“Nailed him, Dick!” exulted Brad. “That’s the ticket! That was the way to stop him!”
In truth, Merriwell had brought the fleeing Spaniard down with a single shot. In a moment they reached the fellow, who was lying on the ground, alternately cursing and groaning.
As they came up, Bunol lifted himself on his left elbow. His right hand went back. A shaft of moonlight gleamed on something in his hand.
The Texan uttered a warning cry.
Dick Merriwell dropped as if shot, and for the second time that night he did so barely in time to escape death at the hand of his bitter enemy.
The huge knife Bunol had taken from the black man whistled through the air, barely missing Merriwell as he fell.
Then Buckhart pounced on the young scoundrel.
“You dog!” grated Brad. “I sure will cook you this trip!”
But Dick interfered a moment later, checking the fury of the boy from the Pan Handle country, and preventing him from injuring the Spaniard further.
“Go ahead!” whimpered Miguel, in a way that seemed quite unusual for him. “You may as well finish the job! You have smashed my knee, and I’ll bleed to death, anyhow!”