“Help!” murmured J. Elfreda.
“Why, yes. I reckon I do, like everybody else does when they get outside of too much chuck,” laughed the rancher.
“Do you ever make a psychoanalysis of your dreams, Mr. Bindloss?” questioned Emma, laying a hand on the rancher’s arm and gazing up into his eyes.
“Eh? Eh? A what?” he stammered.
“You should learn to read your dreams. Freud says that all dreams mean something—ungratified desires in life—imponderable somethings that may mean great happiness, great sorrows, disaster—any number of fine or frightful things. If you will tell me about your dreams I will search out the imponderable quality in them and—”
“Ride out, Miss Dean! Quick! Use your spurs because—”
“Don’t be alarmed,” begged Elfreda. “She never gets violent. We are in hopes that the mountain air may do her good.” The Overland Riders burst out laughing, which, after a look at Emma, Old Joe Bindloss joined in with a bellowing laugh.
“Try that on the boys. They’ll be plumb locoed,” rumbled Bindloss. “Are you going with me?”
“Of course we are,” answered Emma. “Where’s my horse?”
“I have ridden every foot that I am going to ride today,” protested Miss Briggs. “Let’s walk.”