Standing in the ankle-deep snow by the fence, Einard winced as another blast of icy Wyoming wind bit his weathered face, yet not even then did he take his eyes off the pasture.

Huddled there, among his prized cattle, stood goats—all kinds of goats—hundreds of goats—more goats than he'd seen in the pasture since the whole thing began. This morning, as always, the smelly, yellow-eyed creatures were eating his hay as if they had a right to it. Einard gave a disgusted sigh, and, bracing his lanky body against the wind, tramped back through the snow to his A-frame log house.

When he opened the door, he smelled sausage frying, heard it sizzle, saw the grease splatter from the cast iron skillet on the kitchen range. He shed his fleece-lined parka, hung it on a wall hook behind the woodburning stove in the entryway, and pulled off his boots and gloves. After rubbing his hands together over the stove to warm them, he ambled into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

His wife, Gussie, a plump, pigeonlike woman, handed him a mug of steaming coffee. "The goats ... are they still there?" she asked.

"You bet. And more," Einard said, and took a sip. "Hundreds now. We've got farm goats and mountain goats coming out our ears. To top it off, today I saw some bighorn sheep." He took another sip of coffee. "I'm now more sure than ever it's the music."

Gussie waddled back to the range and flipped the sausage patties over with a spatula. "I'm still of the notion the goats are following their noses to the hay. And the music? Piffle. It's only wind whistling through the canyon trees."

Einard set his mug down hard on the table, spilling his coffee. "I've said it till I'm blue in the face: it can't be wind! Wind doesn't make songs, not even strange songs like the one we've been hearing. Someone is playing a flute or some kind of whistle, and the music's drawing goats to our hay like flies to raw meat. There must be a hidden tone that people can't hear."

Gussie shrugged and broke two eggs into a bowl. "I suppose it could be one of the neighbors fooling around. Not much to do in the winter."

Einard blotted the spilled coffee with his sleeve. "Don't you think I asked all of them, and their hired hands too? The songster's a drifter. Got to be."

"Come now. This time of year?"

"Well, whoever it is," Einard said, "something has to be done. The music's gone on every night for a week. All those goats ... enough is enough."

Gussie whipped the eggs with a fork. "We've plenty of hay. Winter's harsh, and goats need to eat too. Anyway, whoever is playing the music—if somebody is—may suddenly just up and quit." She gave a little chuckle. "Or at least take up the fiddle, or maybe the mouth harp, instead."

Einard thought for a bit. "You might have something there—a different musical instrument. Who knows, it could be that our songster would take to some pickin' and grinnin'."

"The meat's spitting. Say again?"

Einard downed what was left of his coffee. Maybe he shouldn't reveal the plan he was hatching. It was pretty farfetched, and a long shot at best. "Never mind," he said. "It was nothing."

After breakfast, he bundled himself in thick clothing, then donned his parka and boots and slogged through the snow to the tool shed.

In a large metal trunk, he found what he'd come for: the pride of his childhood, his Gene Autry guitar. A classic, it could be worth money, he thought, but knowing him, he'd never get around to trying to sell it. Besides, the goats had to go, and the guitar might help pave the way.

Einard saw no cracks in the instrument and guessed that the wood changing temperatures slowly had kept such damage at bay. He strummed the guitar, then tweaked the string pins and strummed it again. Why, the tone was as mellow as ever! For a moment, he wished he hadn't given up trying to master the thing.

He wrapped the guitar in a burlap sack and tucked it under his arm. Then he left the shed and headed across the goat-laden pasture.

Near the edge of the wooded canyon he stopped under a scraggly pine and unwrapped the guitar. With one of his boots, he cleared a patch of snow from the base of the tree and spread the sack over the spot of bare ground. He then stood the guitar on the sack and propped the neck against the bark.

All at once came a grunt and the snap of twigs breaking. He jerked his head toward the sound.

He saw nothing—nothing but trees. Just the same, he felt his scalp crawl. Heart pounding, he made for the sunny pasture.

As he crunched across the snowy expanse, he glanced over his shoulder. Abruptly, he halted, turned around. By the scraggly pine, he spied a dark figure which, at least from a distance, looked like a man. Einard crouched down and slowly inched toward it. Was this the mysterious goat serenader?

Suddenly, he froze in his tracks.

Although the abomination stood erect like a man, the wooly rump and hind limbs were those of a goat. The torso and face were human, yet from the head jutted horns.

Einard's jaw dropped. While he stared, transfixed, the goat man laid down the set of reed pipes he was holding and seized the guitar. He plucked the strings with his slender fingers and sniffed the wood. As if tasting it, he licked it with his long, black tongue. Clutching the guitar to his chest, he then turned on his hooves and sprang off through the trees.

