From far off came the dim but unmistakable trumpeting of Mountain Lad. King Polo asserted his lordly self, and the harems of mares and heifers sent back their answering calls. Dick listened to all the whinnying and nickering and bawling of sex, and sighed aloud: “Well, the land is better for my having been. It is a good thought to take to bed.”
Chapter XXXI
A ring of his bed ’phone made Dick sit on the bed to take up the receiver. As he listened, he looked out across the patio to Paula’s porches. Bonbright was explaining that it was a call from Chauncey Bishop who was at Eldorado in a machine. Chauncey Bishop, editor and owner of the San Francisco Dispatch, was sufficiently important a person, in Bonbright’s mind, as well as old friend of Dick’s, to be connected directly to him.
“You can get here for lunch,” Dick told the newspaper owner. “And, say, suppose you put up for the night.... Never mind your special writers. We’re going hunting mountain lions this afternoon, and there’s sure to be a kill. Got them located.... Who? What’s she write?... What of it? She can stick around the ranch and get half a dozen columns out of any of half a dozen subjects, while the writer chap can get the dope on lion-hunting.... Sure, sure. I’ll put him on a horse a child can ride.”
The more the merrier, especially newspaper chaps, Dick grinned to himself—and grandfather Jonathan Forrest would have nothing on him when it came to pulling off a successful finish.
But how could Paula have been so wantonly cruel as to sing the “Gypsy Trail” so immediately afterward? Dick asked himself, as, receiver near to ear, he could distantly hear Chauncey Bishop persuading his writer man to the hunting.
“All right then, come a running,” Dick told Bishop in conclusion. “I’m giving orders now for the horses, and you can have that bay you rode last time.”
Scarcely had he hung up, when the bell rang again. This time it was Paula.
“Red Cloud, dear Red Cloud,” she said, “your reasoning is all wrong. I think I love you best. I am just about making up my mind, and it’s for you. And now, just to help me to be sure, tell me what you told me a little while ago—you know—’ I love the woman, the one woman. After a dozen years of possession I love her quite madly, oh, so sweetly madly.’ Say it to me, Red Cloud.”
“I do truly love the woman, the one woman,” Dick repeated. “After a dozen years of possession I do love her quite madly, oh, so sweetly madly.”