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 butt 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?”