FullReads

“Moat,” Branciforte suggested.

“That’s the word–a moat around it, and a bridge that was just about gone to pieces. It had loopholes, like the pictures of castles, and a–“

“Battlement?” ventured one of the musical-comedy cowgirls.

Andy had not meant to say battlement; of a truth, his conception of battlements was extremely hazy, but he caught up the word and warmed to the subject. “Battlement? well I should guess yes! There was about as elegant a battlement as I’d want to see anywhere. It was sure a peach. It was–” he hesitated for a fraction of a second. “It was high as the tower, and it had figures carved all over it; them kind that looks like kid-drawing in school, with bows and arrows stuck out in front of ’em, threatening.”

“Not the old Greek!” exclaimed one of the girls in a little, breathless voice.

“I couldn’t say as to that,” Andy made guarded reply. “I never made no special study of them things. But they was sure old. And–“

“About how large was the castle?” put in the man who wrote things. “How many rooms, say?”

“I’d hate to give a guess at the size. I didn’t step it off, and I’m a punk guesser. The rooms I didn’t count. I only explored around in the main hall, like, a little. But it got dark early, down in there, and I didn’t have no matches to waste. And next morning I started right out at sun-up to find the way home. No, I never counted the rooms, and if I had, the chances are I’d have likely counted the same one more’n once; to count them rooms would take an expert, which I ain’t–not at counting. I don’t reckon, though, that there was so awful many. Anyway, not more than fifteen or twenty. But as I say, I couldn’t rightly make a guess, even; or I’d hate to. Ruins don’t interest me much, though I was kinda surprised to run acrost that one, all right, and I’m willing to gamble there was warm and exciting times down there when the place was in running order. I’d kinda like to have been down there then. Last fall, though, there wasn’t nothing to get excited over, except getting out uh there.”

“A castle away out here! Just think, good people, what that means! Romance, adventure and scientific discoveries! We must go right down there and explore the place. Why can’t we start at once–in the morning? This gentleman can guide us to the place, and–“

“It ain’t easy going,” Andy remarked, conscientiously. “It’s pretty rough; some places, you’d have to walk and lead your horses.”

They swept aside the discouragement.

“We’d need pick and shovels, and men to dig,” cried one enthusiast. “Uncle Peter can lend us some of his men. There may be treasure to unearth. There may be anything that is wonderful and mysterious. Get busy, Uncle Peter, and get your outfit together; you’ve boasted that a roundup can beat the army in getting under way quickly, now let us have a practical demonstration. We want to start by six o’clock–all of us, with a cook and four or five men to do the excavating. Bring it to pass!” It was the voice of the girl whom her friends spoke of as “The life of the party;” the voice of the-girl-who-does-things.

“It’s sixty-five miles from here, good and strong–and mostly up and down,” put in Andy.

“‘Quoth the raven,'” mocked the-girl-who-does-things. “We are prepared to face the ups-and-downs. Do we start at six, Uncle Peter?”

Uncle Peter glanced sideways at the roundup boss. To bring it to pass, he would be obliged to impress the roundup cook and part of the crew. It was breaking an unwritten law of the rangeland, and worse, it was doing something unbusiness-like and foolish. But not even the owner of the Rocking R may withstand the pleading of a pretty woman. Uncle Peter squirmed, but he promised: