Dick walked toward the stern of the yacht, which had swung quite close to the shore. Indeed, not more than twelve or fourteen feet of water lay between that end of the yacht and the bank, showing that the water was very deep there.
Merriwell stood looking into the shadows of the palm grove, feeling desperate and baffled. Suddenly in the gloom of the grove there was a red spout of fire.
The report of a pistol startled the peaceful night. Dick Merriwell dropped on the deck of the yacht. A roar of fury burst from the lips of Brad Buckhart. With two great leaps he reached the rail of the yacht and perched on it. Then he uprose and flung himself forward in a spring for the bank.
He cleared the space and landed on the shore. Recklessly he charged into the palm grove, a pistol in his hand. The Texan believed his comrade had been shot down in a dastardly manner, and his heart was filled with a mad longing for vengeance.
He ran toward the spot where the flash of the weapon had been seen. Through a dim bit of moonlight ahead of him a figure seemed to flit. That glimpse was enough for the Texan. He flung up his hand and his pistol barked twice.
“Give me a fair look at ye, and I’ll certain get ye!” he panted.
He came to some ruined steps of stone and stumbled down them, losing his footing and falling sprawling at the foot. But he was up in a moment, and again he fancied he caught a glimpse of a flitting form.
Crack! Once more he fired.
“Bet I nipped him then!” he snarled.
He continued the mad pursuit, little reckoning what might happen, thinking only that he might reach the person who had shot down his friend and wreak vengeance for the dastardly act.