"You have insult," insisted Nicolas angrily, "and I do much more yet to you."
This time the negro appeared almost helpless. Nicolas danced about, looking for an opening. In desperation Sambo struck out with his powerful left. It gave the Mexican the chance he wanted. Darting in, he repeated his trick for the third time.
The bulky negro lay down, groaning. He had too little breath left to be dangerous.
While this was going on Tom Reade had rolled over on his face. From this position he succeeded in getting to his knees. Then he rose and hastened toward the Mexican.
"Nicolas, you're surely a little terror!" Reade admitted, admiringly.
"Now, untie my hands and we'll take care of Sambo."
"Wait—-jus' one leetle moment, Senor," begged the Mexican. He turned back to Sambo, that forefinger ready for another jab.
"Fo' de lub ob goodness—-" gasped Sambo. But Nicolas was determined. He made the jab, and Sambo all but lost the little breath that was in him.
"Now, Senor, we do it all in one second," proclaimed the Mexican. From his pocket he drew a knife, springing the blade open. Snip! snip! and the young engineer was free of his lashings.
"There's plenty of this cord left," declared Tom. "We'll fix up our black friend."
"Do not use that word, Senor," implored Nicolas. "He is no good! He is scoundrel! He call me Greaser, an' I will keeck off his head for eet!"