And a great shriek of wind rushed through the canyon. Snow swirled, trees bent, branches cracked, and pine cones and needles flew in every direction. Through it all, Einard just stood there. My God! he thought. What was the creature? A freak of nature? A science experiment gone wrong?

Despite the profound chill left by the blast, beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and his armpits stung as if prickled by thorns. Blackness spiraled in front of his eyes.

He knelt in the snow and sucked in several deep breaths. Try as he might, he couldn't stop trembling.

Get a grip! he told himself, and balled his shaking hands into fists. Whatever it was, he knew in his gut the creature was the source of the music—and come hell or high water, the music must cease! The goats were intruders. Invaders. Besides, hay wasn't cheap.

The blackness dissolved, and his trembling subsided. Einard stood up. The pipes—he would take them home and smash them. He would finish this business once and for all. Clenching his jaw, he strode to where the pipes lay.

The air was still, yet he heard a faint shrieking sound, like an echo of the recent wind. The sound was coming from the instrument!

Einard lifted it from the snow. The eight reeds appeared to be nothing more than common river reeds. Of graduating lengths, they were bound together by a band of dry thistles. The pipes looked ordinary. They weren't, he suspected, but had he really heard them shriek?

He held the instrument close to his ear—but heard nothing.

Afraid the goat man would return, he clamped the pipes firmly in his hand, and, keeping watch over his shoulder, hurried back across the pasture.

Puffing, he stumbled past the house and made his way to the shed. Once inside, with his free hand he snatched a hammer from a shelf and dropped to his knees. Then he slammed the pipes to the floor and struck them again and again, as hard as he could.

The pipes didn't break.

Flabbergasted, he grabbed up the pipes and pulled himself to his feet. When he'd caught his breath, he staggered from the shed and shoved the pipes into the woodpile outside the door. He was sure the goat man would never look for them there.

He composed himself and trudged back through the snow to the house. No sense in telling Gussie about the creature, he thought. She'd either be scared to death, or want to make friends with it.

Gussie met him at the door, a half-eaten sandwich in her hand. "It's past noon. Where've you been?"

"Nowhere much."

"Hungry? Want a beef salad sandwich? Some soup?"

"Sounds good." As he crossed the threshold, he glared back at the pasture. "If they weren't so uncannily quick, I'd have a goat chop instead."

That night, as soon as he heard Gussie snore, Einard crept out of bed. He tiptoed to the front door and threw his parka on over his longjohns. Then he slipped his boots on and stepped outside.

Only a few stars shone in the cold, moonless sky. The wind had died; the goats and cattle stood quietly chewing their cuds. Through the stillness he heard a soft twanging sound wafting from the canyon. He cocked his head and listened. The guitar!

For several minutes, the twanging continued. Then suddenly from the canyon came a gutteral cry—followed by an abrupt, awful silence.

Einard's breath stuck in his throat. Quickly, he stepped back inside.

At dawn he woke from a restless sleep. Careful to not wake Gussie, he rose and dressed himself. His rifle under his arm for protection, he left the house and headed across the now-goatless pasture to the canyon.

Halfway there, he halted. That mournful, flutelike sound ... what was it? He cupped a hand to his ear. The pipes! The goat man had found them!

The sound faded, then stopped altogether. Had he imagined it?

By a boulder in the woods, on a patch of melting snow, he found the blackened remains of his Gene Autry guitar. Near the shards of burned plywood, on a smoldering pile of wool, lay two scorched hooves and a pair of charred horns.

The goat man was dead.

Einard bit his lip. What happened? he wondered. There was no sign of a campfire. What made the creature burn up? Though baffled, he heaved a sigh of relief.

He slung his gun across his back, squatted, and with his hands, scooped slush onto the mass. When the smoke died, he rose, pulled off his wet gloves, and, shaking his head in bewilderment, started for home.

There it was again ... the mournful, flutelike wail. On the bluffs, the wind must be blowing. Yes, he thought, it was tuneless, like the wind. When quiet fell a few minutes later, he was glad. The sound was like a woman weeping ... pleading.

The mystery of the fire continued to plague him. He'd seen no clues in the ashes. What ignited the flames? Well, he thought, he'd best forget it. The only way he'd learn the truth would be if the sky split open and the answer fell on his head—and he didn’t think that would happen any time soon.

As he drew closer to home, he spied Gussie by the stock tank. Clad in her orange quilted parka, she stood amid the cattle, up to her boot tops in snow. "Einard!" she called. "The goats! Where are the goats?"

"They up and took off!" he called back.

She met him partway, then stood in his path. "You chased them away," she said, her eyes seething. "And the stragglers—you put holes in their hides."

"Nope. When I got up this morning, the goats were already gone."

She crossed her plump, quilted arms. "Then why the gun?"

