BILLY ASHE
“It’s an old deserted ranch-house,” explained Ashe, “close to a ridge
of hills. A good many years ago a man named Walt Allen and his two sons
built it. He was a man with plenty of money--had traveled all over the
continent, and picked up a whole lot of queer ideas--at least everybody
around here thought so.”
“What like?” asked Dave, interestedly.
“Oh, artistic. Wanted style to his ranch-house, he said; and, would you
believe it, he stuck up a lot of columns in front of the door. They
make you think of an entrance to some old Greek temple.”
“He must have been odd,” murmured Larry Burnham.
“Yes,” added Thunderbolt. “Cost much money. No good. Peoples laugh.”
“Ah, much laugh!” supplemented Wandering Bear, slowly nodding his head.
“A man often has to pay a big price for being a little out of the
ordinary,” sighed Dave Brandon. “What else did Mr. Allen do to make
people give his place such a curious name?”
“Put ribbons around the cattle’s necks, I s’pose,” grinned Larry.
“Or maybe had an ice-cream soda factory in his yard,” chuckled Tom.
“Something pretty near as bad,” laughed Billy Ashe. “He built a high
stockade around his ranch-house, and stuck up inside a lot of old
statues he’d brought over from Italy.”
“I’d like to have known him,” said Dave, reflectively.
“Most of ’em looked as if they’d been in an awful scrimmage with cattle
rustlers, for either an arm or a leg was missing, or perhaps a nose or
an ear busted.”
“He no have sense,” grumbled the half-breed.
“Ah! Much queer,” said Wandering Bear.
“Then he planted fir and cedars about, and, in one corner, built the
prettiest little temple you ever saw.”
“Any more counts in the indictment?” laughed Bob.
“Yes,” answered the trooper. “He got some artist to come all the way
from Winnipeg to paint pictures on his ceilings and walls.”
“He must have been a very delightful person,” said Dave.
“What became of this ‘delightful person’?” drawled Larry.
“In those days there was a great deal more lawlessness than now,”
answered the trooper. “The cattle rustlers evidently thought Allen must
be an easy mark, so they paid particular attention to his stock. This
kept on until the Allens got so disgusted they took everything of value
from the ranch-house and left. So, ever since, the place has been known
as Fool’s Castle.”
“Anybody else ever live there afterward?” asked Sam Randall.
“No. One wing of the building was struck by lightning and partly
burned.”
“Lots of history for one house,” remarked Dick Travers.
“Some of the cowpunchers”--Billy Ashe sniffed contemptuously--“got an
idea there’s something queer about the old place.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Tom.
“Yes, it’s a fact; an’ most of ’em are wary of stoppin’ there.”
“Me no afraid,” said Thunderbolt. He turned to Bob Somers. “You go
there?”
“Yes,” answered Bob, “with you as guide.”
“Thunderbolt much good guide,” said Wandering Bear, his stern
eyes resting fondly on his grandson. “Always he fear nothing.
See?”--he pointed to the massive antlers of a moose resting close
by--“Thunderbolt kill him.”
“Ah! The Rambler Club has a rival!” laughed Larry.
“I’ll be leaving in about an hour or two,” Ashe was saying, “so it
isn’t likely I’ll see you chaps again unless you find your way back to
the post.”
“We’ll get there all right,” said Tom Clifton, confidently.
“About how many men are there in the service of the Northwest Mounted?”
inquired Dave.
“Not far from seven hundred,” answered Ashe. “Saskatchewan has the
most; Alberta comes second, while the rest are divided between
Manitoba, Yukon and the Territories.”
“Have lots of work to do?”
“We always manage to earn our pay. The boys even patrol mining camps;
and, believe me, some of ’em are in pretty out-of-the-way places.”
“The work must be awful in winter,” remarked Larry Burnham.
“It’s no easy snap,” admitted Ashe. “With a blizzard howling about you,
and perhaps a pack of fierce, hungry coyotes on your trail, only a man
with a good stout heart could stand it.”
“I’d rather brave the dangers of a football game,” said Dave.
“Or umpire a series of rushes between freshmen and sophomores,” grinned
Tom.
“Maybe, after a while, I be scout for policeman like Teddy Banes,” said
Thunderbolt. “You like work for the police, Banes?”
“Sure,” answered the half-breed, surlily.
“And Teddy is a mighty good hand at the business,” commented Ashe.
“You stay--eat with Indian?” asked Wandering Bear, suddenly.
The crowd accepted the invitation with enthusiasm, and heartily thanked
the aged chief.
They asked many questions concerning the life of the tribesmen, and
learned interesting details about their mode of hunting and fishing.
Some of the tales were quite thrilling, too. The tragic end of the old
bull moose whose antlers lay in the teepee was related by Thunderbolt
in his quaint English with pleasing effect.
Then the Ramblers told of their own experiences, Tom Clifton having a
great deal to say, while a rather sarcastic smile played about Larry
Burnham’s mouth.
When the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, leaving as a reminder of its
presence flashes of gold and purple on the few clouds which hovered
lazily above, preparations for supper were made.
The cooking was done on a bed of live coals in front of the wigwam.
Even Larry thoroughly enjoyed the fried pork, roast potatoes and baked
fish. And, besides all this, Thunderbolt passed around corn cakes and
plenty of tea.
