By B. M. Bower
Author of “The Happy Family Stories,” “Lonesome Land,” Etc.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 1, 1913 issue of The Popular Magazine.
The reappearance of Olafson, the violinist,who had gone out in the blizzard and was lost seeking the north windthat he might learn the song it sang, and who, according to Happy Jack,returned to earth on moonlight nights to play his violin in the doorwayof the deserted shack in One Man Coulee.
Happy Jack, by some freak of misguidedambition, was emulating rather heavily the elfish imagination of AndyGreen. He was—to put it baldly and colloquially—throwing a big loadinto the Native Son who jingled his gorgeous silver spurs closealongside Happy’s more soberly accoutered heel.
“That there,” Happy was saying, with ponderous gravity, “is the shackwhere the old fiddler went crazy trying to play a tune like the wind—orsome blamed fool thing like that—and killed himself because he couldn’tmake it stick. It’s haunted, that shack is. The old fellow’s ghost comesaround there moonlight nights and plays the fiddle in the door.”
The Native Son, more properly christened Miguel, turned a languidlyvelvet glance toward the cabin and flicked the ashes from his cigarettedaintily. “Have you ever seen the ghost, Happy?” he asked indulgently.
“Ah—yes, sure! I seen it m’self,” Happy lied boldly.
“And were you scared?”
“Me? Scared? Hunh!” Happy gave a fairly good imitation of dumb disgust.“Why, I went and—”
Happy’s imagination floundered in the stagnant pool of a slow-thinkingbrain.
“I went right in and—”
“Exactly.” Miguel smiled a smile of even, white teeth and ironical lips.“Some moonlight night we will come back here at midnight, you and I. Ihave heard of that man, and I am fond of music. We will come and listento him.”
Some of the other boys, ambling up from behind, caught a part of thespeech, and looked at one another, grinning.
“The Native Son’s broke out all over with schoolbook grammar ag’in,” BigMedicine remarked. “Wonder what Happy’s done? I’ve noticed, by cripes,that the guilty party better duck, when that there Miguel begins to talklike a schoolma’am huntin’ a job! Hey, there!” he bellowed suddenly, sothat one might hear him half a mile away. “What’s this here music talk Ihear? Who’s goin’ to play, and where at, and how much is it a head?”
Miguel turned and looked back at the group, smiling still. “Happy wastelling me about a ghost in that cabin down there.” He flung out a handtoward the place so suddenly that his horse jumped in fear of the quirt.“I say we’ll come back some night and listen to the ghost. Happy says hefrequently rides over to hear it play on moonlight nights, and—”
“Aw, g’wan!” Happy Jack began to look uncomfortable in his mind. “Isaid—”
“Happy? If he thought there was a ghost in One Man Coulee, you couldn’ttie him down and haul him past in a hayrack at noon,” Andy assertedsharply. “There isn’t any ghost.”
Andy set his lips firmly together, and stared reminiscently down thehill at the lonely little cabin in the coulee. Memory, the originalmoving-picture machine, which can never be equaled by any man-madecontrivance, flashed upon him vividly a picture of the night when he hadsat within that cabin, listening to the man who would play the northwind, and who wept because it eluded him always; who playedwonderfully—a genius gone mad under the spell of his own music—and atlast rushed out into the blizzard and was lost, seeking the north windthat he might learn the song it sang. T