raising blisters on his heels, than of--Jove, what ignorance! He--he
couldn't _eat_ the skeleton or the dishes! Jerusalem!" Branciforte
knocked his pipe gently against the door-casing, put in into his coat
pocket and hurried to the house to hunt up the others and tell them
what he had heard.

That night the roundup pulled in to the home ranch.

The visitors, headed by their host, swooped down upon the roundup
wagons just when the boys were gathered together for a cigarette or
two apiece and a little talk before rolling in. There was no
night-guarding to do, and trouble winged afar. Sherwood Branciforte
hunted out Andy Green where he lay at ease with head and shoulders
propped against a wheel of the bed-wagon and gossipped with Pink and a
few others.

"Look here, Green," he said in a voice to arrest the attention of the
whole camp, "I wish you'd tell the others that tale you told me this
afternoon--about that ruined castle down in the hills. Mason, here, is
a newspaper man; he scents a story for his paper. And the rest refuse
to believe a word I say."

"I'd hate to have a rep like that, Mr. Branciforte," Andy said
commiseratingly, and turned his big, honest gray eyes to where stood
the women--two breezy young persons with sleeves rolled to tanned
elbows and cowboy hats of the musical comedy brand. Also they had gay
silk handkerchiefs knotted picturesquely around their throats. There
was another, a giggly, gurgly lady with gray hair fluffed up into a
pompadour. You know the sort. She was the kind who refuses to grow
old, and so merely grows imbecile.