“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.