At once she saw that something had happened. Bud was deathly pale. He trembled when she spoke to him.
"Why, what on earth is the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing. I—" answered Bud, glancing about him, as if seeking some way to escape.
"You're looking mighty pale—are you sick?" persisted the girl.
"Slim Hoover—he's back—" Bud could scarcely speak. His throat was parched. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead.
"What!" cried Polly joyfully. "Is Jack with him?"
"Listen here," exclaimed the young wooer. "Slim's heard about our goin' to get married, and he's sworn to shoot me at sight—" It was a lame, halting explanation, but the best Bud could invent on the spur of the moment. He wanted to get away to have time to think.
"I don't believe it!" replied Polly indignantly. "Why, Slim—"
In his excitement Bud would not let her continue her defense of the Sheriff.
"It's so. He's plum locoed. The sun mus' have tetched his brains out in the desert," he explained, with rapid invention. "I don't want no run-in with a crazy man. I might have to shoot, an' Slim's been a good fr'en' of mine. So I'm going to keep out of his way for a while. I'll ride over to the railroad."