“It amounts to the same,” was the fierce retort, “as putting your heel on the head of a rattler before it can strike. Chip,” and his voice grew intensely earnest, “I don’t want you to do anything you’ll be sorry for.”
Merriwell laughed and thumped the cowboy on the back.
“Why, you crazy chump,” said he, “what do you take me for? There’s the call for grub pile. Come on and let’s eat.”
Following dinner, Frank caught up his horse, put on the riding gear, and then mounted and took up Brad behind him. All the Gold Hillers were sorry to see Merriwell go, but he and his chums had only come out to the gulch for overnight, and in two short days they had managed to crowd a lot of sport and excitement.
“Hope we’ll see you again before you leave Arizona, Chip,” said Bleeker, who was last to grip Merriwell’s hand. “You’re a true sportsman, and it was an honor to compete with you—even if we did get left. Adios, and good luck!”
“So long, fellows!” called Frank, waving his hand.
“We’ll be along later, Chip,” sang out Clancy.
At a word, Frank’s horse broke into a gallop along the gulch trail. The white tents faded slowly into the background and the cheers of the Gold Hillers grew fainter and fainter in Frank’s ears until they died out altogether.