“Go on, Miggie, and git your olives,” Big Medicine murmured. “Twelve bottles. We’ll wait for yuh here.”
Miguel slid off his horse without a word and started forward, hesitating a trifle, if the truth were known.
In the doorway the right arm of the figure trembled and moved slowly upward, pulling the bow lightly across the strings. Came a low, wailing note on open G, which swelled resonantly in the quiet air, rose a tone, clung there, and slid eerily down to silence.
Big Medicine started and stared across at Irish, and Cal Emmett, and Jack Bates, who met his look incredulously. Miguel stopped short and stood a moment in the blank silence which followed. The gaunt, black figure bulked huge in the doorway, and the fleshless mouth grinned at him sardonically.
Miguel took a step or two forward. Again that ghostly arm lifted and swept the bow across the strings. Again the eerie tones came vibrantly, sliding up the scale, clinging, and wailing, and falling again to silence when Miguel stood still.
Big Medicine turned his horse short around, so that he faced those three—Cal, Jack Bates, and Irish.
“Say!—the—the thing’s playin’, by cripes!” he muttered accusingly, and edged off fearfully.
“Aw—say!” Happy Jack moved farther away in sudden, unashamed terror. “What makes it—play?”
Miguel stood longer that time, and the silence rasped the nerves of those who waited farther off. When he moved forward again the playing began. When he stopped, the ghostly arm was still.
Happy Jack, with an unexpected, inarticulate squawk, kicked his horse in the ribs and fled down the coulee. Slim went after him, galloping with elbows flapping wildly. Those who waited longer saw Miguel walk slowly up to the very threshold, and face the ghost that played over and over that one, awful strain. They saw him stop as if to gather together his courage, put down his head as if he were battling a blizzard, and edge past the unearthly figure.