“Come up one at a time, boys,” invited Merry, as he began taking these from Bart. “Here you are, Phil.”
He dropped the first pouch into Tombstone Phil’s hand, and it gave forth a musical, clinking sound that made the eyes of the men sparkle.
One by one they filed past the doorstep, and into each outstretched hand was dropped a clinking canvas pouch, each one of which was heavy enough to make its recipient smile.
When the last man had received his present, they gathered again in front of the door, and suddenly Tombstone Phil roared:
“Give up a youp, boys, for the whitest man on two legs, Frank Merriwell!”
They swung their hats in the air and uttered a yell that awoke the echoes of the valley.
“Thanks, men,” said Merry quietly. “I appreciate that. As long as you desire to remain in Mystery Valley you are at liberty to do so; when you wish to depart you can do so, also. So-long, boys. Good luck to you.”
He waved his hand, and they answered with another sharp yell. Then they turned and moved away, declaring over and over among themselves that he was the “whitest man.” One of those who repeated this assertion a number of times was a leathery, bowlegged, bewhiskered individual in greasy garments known as Hull Shawmut. If anything, Shawmut seemed more pleased and satisfied than his companions.
The only one who said nothing at all was Kip Henry, known as “the Roper,” on account of his skill in throwing the lariat. Henry was thin, supple, with a small black mustache, and in his appearance was somewhat dandified, taking great satisfaction in bright colors and in fanciful Mexican garments. He wore a peaked Mexican hat, and his trousers were slit at the bottom, Mexican style. Several times Shawmut glanced at Henry, noting his lack of enthusiasm. When the Thirty retired to their camp down the valley and lingered there, Henry sat apart by himself, rolling and smoking a cigarette and frowning at the ground.
“What’s the matter, pard?” asked Shawmut, clapping him on the shoulder. “Didn’t yer git yer little present?”