tree and demanded the strong box in which he always carried the money he was returning to the Williamsburg mines, and that he was simply forced to yield; that the robber then coolly unhitched the horses and started them back on a run towards Jacksonville.

      On further questioning Hogan could only say that the robber was a big, brawny man with a flour-sack mask, and that he spoke in a deep, gruff voice. When he ceased there was utter silence for awhile, and then some one, looking around over the crowd, asked:

      "Why is not that man, John Grayson, here?"

      The effect of the mention of that name was terrific.

      "Yes, by God!" yelled Tom Bates, "he's the man we want."

      Then with a pandemonium' of terrible oaths and maniacal yells for "Grayson! Grayson!" a rush was made for his gulch, and soon, pinioned by half a dozen stalwart men, bare-headed and bleeding from a cut on the forehead, he was brought up the hill and confronted by the stage driver. The driver looked the prisoner over carefully, but was compelled to confess that he could not identify him as the robber. There were wild cries of "Hang him!" "Hang him!" "Shoot him!" But the better reason of the majority prevailed, and was resolved to give him a trial.

      An impromptu court was immediately convened in Figg's saloon, with old Judge Raymond in the chair. The excitement was so wild that testimony was fearfully conflicting. Some men swore that they had seen Grayson working at his claim the day of the robbery, while others swore that he had not been at the claim that day at all. The fury of this mob court was becoming tempestuous when the prisoner begged permission to say a word, and it was granted.

      Slowly rising, for he had been badly bruised in the scuffle attending his capture, he said: "In one sense, judge, both these parties are right. I did work until 11 o'clock, and then feeling unwell, went to my cabin and rested the remainder of the day. That is all."

      This caused the fury of the miners to subside perceptibly. Some one proposed that the person of the prisoner and his cabin be searched. This was promptly and thoroughly done, but nothing was found to implicate him in the robbery.

      Then he was discharged and things went on as before in the camp, but there was a deep-seated prejudice against him that was destined to break out again in violent eruption. One sunny Sunday, morning the honest miners of Williamsburg were astonished to see a fair-haired little boy playing about Grayson's door. This was adding mystery to mystery. Where and how had he procured the child. No one could tell.

      This kindled the latent distrust of Grayson into volcanic action — it is so imperatively necessary in the constitution of society that a man should know all about his neighbors' business, even if he neglect his own. But the little waif had apparently come to stay. He went down to the mine with Grayson and played with the cones in the shadow of the pines until he fell asleep on Grayson's old coat, which was always spread beneath a tree for that purpose. At noon Grayson would take him in his arms and bear him gently to his cabin and lay him upon the bed to have his nap out. When he awoke they would have lunch together and then go back to the mine. It was thus, over and over, day by day. There was a wistful longing for companionship in the mild blue eyes of the golden-haired boy and unutterable pathos in his solitary play. Grayson saw it, and toiled like a demon.

      One morning the boy did not appear as usual at the cabin door, and Grayson did not go to work, though he was afterwards seen to pass in and out of the cabin on various errands. It was the same the next day, the next and the next. But the feeling against Grayson was so strong that no one went to inquire what the trouble was. At the week's end Grayson emerged from his cabin and took the trail that led down to his mine — alone.

      "He has doubtless taken the child back where he got it," some one suggested, and the busy days rolled on as before.

      About this time the stage from Jacksonville brought to Williamsburg a dashing, comparatively young woman, who, on alighting, fell into the arms of Ned Haverly, a young man of unsavory reputation, who was the confidential clerk of Mr. Jonathan Figg, of saloon and dance-hall fame, and gently murmuring "husband," seemed to faint away. She was soon restored, however, and soon became the chief attraction in the dance hall. That was all right in that distant age, for the morality of the Williamsburgers was then in a state of solution and not yet crystalized.

      One day shortly after her arrival the painted Jezebel met John Grayson at the door of the store, whither each had gone on business. There was a mutual recognition and sudden recoil. The haughty cyprian turned deadly pale, for all her rouge, and Grayson's face, which but a moment before had worn an expression of unutterable and hopeless sorrow, grow black as a thunder cloud and was terrible to behold. The woman tottered away almost paralyzed with fear, and Grayson after standing there for a moment to recover himself went into the store about his business.

      The woman soon found that Grayson had not a friend in camp, and for a hellish purpose of her own began to fan the slumbering enmity into flame, saying that he was a man of desperate character, whom she had known too well in the East, whence he was a fugitive from justice for murdering her own husband, a bloody deed which had driven her to a life of shame. She told them furthermore that Grayson was undoubtedly the man who had committed the stage robbery several months before, and that she had shadowed him to the spot where she was certain he had the money concealed.

      Miners as a rule, are tho most impulsive of men, and this narrative stirred the men of Williamsburg to instant action and soon a howling mob was climbing the mountain side to Grayson's cabin. He was seized and bound and a rope, placed round his neck, and he was then taken to the old oak out there, 100 yards to the right of the cabin, where she confidently declared that the money was buried. It was their intention to hang him to the tree beneath which his booty was buried.

      It was the full of tho moon and a light almost as brilliant that of day illumined the scene. The woman indicated the exact spot and the men began to dig. "My God! men, you know not what you do!" cried Grayson in a loud wailing voice and fell forward on his face insensible. The men kept digging — down, down, in the loosened earth until they came to a pine box something over three feet long and over a foot in width. They lifted it to the surface and carried it out into the moonlight. Then they lifted the lid, and there, kissed by the beautiful moonlight, were the pale, sweet features of the golden-haired boy who had played about the lonely cabin door. Those stern-faced men started back with pallid faces, utterly appalled, while the now wretched woman crept away like a wounded snake into the chapparal and was seen no more. Grayson was speedily revived and unbound. Then, in a voice broken with sobs, he told them that the woman who had brought them there had been his wife, and that the dead child was theirs. She had run away with his partner in business, and he had spent a fortune in pursuing them, in the hope of recovering the boy. He succeeded at last, and placing the boy with a rancher within easy reach of Williamsburg, came there to try and retrieve his fortunes. He could not do without the boy and had brought him to the cabin, where he at last sickened and died — with no hand to smooth his pillow but that of his heart-broken father, whom the miners had so strangely misunderstood. By some strange freak of chance the woman, now utterly abandoned, came to Williamsburg also. That is all. Grayson then toiled under those somber pines until he died, and was buried by the side of his child." It was late. The moon, trailing her shimmering bridal veil over land and sea, was moving majestically westward. A wakeful bird gave one long, low, mournful note, and was still. It was time to go.

SAM L. SIMPSON.