Pablo was armed with a pistol, and this weapon he snatched out when he scrambled to his feet. But Tracy was on hand to clutch him and wrest the weapon from his grasp.
"You little devil!" grated the man. "I'll cut your throat on the spot!"
There was a terrible look in his eyes as he whipped out a knife and lifted it.
"Drop that!"
Crack!—the report of a revolver emphasized the command, and the bullet struck the knife and tore it from the hand of the aroused ruffian.
Frank Merriwell had arrived just in time to save Pablo, who was bent helplessly backward over Tracy's knee, the hand of the wretch being at his throat.
Tracy shook his benumbed and quivering hand, releasing the boy and looking at Frank resentfully.
"Oh, you're not badly hurt!" said Merry, as he strode up. "My lead struck the knife blade, not your hand. And I seemed to be barely in time, too."
"Oh, I wasn't going to hurt the kid!" declared Tracy harshly. "I was going to teach him a lesson, that was all. I wanted to frighten him a little."