The ground was somewhat rough. Over its broken surface the men dashed, and leaped, and turned, and circled. Once Del Norte uttered an exclamation of satisfaction as he struck, but Merry leaped away and the keen blade of Del Norte's knife simply cut a long slit in his shirt front.
"Near it that time, gringo dog!" panted the Mexican.
"A miss is as good as a mile," retorted Frank.
As the blades clashed together again Frank's knuckles were slightly cut and the blood flowed freely.
"First blood!" exulted Del Norte.
"A scratch," was the retort.
But soon that scratch began to prove troublesome, for the flowing blood covered the haft of the knife and made it slippery. This came near proving fatal for the American youth. Again the blades clashed, and, with a twisting movement, the Mexican wrenched Merry's knife from his grasp.
The weapon rattled on the rocks ten feet away.
"Now you die, gringo!" snarled Frank's enemy, with a wolfish laugh.
He launched himself at the defenseless youth with frightful fury, but Frank managed to clutch the wrist of his foe and check the stroke that would have been fatal. With a surge he flung the Mexican aside, at the same time springing toward the spot where Red Ben's hunting knife lay. The moonlight revealed it plainly, and Merry had it in a twinkling.