Andy, the reins dropped upon the saddle horn, held an imaginary violin cuddled under his chin, and across the phantom strings drew an imaginary bow with slow, sweeping gestures, while his voice went on with the tale, and the Happy Family watched, and listened, and saw what he meant them to see. “And then would come that lonesome whoo-oo of the wind—from the violin. He made me see things. He made me see the storm, like it was a white spirit creeping over the range. He made me see—”
They had reached One Man Coulee while he talked. The Happy Family stared down into the lonely place lying nakedly white under the moon, shivered, and rode slowly down the slope. Like one in a trance Andy rode in their midst, and compelled them with his voice to see the things he would have them see. Compelled them to see Olafson, the master musician, striving after the song of the north wind, and the prairie, and the wolf; made them see him as he opened the door and stood there gazing wildly out, playing—always playing—something weird and wonderful, and supernaturally terrible.
“I don’t envy Miguel his job none, by cripes,” Big Medicine said, as they drew near the point beyond which the cabin would stand revealed to them, and for a wonder he spoke softly.
Andy glanced up at the yellow ball floating serenely over the blue ocean of the sky, down the white-lighted coulee, with fringes of black shadows here and there, and then at the cabin squatting deserted against the green background of willows, with blank, staring window and open doorway.
“If such things can be—if the ghost of Olafson can come back, he’ll come to-night and try again to play the wind,” he said solemnly. “Just a low, even, creepy tone first on open G—”
They rode slowly around to where they faced the door, pulled up short fifty feet away from it, and stared.
“There he is!” Andy’s voice was the whisper which carries far. “He’s come, boys—to play the wind again! A low, creepy note on open G—”
In the doorway, where the moon shone radiantly in, stood a black-clothed figure topped by a grinning, fleshless skull. Cuddled under the horrid, bony chin of it was a violin. The right arm was upraised and bent, poising the bow above the strings. The staring, empty eye sockets were lighted with a pale, phosphorescent glow.
“Well, by golly!” gulped Slim, in an undertone, and backed his horse a little involuntarily.
“Aw—” Happy Jack looked at Irish and Cal, grinned sheepishly, and was silent.