CHAPTER X
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.