Jan. 24, 1914. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
11S 
A Legend of the Olympics 
A Real Fiction Story of a Miner and a Ghost 
T HERE is no mountain range without its 
legends—its Rip Van Winkle; its Demon’s 
Dell; its Devil’s Slide or its Lover’s Leap. 
In the Olympics, the specter of Hurricane 
Hills—according to prospectors, guides and hunt¬ 
ers—is the wandering spirit of Old Moriarity the 
murdered miner of Long Creek. 
For many years, the story goes, every month 
at midnight time when a full moon was bathing 
the mountains in its silver light and slanting its 
rays through the thick green firs in the 'doorway 
of a ruined cabin could be seen the grizzled shade 
of its former owner, gazing sadly at the hills 
beckoning any chance wanderer of the woods to 
come near, and when, as always happened, the 
passerby took to his heels with frequent fright¬ 
ened glances back, the grey old shadow of the 
past would sadly shake his head, go inside and be 
seen no more until the next full moon. Or at 
least such is what Old Joe the guide told two 
younger members of a party he was piloting 
through the mountains adding in conclusion; 
“And if you don’t believe it, to-morrow night is 
the night and we’ll go and if Old Sport beckons, 
follow and see what he wants.” 
“Excuse me,” answered Fred, a youth of 
twenty. “To-morrow night is my night in. I don’t 
even have to go to the river after water.” 
“Here too,” agreed Jack his friend. “No 
shadowy form for me.” 
“Oh well,” the guide replied, “if you fellows 
feel that way, you just stay ’round camp and 111 
take the men with me.” 
“Half past ten is soon enough to start,” Joe 
told the expectant party next night when all ex¬ 
cept Fred—for Jack had been laughed into saying 
he would go—were bustling around as if the 
noise of their getting ready would drive away 
all the malign spirts of the range, besides increas¬ 
ing the ebbing courage of the weak-kneed ones. 
“No hurry,” he continued. “Set down and 
hear what I know about the old fellow.” 
When every one had gathered around a 
“white man’s fire” blazing outside, he began: 
“Moriarity was a man who couldn’t keep 
still long enough to settle down to any business. 
He was a hobo of the mountains, who called 
himself a prospector and miner, and all he want¬ 
ed was enough to eat and drink, mostly the last. 
At different times he got more than a dozen 
grub stakes, yet never found gold enough to pay 
for his salt. Bimeby folks got sour on him and 
quit putting up, so once he had to start out with 
nothing but an ax, a frying pan, his rifle and a 
belt of cartridges. That fall he came back to 
Seattle loaded with fine gold. Somewhere he’d 
found a pocket and had washed out enough to 
fill poke, money belt and a tin can besides. He 
lived high that winter, bought new clothes, a 
new gun, every thing new. In the spring he dis¬ 
appeared, but with cold weather returned again 
loaded heavier with gold than the first time. 
About then some of the boys what grub staked him 
got kinder sore, so they agreed to follow him 
out if he went again, find his mine and either 
make him whack up or maybe stake some claims 
for themselves. They kept close tab on the Old 
Sport but pretty nigh missed him at that for one 
of them caught him going aboard the Dunge- 
ness boat one stormy night and just managed to 
By Edward T. Martin 
follow before the gang plank was pulled in. He 
thought the old man didn’t see him and hid in a 
stateroom where, through a crack c f the open 
door he could watch Moriarity who was asleep 
on a seat in the smoking room. Well, between 
ports he laid down for a minute and when he 
looked again the old fellow was gone, nobody 
knew where. They didn’t see him no more un¬ 
til late in October when one night he walked 
into A 1 White’s saloon, threw his well filled poke 
on the bar and with a cunning grin said, ‘Give 
the boys a drink, then lock the balance up in 
your safe and keep it for me.’ In the spring be¬ 
fore the snow was all melted, the crowd, not to 
be fooled this time, put scouts at every landing 
place where the boat touched, but Moriarity van¬ 
ished again nobody knew when or where. 
“When big Bill Daily, one of the crowd 
missed him and got no word from the watchers 
of where he went, he told the boys, ‘I’m going 
into them mountains and scour the country but 
what I find him; there’ll be some trail, some fire, 
some sign that’ll give him away. Who wants to 
go?’ There was no trouble In finding three 
others to make the party, and with packs and 
mining tools they went iti as prospectors. Luck 
was with them, for twenty-five miles from Port 
Angeles they found the cabin where we’re going 
to-night. There was plenty of signs the old 
miser had been there, and things that showed he 
expected to come back, so they built a bough 
house out in the brush and while they waited, 
cradled along the Elwha, at the mouth of Boul¬ 
der Creek, up Long Creek, along in the hills and 
after a month of hard work never had even a 
bit of color in their pans to show. 
