FOOL’S CASTLE
The former ranch-house of Walt Allen could only be reached with any
degree of ease from the open country. The hills were rocky, rather
barren, with treacherous declivities and steep descents.
The thought of an old deserted ranch-house with so much history
clinging about it appealed strongly to Tom Clifton’s imagination. His
curiosity and impatience increased as the distance which lay between
them was gradually cut down, and only compassion for the pony prevented
him from taking the last stretch on a fast gallop.
The upper portion of Fool’s Castle, rising high above the stockade,
rapidly became stronger. The tall Rambler kept well in the lead,
arriving at the entrance yards ahead of his companions. The great iron
gate which once guarded it no longer barred the way. So, with a loud
“Come on, fellows!” he clattered by.
All that Billy Ashe had told them was true. The glowing light of
the afternoon sun shed a poetic luster over Fool’s Castle and its
picturesque surroundings. The columns at the entrance, stained and
broken, gave to it the appearance of some ancient temple of the old
world. Here and there, amidst a setting of cedars and firs, all sending
long purplish shadows over the turf, were the mutilated statues and
busts; and at the farther end a little Greek temple revealed its form
in delicate touches of orange and blue.
“Hooray!” cried Tom. “It’s worth paying an admission to see all this.”
He swung around in his saddle. “Hurry up, Dave. Isn’t it fine?”
“We owe Walt Allen a vote of thanks,” cried the “historian,” his eyes
shining. “It’s just as though we were dropped from the prairie into an
old Italian garden. Splendid!”
Urged on by Tom, they pounded over the hard ground, not slackening
speed until the Greek columns at the entrance were towering high above
them.
Quickly dismounting, picket pins were driven into the ground and horses
tethered. Then, free to do as they pleased, the boys began to examine
the structure which had earned Walt Allen so much notoriety.
The western end of the building plainly showed the effects of the bolt
of lightning. Just outside the wide, sashless windows smoke and flame
had discolored the walls.
“Much rain and cowboys help put fire out,” explained Thunderbolt.
“It’s a wonder it didn’t sweep through the whole place,” said Dick
Travers.
“I’m mighty glad it didn’t,” remarked Bob.
“This is simply grand!” cried the “poet.”
“Come on, fellows; let’s take a look at some of these ‘treasures’ Mr.
Allen was kind enough to leave behind.”
“So poor old Jed Warren was here, too,” murmured Tom. “Doesn’t it seem
odd?”
But he found himself speaking to the empty air, for the others, too
eager to wait, were already some distance off.
Dave Brandon’s face was glowing as he walked from place to place. Now
he stopped before a statue so stained and discolored by its long vigil
in the open air as to make it almost as ancient in appearance as the
original from which it had been copied. Then the “editor” passed on to
a high pedestal surmounted by a bust of some stern-visaged old Roman.
“Delightful!” he exclaimed. “And look at these cedars and firs! In the
golden effulgence of----”
“Mercy!” snickered Larry. “What’s that?”
“A word,” answered Dave. “But I suppose I must drag myself down from
the heights of Parnassus----”
“Oh--oh! Stop him, fellows!”
“To the commonplace level of----”
“The prairie,” supplemented Sam, laughingly.
Thunderbolt listened to the various comments with an expression which
appeared to indicate that the armor of his stoical Indian nature was
penetrated by a feeling of amusement.
“You no think him one crazy man, then?” he inquired.
“Certainly not!” laughed Dave. “He was a credit to himself and the
country.”
“Let’s go into the house, fellows. There isn’t any door to stop us,”
suggested Tom.
“I’ll bet it’s full of rats,” said Larry.
“Or bats,” grinned Sam.
Stepping upon the porch, in the shadow of the columns, the group paused
at the entrance, to gaze into a grim, dark passageway.
“Awful black!” commented Larry.
“Real awe-inspiring,” laughed Tom.
“Don’t be afraid, little ‘Fear-not.’ I’ll lead the way.”
The tall lad started briskly ahead, the others crowding at his heels.
It was very dark, indeed, at first; but a warm, mellow light entered
through the windows of a room just beyond and served as a guiding star.
The sound of voices and footsteps reverberated strangely. The boards
creaked a dismal protest to the unusual treatment accorded them, while
dust rose up in clouds.
“Hope to thunder we don’t fall into the cellar or some hole in the
floor,” said Larry, who was not at all enjoying the experience.
