In a sort of bowl-shaped valley which nestled snugly at the base of the encircling hills a purplish spot formed against a shadowed background the outlines of a ranch-house.
“Fool’s Castle!” said Thunderbolt, impressively.
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.