“Then they got discouraged and quit all but 
Daily. He said, ‘I’ve come to find the man and 
his mine and I’m going f c stay all winter if I 
don't and not give up like a cheap quitter. Now 
you guys go and be hanged to you, only after 
I’ve found the mine don’: come whining around 
begging for a divvy ’cause you won’t get none.’ 
“For six long weeks Bill used the leanto for 
his home, making every little while long trips in 
every direction but the right one, looking for 
signs. A path in some out of the way canyon, 
smoke, a light, anything. Nothing was found until 
one morning in October, when returning from a 
night of tramping, he saw smoke pouring from 
the cabin’s chimney and later, Morianty himself 
unshaven and dirty, came out and filled a water 
bucket from a nearby spring. 
“He had found the miner—now for the mine. 
He watched all day and into the night until sat¬ 
isfied his man was sleeping, then he too slept, 
sure the miner would not move until daylight 
when he probably would start for Port Angeles. 
Still there was a chance he might go to his mine 
again and that chance Daily was taking. 
“Morning brought no sign of life from the 
cabin. No fire, no one moving. ‘Given me the 
slip again’ thought the watcher, but cunning and 
careful, he would not expose himself until long 
after sun up when he slowly crawled through 
the brush and looked from one side, in at the 
door. As soon as his eyes were accustomed to 
the dim light inside, he saw Moriarity had not 
left, but was lying on the floor, dead. Exam¬ 
ination showed money belt and poke both gone 
while a broken table and overturned stove gave 
evidence of the fierce struggle put up before the 
old man was overpowered. 
“Daily was frightened. Several persons 
knew he was watching the cabin and it would 
be most natural for them to accuse him of the 
murder, so he removed some planking from the 
floor, dug a deep hole and buried Moriarity in 
it, then hurried away and returned to Seattle 
where I was one of the few to whom he told the 
story. Now everyone says the place is haunted. 
They don’t know how the old man came to his 
end, but all agree he’s dead, and unable to carry 
his mine to the world where he’s gone, comes 
back once a month to look after it. Perhaps if 
one has the nerve to follow, he’ll lead them to 
where it is.” 
Smith’s story made a deep impression on 
his listeners, but when he began getting ready for 
the tramp no one stirred. 
“Come boys,” he urged, “get a move on, else 
we’ll be late for the show.” 
Then one after another they began making 
excuses, until all had backed out. 
“Game lot of sports, you fellers,” he snort¬ 
ed ; took off his hunting shoes and threw them 
angrily into a corner, then piled into bed, saying 
as he pulled the blankets around him, “I wish 
old Moriarity would poke his head in through 
that door just to see the crowd of you bust out 
the side of the shanty in your hurry to run 
away.” 
“Never had an idea of going; just string¬ 
ing you,” said Jack. 
“Think I’m looney enough to tramp six or 
seven miles to see an imitation picture show? 
Not if I know myself,” Sam chipped in, and with 
the guide sore and the others vexed by his sharp 
remarks or perhaps ashamed they had not gone, 
lights were put out, and all but Fred soon were 
snoring as only tired campers can. He couldn’t 
close his eyes and many times wished he had 
gone, to shame the others if for nothing else. 
“Well,” he thought, “it is too late now. Of 
course,” he said, “I know better than to believe 
any stories of ghosts or haunted mines. So do 
they all. What nonsense! I’ll turn over and go 
to sleep.” 
“He tried for a long time and was just drop¬ 
ping into unconsciousness when from over by 
the stove came Rap! Rap! Rap! Three raps 
loud and distinct. In an instant Fred was wide 
awake and sat up shivering, with creeps running 
up and down his spine. Then he thought, 
“Shucks, it’s just one of Smith’s jokes,” and 
turned to see. He counted, “One! Two! Three! 
Four! Five!” All were in bed and sleeping sound¬ 
ly. He hesitated whether to duck under the 
blankets and hide like a wounded bluebill in a 
wind chopped lake, or to call for help. Then 
came the raps again—such spirit rappings as he 
had read of, but never heard and he wished Mor¬ 
iarity with his gold for company was in a place 
where all metals melt and ice is unknown; but 
he must do something, so he sharply elbowed 
his father in the ribs and when he moved whis* 
pered in his ear, “S-sh Dad, somebody’s knock¬ 
ing.” 
“Quit poking me and go to sleep; you’re 
dreaming,” the man answered. 
The raps came again with startling distinct¬ 
ness and he too sat up and stared in to the dark* 
