Dick Merriwell's Pranks Part 67

It was now a hand-to-hand struggle for life or death, amid the palms which grew above the buried city of Memphis. What little moonlight sifted through and fell upon the combatants simply served to make the desperate struggle seem all the more terrible.

Although taken thus at a disadvantage, Buckhart was a fighter every inch of him, and he was not immediately overcome by the murderous Spaniard.

Bunol had flung his whole weight on the Texan, and Brad's head struck against a block of stone, causing him to see stars; yet the American lad clutched the wrist of his antagonist and held fast.

It was well he did so, for the Spaniard had drawn a knife, and this he was trying hard to use.

Bunol cursed in Spanish. He twisted and squirmed, seeking to free his hand. He was astonished at the strength of Buckhart, for he believed the Texan had been brought down by a bullet and was sorely wounded.

"You die hard, American dog!" he panted; "but die you shall!"

"Not by your hand, you varmint!" retorted Brad.

"Oh, I'll kill you yet!"

The Texan was gathering his strength, and suddenly there was an upheaval, Bunol being unable to pin the husky chap to the ground.

Snarling like a mad dog, the Spaniard writhed in an eellike effort to escape from the clutch that continued to render his knife hand helpless.

Powerful though he was, Buckhart felt his hold slipping. There was perspiration on Bunol's wrist and on the Texan's fingers. The task of maintaining that grip grew more and more difficult.

Still Buckhart realized that it was possible his life depended on his success in clinging to the fellow's wrist.

Suddenly Bunol snapped his hand free.

"Now," he snarled; "now I kill you!"

But, even as he struck, Buckhart sent him backward with a surge, and the keen blade merely slashed the sleeve of the American lad.

Brad fancied he knew just where he had dropped his pistol, and he hastily felt round for the weapon.

"Let me get it," he growled, "and I'll make a sieve of that cur!"

He was given little time to search. Bunol recovered quickly. He saw the other feeling about on the ground. Crouching, he half rose and launched himself at Brad.

The boy from the Pan Handle country, however, was on the alert, and, with equal swiftness, he sprang aside.

The Spaniard missed his intended victim, but the knife in his fingers struck fire from a stone, on which it was broken near the hilt.

A snarl of dismay escaped the lips of the murderous wretch.

Then Buckhart grappled with him again.

Brad did not know the knife was broken, so he made a grab at Miguel's wrist to prevent him from slas.h.i.+ng.

"Whoop!" came from the lips of the Texan. "This sure is the real thing in the way of a scrimmage. It's a right long time since I've been in one like this."

Bunol cursed bitterly. At last he realized that his antagonist could not be seriously wounded. Although he did his best to break away, the American lad hurled him down and held him.

One of Brad's hands found Miguel's throat.

"Got ye now!" he grated triumphantly. "Tell me where you have taken Nadia! Speak quick, or you'll never have the chance to speak at all!"

"Go ahead!" gasped the helpless scoundrel. "Kill me! Kill me, and you'll never set eyes on her again!"

"Where is she?"

"You can't force me to tell."

The fingers on the throat of the Spaniard tightened. Bunol's breath hissed in his throat and then stopped.

"I certain am not in a fooling mood," said Brad, "and it's up to you to talk plenty fast."

Bunol could not talk then, and he could do nothing but gasp when the crus.h.i.+ng hold was relaxed.

"I'll give you about twenty seconds to begin unloading your mind," said Brad. "Time is flying a heap. Ten seconds gone! Fifteen seconds! Time's up!"

The cry that Bunol started to utter was cut short by the pressure once more applied to his throat.

Then a figure came flitting through the shadows, dark as night and silent as a phantom. It sped to the spot and was on Buckhart before the Texan realized that another was present.

The boy was hurled aside. He had been attacked by a huge black man.

This fellow flung Buckhart from Bunol and pinned him to the ground, a knee on his breast.

Gaspingly the Spaniard rose.

"Hold him, Kahireh!" he gasped. "Don't let him get away! Where is your knife? Let me have it quick!"

His hands fumbled in the girdle of the black man. A moment later he uttered a cry of satisfaction. A bit of moonlight that came through the palms fell on the blade of a long knife that gleamed in the Spaniard's hands.

"Hold him still, Kahireh!" grated Miguel. "Now I will cut his throat!"

Never had Brad Buckhart been nearer death than at that moment, for Miguel Bunol really meant to make his words good. He intended to cut the throat of the helpless boy, who was held for slaughter by the powerful black man.

But Brad's time had not come.

Out of the near-by shadows leaped still another figure. Bunol was bowled over with a kick. Then the heavy b.u.t.t of a pistol fell on the head of the black man, who pitched forward across the Texan.

"Brad! Brad!" called a voice that was filled with anxiety; "are you all right?"

Then the strong hands of his dearest friend on earth pulled Buckhart from beneath the stunned giant.

"Pard," gasped the Texan, in joyous bewilderment, "is it you? Why, I certain reckoned you were dead a heap! I saw the flash and saw you fall on the deck of the yacht."

"But I saw a moving shadow in the grove and dropped just in time to escape being shot in my tracks," said d.i.c.k. "Are you hurt?"

"None at all. But where is that varmint Bunol? Only for this other galoot I'd choked the truth out of him or finished him. Where is he?

There-there he goes!"