crashing around him, calmly considering dams and well-borings so that he might, in the years to come, plant more acorns.
Nor was Dick ever to know that Paula had come so near to him with her need and gone away. Again, not aimlessly, but to run through for the last time the notes of the scribble pad by his bed, he was out on his sleeping porch. His house was in order. There was nothing left but to sign up the morning's dictation, answer several telegrams, then would come lunch and the hunting in the Sycamore hills. Oh, he would do it well. The Outlaw would bear the blame. And he would have an eye– witness, either Froelig or Martinez. But not both of them. One pair of eyes would be enough to satisfy when the martingale parted and the mare reared and toppled backward upon him into the brush. And from that screen of brush, swiftly linking accident to catastrophe, the witness would hear the rifle go off.
Martinez was more emotional than the sculptor and would therefore make a more satisfactory witness, Dick decided. Him would he maneuver to have with him in the narrow trail when the Outlaw should be made the scapegoat. Martinez was no horseman. All the better. It would be well, Dick judged, to make the Outlaw act up in real devilishness for a minute or two before the culmination. It would give verisimilitude. Also, it would excite Martinez's horse, and, therefore, excite Martinez so that he would not see occurrences too clearly.
He clenched his hands with sudden hurt. The Little Lady was mad, she must be mad; on no other ground could he understand such arrant cruelty, listening to her voice and Graham's from the open windows of the music room as they sang together the «Gypsy Trail.»
Nor did he unclench his hands during all the time they sang. And they sang the mad, reckless song clear through to its mad reckless end. And he continued to stand, listening to her laugh herself merrily away from Graham and on across the house to her wing, from the porches of which she continued to laugh as she teased and chided Oh Dear for fancied derelictions.
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
«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.»
There was a pause when he had finished, which, waiting, he did not dare to break.
«There is one little thing I almost forgot to tell you,» she said, very softly, very slowly, very clearly. «I do love you. I have never loved you so much as right now. After our dozen years you've bowled me over at last. And I was bowled over from the beginning, although I did not know it. I have made up my mind now, once and for all.»
She hung up abruptly.
With the thought that he knew how a man felt receiving a reprieve at the eleventh hour, Dick sat on, thinking, forgetful that he had not hooked the receiver, until Bonbright came in from the secretaries' room to remind him.
«It was from Mr. Bishop,» Bonbright explained. «Sprung an axle. I took the liberty of sending one of our machines to bring them in.»
«And see what our men can do with repairing theirs,» Dick nodded.
Alone again, he got up and stretched, walked absently the length of the room and back.
«Well, Martinez, old man,» he addressed the empty air, «this afternoon you'll be defrauded out of as fine a histrionic stunt as you will never know you've missed.»
He pressed the switch for Paula's telephone and rang her up.
Oh Dear answered, and quickly brought her mistress.
«I've a little song I want to sing to you, Paul,» he said, then chanted the old negro 'spiritual':
«'Fer itself, fer itself,
Fer itself, fer itself,
Every soul got ter confess
Fer itself.'
«And I want you to tell me again, fer yourself, fer yourself, what you just told me.»
Her laughter came in a merry gurgle that delighted him.
«Red Cloud, I do love you,» she said. «My mind is made up. I shall never have any man but you in all this world. Now be good, and let me dress. I'll have to rush for lunch as it is.»
«May I come over?—for a moment?» he begged.
«Not yet, eager one. In ten minutes. Let me finish with Oh Dear first. Then I'll be all ready for the hunt. I'm putting on my Robin Hood outfit—you know, the greens and russets and the long feather. And I'm taking my 30-30. It's heavy enough for mountain lions.»
«You've made me very happy,» Dick continued.
«And you're making me late. Ring off.—Red Cloud, I love you more this minute—»
He heard her hang up, and was surprised, the next moment, that somehow he was reluctant to yield to the happiness that he had claimed was his. Rather, did it seem that he could still hear her voice and Graham's recklessly singing the «Gypsy Trail.»
Had she been playing with Graham? Or had she been playing with him?
Such conduct, for her, was unprecedented and incomprehensible. As he
groped for a solution, he saw her again in the moonlight, clinging to
Graham with upturned lips, drawing Graham's lips down to hers.
Dick shook his head in bafflement, and glanced at his watch. At any rate, in ten minutes, in less than ten minutes, he would hold her in his arms and know.
