“PEG LEG, THE MINER.”

They marked the changing moons until a Score had glided by and yet had seen no Other human face save one—and he, an Honest miner whom they found in sorry Plight, with broken limb, where he had fallen From an overhanging ledge. They succored Him until, returned to strength, he rose with One limb twisted hopelessly. They made—as Best they could—a wooden substitute, and Strap’d with buckskin bandage, he soon learned to Use it cleverly. Jokingly, he called Himself “Peg-leg, the miner.” He told them Of a mine that out upon the desert He had found, where three large buttes stood side by Side. Cedric gave him burros from his herd, And packs, and sent him on his way. He came Again with well-filled sacks of pellets round As shot and black as ebony, which proved To be pure gold. He left it there, and leaving, Nevermore returned. Miners to this day In vain have sought that “Peg-leg Mine,” and those Three buttes; and some have left their bones to bleach Upon the desert sand. The miner told Them of a nearer passage, a hidden Trail, that led downward to the valley. They Going, tarried there and Cedric sent the Indians to the mission for supplies. Once a cougar sprang across their path with Blazing eyes and crouching for a spring; when Cedric sent a bullet thro’ its brain; and From its den he took a pair of baby Mountain lions, made orphans by the shot. Zola, pitying, took them home and one, Surviving, grew to monstrous size, became Obedient to her command, and like A faithful watch dog, followed her. She Called him Zimbo. Other pets she had—white Kids of silken fleece, birds and animals, But Zimbo was the monarch of them all. As the circling years went ’round and she could See beyond the golden morning of her Sunny life the ripening noonday coming On, she longed to see the world beyond her Mountain home; but named it not to Cedric. With her years she grew more fearless, wild and Venturesome. With Zimbo and her rifle, She scaled the dizzy heights of rock and crag Where condors built their nests, and knew the Devious windings of the wild doe’s trail, Thro’ manzanita groves and chaparral. In a seat of granite, nature fashioned, Like a throne, shaded by a giant oak Upon a summit looking oceanward, She would sit in dreamy mood and watch the Silvery line of surf that fringed the far-off Fading stretch of blue. Once she saw a sail Appear, then slowly vanish in the offing; And in the quiet of an early morn, She heard the low sweet chime of mission bells.