n' to nobody till
I see Mrs. Payson."

"Oh, pshaw!" pouted Polly; "not even me?"

"Not even--what I've got to say she must heah first. I'm kinder
stiff--if you don't mind, I'll set down a spell."

Slim's face was drawn and worn. Although he had lost none of his
weight, he showed the effects of the siege of hard riding and fighting
through which he had passed.

The mental strain under which he had labored had also worn him down.
Polly was more than solicitous for his comfort. Not only did she like
the Sheriff, but she was now fencing with him to protect her sweetheart
from his wrath. She had concluded that Bud's charge that the Sheriff
was locoed and jealous was a cover to conceal some genuine apprehension.

"You look tuckered out," she said.

"Well, I 'low as maybe I am. Been in the saddle for two weeks. Kin I
have a cup of coffee?"

Polly began to mother him. This appeal for bodily comforts aroused all
her womanly instincts. She made him sit down and poured the coffee for
him saying: "You sure can. With or without?"

"I'll play it straight," grinned Slim.

"I reckon you'll have to, anyway. Here you are."

Slim took the cup with a "thankee."

He drank long and deeply. Then he paused, made a wry face, and danced
his feet up and down, as a child does in anger or excitement.

"What's the matter?" asked the girl, with a laugh.

"If this yeah's coffee give me tea, an' if it's tea give me coffee."
The Sheriff put down his cup with a shrug of the shoulders.

"It's the best we've got," replied Polly. "Sage-brush got it."

"Oh, that's it. I thought it tasted like sage-brush. How's Bud?" he
suddenly demanded.

Polly glanced nervously at the speaker.

"All right, I s'pose." She tried to be noncommittal.

Her nervousness almost betrayed her.

"Ain't you seen him lately?" Slim insisted.

Polly peeped into the wagon before she answered the question. "Yes--I
see him every once in a while."

In an effort to change the subject of conversation, and get him away
from all thoughts of Bud, she asked: "Say, Slim, what's a boudoir?"

"A what whar?" stuttered Slim.

"A boudoir," Polly repeated.

Slim was puzzled, and looked it. Then a new thought lighted up his
face.

"You don't mean a Budweiser, do you?"

Polly, deeply serious, replied: "No--that ain't it--boudoir."

Slim ransacked his memory for the word. "Boudoir," he continued
reflectively. "One of them 'fo' de wah' things we ust to have