"Thought I spotted a coyote." He held out his rifle. "Here. Take a look if you want to. The weapon hasn't been fired. Oh, and while you're at it, check the hayburners' tracks. Appears they just wandered off."

"All right, I believe you. I'm sorry." Sniffling, she dabbed her eyes with her coat sleeve. "Silly goats. I hope they don't starve."

He put his hand on her shoulder, and together they plodded toward home. Someday he'd tell her about the creature. He couldn't now, that's all there was to it. The fear was too fresh in his mind.

When Einard crawled into bed that night, snow was falling and the wind had flared up. Earlier, too tired to go to the woodpile, he'd hauled scrap plywood from the basement to keep the wood stove warm till morning. Should've fetched in logs, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep.

He rose from bed. Log tote in hand, he walked outside. The snow had stopped. Through a split in the clouds, a few stars gleamed, but there was no moon. The air was still.

On his way to the woodpile, he was astonished to see a nude woman standing beside it. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, and her head was bowed. Strange ... she shone in the darkness. Her breaths sounded flutelike—though the notes were harsh, discordant.

He drew closer, and saw that her hair was a river, green and rippling. Strands of moss and blue water lilies adorned her buxom young body.

Slowly, she lifted her head.

Einard stopped in his tracks and gasped. The woman's face was contorted in anger, and her eyes were glowing red orbs!

She walked toward him. He tried to run away, but his feet were stuck in the snow.

Her eyes now flaming infernos, she stopped in front of him, and for a few frightful moments he felt the heat of her gaze. Then she stepped past him, and he turned his head and watched her walk across the pasture.

When she reached the canyon, he lost sight of her shimmering body. Soon, the stench of burning wool assaulted his nostrils. He sneezed...

...and opened his eyes. He sneezed again. What was that burning smell? He sprang out of bed. Tracking the odor, he stumbled down the hall and through the kitchen, to the entryway. His fleece-lined parka! He snatched the smoldering coat from its hook and dropped it on the hearth. Next, he doused it with the fire extinguisher.

He touched the wood stove, then put down the extinguisher and laid his palms on the top. The stove was cold. The fire must have flashed up and quickly burned out.

Gussie bustled to his side. "Gracious!" she said, looking down at the hearth. "Your parka! What—"

"The stove pipe scorched it. I shouldn't have used that plywood. It made the fire rage."

"Well, it's not raging anymore." She gave a shiver and rubbed her arms, then stooped down and cracked open the stove door. "Good thing we have a furnace too," she said, peering inside. "The fire's just a whimper."

Einard took a down-filled jacket from a hook and put it on over his longjohns. "I'll make it nice and cheery." He pulled on his boots and picked up the log tote. His gloves, which were lying on the hearth, were still too damp to wear.

Gussie took hold of his arm. "Don't go out. You'll catch your death. The logs can wait, for heaven's sake. We can tend to the stove in the morning."

"I'll have to fetch them sooner or later. I might as well get it over with. It'll nag me till I do." He shrugged off her hand and walked to the door.

"Oh, all right then. I'll grab a wrap and help."

"Thanks, but no," Einard said, and gave her a smile. "I'm the villain, so it's up to me. Go back to bed."

Crisp snowflakes stung his face as he walked to the woodpile. When he saw it, he remembered his dream, but brushed it aside.

His fingers growing stiff from the cold, he took a few logs from the pile and placed them in the tote. He took another, and the reed pipes fell from the pile and into the snow. His pulse quickened. He'd burn them! He should have in the first place. He picked them up.

Odd ... the pipes warmed his hands—and despite the darkness, their luster was breathtaking. Obeying an impulse, he drew them to his lips. As he blew across the reeds, music poured forth. With each note, his flesh throbbed and prickled, but still he blew. He could not stop. The strains were beautiful, haunting. Irresistible.

While he danced and swayed in the snow, enthralled by the music, he felt his face start to twist, his feet shrivel, his tailbone cut through his skin. The pain was thrilling. When his skull bones shifted, the pain was excruciating, and beyond exquisite.

In his rapture, he was only dimly aware of Gussie walking toward him. He saw her stop. Heard her scream...

Soon the music ceased.

His resurrection complete, the goat man laid down his reed pipes, then sloughed off the human's clothing and kicked the human's boots from his hooves. Ho! Never again would he forsake his glorious pipes! 'Twould be folly to do so, for one reed was Syrinx! Ah, his lovely, jealous nymph ... from her anger, what a lesson he had learned.

What was this? The human's mate, through her tears, was handing the pipes to him! Her face wore a look of horror ... but Syrinx too had once found him ugly. He smiled. The woman would come to adore him as well. As he took the pipes from her trembling fingers, he caressed her skin, lightly.

He looked past her and out into the snowy night. Then, with a shake of his tail and a toss of his horns, the Great God Pan bounded away to once again summon his children to the pasture of golden plenty.