As the grayness of dusk deepened the lights of the various fires threw
a rosy glow over the teepees and redskins. The forms of the hills
slowly became lost, until only the topmost branches of the trees,
outlining themselves weirdly against the sky, could be distinguished
in the black, somber masses. Finally they, too, disappeared in an
impenetrable darkness which settled over the great basin.
The guttural voices of unseen Indians came over the air; sometimes a
horse whinnied, or a bird flying overhead, or in the timbered reaches,
uttered a note which seemed to carry with remarkable clearness.
“Gee! I never knew it could be so black out-of-doors,” said Larry.
“I’ve seen it blacker than this,” returned Tom Clifton.
“Oh, of course we know that,” drawled Larry. “But I’ll bet a white
horse would look like a spot of ink to-night.”
Soon after supper was over Billy Ashe rose to his feet.
“I must be off, boys,” he said.
“What! Going to police barracks now?” asked Larry, in astonishment.
“How can you find your way?”
“No; I’m not bound in that direction,” answered the trooper, with a
returning touch of importance. “I can steer myself well enough by the
stars and compass--eh, Wandering Bear?”
The chief, whose shadow was thrown fantastically over the sides of the
wigwam, nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “The white man much good. But never so good as Indian,
who has the eyes of the eagle, the scent of the coyote, and the hearing
of the hare.”
“I sort o’ think they must have it down pretty fine,” said Larry.
Billy Ashe shook hands all around; he even slapped Tom Clifton on the
shoulder, although still a trifle nettled at some of his remarks.
“I guess, son, by this time,” he said, “you’ve got rid of that foolish
notion about Jed Warren, eh?”
“Foolish notion!” cried Tom, indignantly. “I never had any.”
“Of course he hadn’t,” said Larry, satirically. “If he doesn’t discover
that missing trooper by the aid of the sun, the moon and the twinkling
stars, I won’t get an ice-cream soda at the very first town I reach.”
With a merry laugh, Billy Ashe strode away.
“So-long, fellows,” he called. “Hope you’ll have a good time.”
“Some chaps are awful stubborn,” complained Tom. “Honest--I don’t
believe they’d change their ideas even if you could prove ’em to be in
the wrong.”
The fit of laughter which seized Larry at this statement made Wandering
Bear and his grandson regard him with mild surprise.
“Come,” invited Thunderbolt. “I show you village.”
Leaving Wandering Bear calmly puffing away on his long-stemmed pipe
and Teddy Banes sitting motionless with his back resting against the
teepee, the lads promptly followed the young Indian.
It was a very novel sensation to the big blond lad to find himself
wandering about a real Indian village. And the picturesque groups
of red men sitting around the fires, with the ruddy glow over their
blanketed forms, or moving here and there, now caught by the beams of
light, then disappearing in the shadows, interested him about as much
as anything could, considering his state of mind and aching bones.
Before one teepee Thunderbolt stopped to introduce the boys to Sulking
Wolf, whose stock of English consisted of three words: “How you do!”
“Very well, thank you,” said Larry. “It’s an awful dark night, isn’t
it?”
“How you do!” answered Sulking Wolf, gravely.
“Listen!” cried Tom.
The sound of hoof-beats coming from their left had attracted his
attention.
“Billy Ashe go now,” exclaimed Thunderbolt.
“He seems to have plenty of nerve,” remarked Larry, reflectively. A
rather shivery sensation stole through him as he thought of the lonely
ride which must be before the trooper in the gloom and silence of the
prairie.
“Oh, it’s all in getting used to it,” said Tom.
“Of course,” returned Larry, wearily.
“I’d like to stay here for a week,” remarked Dave Brandon. “There is
something so cozy about these Indian teepees. And to sit beside a bed
of glowing coals and look at the starry sky----”
“Help!” laughed Larry. “It’s been too much for him.”
“And to feel an inspiration for a poem steadily growing is
certainly----”
“Delightful--if it never appears in the Kingswood High School
‘Reflector.’”
“I can sympathize with Mr. Walt Allen,” sighed Dave, somewhat
irrelevantly.
At the extreme edge of the village, not far from the break in the
hills, the party encountered several dogs whose vociferous barking
and angry snarls made Larry Burnham step back in alarm. The dim forms
whisking around so close at hand caused him to fear that at any moment
the brutes might spring upon him.
“Great Scott; they seem to be as big as wolves, and as dangerous!” he
cried.
“Oh, if you’d ever seen the real articles you wouldn’t talk that way,”
exclaimed Tom.
“Dog no hurt,” said Thunderbolt, reassuringly.
He spoke sharply to the skulking animals, and by a threatening
movement of his foot caused them to retire.
At last, beyond the confines of the village, the lads turned to look
back at the collection of wigwams. Here and there some were brought out
clearly by the flickering campfires; others rose spectrally, scarcely
seen amidst their surroundings, while many were completely enveloped in
the gloom.
Above the forbidding amphitheater of hills the stars and constellations
shone with singular brilliancy.
“Hold a match for me, Bob,” cried Dave, suddenly. “I’ve got that
inspiration for a poem. I’ll scribble it off in a jiffy.”
Amid the laughter of the others, Bob obligingly complied.
“Are we ever going to read it?” asked Larry.
“That remains to be seen,” answered Dave.
“It never will be, I reckon,” returned Larry, with a laugh.
Having visited all the points of interest they sauntered slowly back to
the chief’s teepee, where they found Wandering Bear and the half-breed
sitting in exactly the same positions.