“Floor plenty strong,” assured the young Cree.
The investigators soon found that the first floor of the ranch-house
consisted of three large rooms and a kitchen. The rays of the sun
streaking over the walls revealed the barrenness of their dingy
surroundings and brought out strongly the thick festoons of cobwebs
which hung from the ceiling. In places the plaster had fallen, exposing
the laths.
To Larry Burnham the old, deserted place, so far away from
civilization, possessed as uninviting an aspect as any house he had
ever seen. The traces of ornamentation, too, which still remained
served only to add to the dreary appearance.
“For goodness’ sake, let’s get outside,” he said.
“Not until we’ve visited every room,” said Tom.
Following the active, tireless Rambler, they trooped up-stairs. Here
they found more to show what the ranch-house must have been in its
prime. In the largest room, probably once occupied by the owner, were
figure decorations painted on the plaster of the ceiling, but now so
faded and otherwise marred by age and dampness as to show only a few
traces of their original design.
From here the lads wandered to the apartment where the fire had
occurred, examining the charred beams, the smoke-begrimed walls, the
plaster lying in heaps on the floor, and other damage wrought by
lightning and fire.
“Must have been a pretty hot time in lots o’ ways,” commented Larry.
“Very interesting,” said Dave; “but that view outside the window
interests me more. Mark the contrast between the rich, deep green of
the firs and cedars and the delicate tones of the temple.”
“He’s getting worse and worse,” said Larry.
“Your description, at least, fits my hunger,” laughed Dave. “Who’s cook
to-night?”
“From the sublime to the ridiculous!” laughed Bob.
“Larry, of course,” said Tom.
“I’m neither sublime, ridiculous nor a cook,” grinned Larry.
The blond lad, the first one down-stairs, breathed a sigh of great
relief.
“Whew! This place certainly gives me the creeps,” he murmured, with a
shiver.
The meal was soon prepared, and eaten with great relish. Then the crowd
wandered about the stockade, or explored the hills, until darkness came
and the firelight danced and flickered over the walls of Fool’s Castle.
“At any rate we’ll have a nice, quiet night, with a roof over our
heads,” said Bob, at length.
“I’m going to enjoy it,” said Dave, “especially after that
extraordinary rumpus of last evening.”
“Say, Bob, I’ve been thinking an awful lot about Jed Warren,” remarked
Tom, abruptly.
“Forget it!” snapped Larry.
“Go on, go on!” scoffed Tom.
“I will--to the States,” murmured the big lad under his breath.
“Our job is to hunt up the border patrol who saw him last,” put in Bob.
“His name is Phil Hughes. Sergeant Erskine said that by keeping due
south from here we could easily find his post near the international
boundary line. He ought to be able to give us a lot of information.”
“I never heard of such a bunch,” sniffed Larry.
“Oh, ho,” broke in Dave, with a yawn, “I’m going to lie down. There’s
no earthly use for any one standing guard to-night, fellows, so nobody
need wake me up.”
“All right--it’s understood,” laughed Bob.
The stout boy, with a blanket tucked under his arm, presently mounted
the steps; then, one by one, the others followed.
The fire, piled high with wood, sent a flaring yellow glow through
the windows of the room in which they intended to spend the night.
The corners, however, were very dark and mysterious; and the shadows
flitting about assumed curious, uncanny shapes.
The Ramblers, long accustomed to roughing it, promptly rolled
themselves in blankets and lay down. Larry did the same. To his tired,
aching body the floor seemed very hard and uncomfortable. He was rather
fearful, too, that wandering rats or spiders might make a voyage of
discovery over his recumbent form.
“I guess the five husky little travelers will have a surprise in the
morning,” he reflected. “The crowd may be smart, all right, but I sort
o’ think they’ll have to be a bit smarter to outwit little ‘Fear-not.’”
“We want to make an awful early start, Bob,” Tom was saying; “so we’d
better not do any talking. Pleasant dreams, fellows!”
Long after the others were enjoying blissful slumber Larry was still
awake. The windows appeared as two glowing parallelograms amidst a
field of darkness. The forms of the sleepers were partially lost in
obscurity. Occasionally one of them stirred; but, apart from this, the
silence was dense--oppressive.
At last Larry began to slumber, and really being much wearied, was
in a profound sleep when a frightful series of yells and pistol
shots, apparently just outside the windows, brought him to his feet,
white-faced and trembling.