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.