THE white man calls it Bridal Veil. To the Indian it is Po-ho-no, Spirit of the Evil Wind.

The white man, in passing, pauses to watch the filmy cloud that hangs there like a thousand yards of tulle flung from the crest of the rocky precipice, wafted outward by the breeze that blows ever and always across the Bridal Veil Meadows. By the light of mid-afternoon the veil seems caught half-way with a clasp of bridal gems, seven-hued, evanescent; now glowing with color, now fading to clear white sun rays before the eye.

The Indian, if chance brings him near this waterfall, hurries on with face averted, a vague dread in his heart; for in the meshes of the Bridal Veil hides an eerie spirit, a mischievous, evil one—Po-ho-no. In the ripple of the water as it falls among the rocks, the Indian hears Po-ho-no’s voice. In the tossing spray he sees the limp forms and waving arms of hapless victims lured by the voice to their destruction.

The Indian’s mistrust of Po-ho-no dates back to a day of long ago, a bright blue day of early spring such as the children of Ah-wah-nee love, when the valley has thrown off its white winter blanket, and dogwood blooms, and the oaks unfurl their soft green banners in welcome of the coming summer. It was the time when deer begin to trail, leaving the lowlands of the river for the higher ranges; and while the men hunted in the forest, the women went forth to gather roots and berries for the feast.

The Sun had come back from the south; and as he stood high in the heavens looking into the valley over the shoulder of Lo-yah, the Sentinel, three women were tempted to stray from the others and wander along a trail that led high above the valley to the spot whence the misty spray of the waterfall flutters downward.

They talked with what zest women may whose simple lives give them no secrets to hold or betray. They laughed as they filled their baskets, stooping to scrape the earth from a tender root, to strip the seed from a stalk, or gather grasses used in basketry; and their voices were as the purling of lazy waters gliding over stones. They were happy, for as yet they knew naught of the joy-sapping fever of discontent.

Of a sudden the laughter ceased, and in its stead arose the mocking wail of Po-ho-no, Spirit of the Evil Wind. The youngest of the women, venturing near the edge of the cliff to pick an overhanging wisp of grass, had stepped upon a rock where moss grew like a thick-woven blanket. She did not know that the soft, wet moss was a snare of the Evil One, and even as the others cried out in warning, Po-ho-no seized her and hurled her down among the rocks.

A pair of helpless arms waving in despair; long, loose hair sweeping across a face, half veiling one last look of terror—and she was gone. If she uttered a cry, the sound was lost in the gleeful chatter of Po-ho-no and his impish host. The two women left above dared not go near the treacherous ledge, lest they too come within reach of the vengeful Spirit. Afraid even to give a backward glance, they hurried down the steep path to spread the alarm. Scarce was their story told before a band of daring braves rushed to the rescue of the maiden; but though they searched till night among the rocks where the water swirls and leaps to catch the rainbow thrown there by the western sun, they found no trace of her. The maiden’s spirit had joined the forces of Po-ho-no, and could know no rest, nor be released from his hateful thrall, until by her aid another victim was drawn to his doom. Here she must stay, hidden by the mist from watchful eyes, beckoning always, tempting always, luring another soul to pay the forfeit of her own release. Then, and then only, would the spirit of the maiden be free to pass on to the home of the Great Spirit in the West.

Since that day of long ago many of the children of Ah-wah-nee have fallen prey to Po-ho-no, the restless Spirit of the Evil Wind, who wanders ever through the caÑon and puffs his breath upon the waterfall to make for himself a hiding-place of mist. Now every Ah-wah-nee-chee knows this haunt of the Evil One. By day they hurry past, and not one would sleep at night within sight or sound of the fall lest the fatal breath of Po-ho-no sweep over him and bear him away to a spirit land of torture and unrest.