“Give me a fair look at ye, and I’ll certain get ye!” he panted. He came to some ruined steps of stone and stumbled down them, losing his footing and falling sprawling at the foot. But he was up in a moment, and again he fancied he caught a glimpse of a flitting form. Crack! Once more he fired. “Bet I nipped him then!” he snarled. He continued the mad pursuit, little reckoning what might happen, thinking only that he might reach the person who had shot down his friend and wreak vengeance for the dastardly act. Suddenly right ahead of him the red fire spouted and a singing bullet brushed his ear. At the same moment Brad struck his foot against a broken column of marble which had been unearthed from the ruins and went headlong to the earth. It must have seemed that he had been dropped by the bullet. At any rate, with a cry of satisfaction, a man leaped up and came at him. Buckhart rose to his knees. He had dropped his revolver, else he could have shot the other. As it was, the man flung himself on the Texan, hurling him backward to the earth. “I have you,” snarled a voice, “and when I am done both my enemies will be dead and out of the way!” It was the voice of Bunol! It was now a hand-to-hand struggle for life or death, amid the palms which grew above the buried city of Memphis. What little moonlight sifted through and fell upon the combatants simply served to make the desperate struggle seem all the more terrible. Although taken thus at a disadvantage, Buckhart was a fighter every inch of him, and he was not immediately overcome by the murderous Spaniard. Bunol had flung his whole weight on the Texan, and Brad’s head struck against a block of stone, causing him to see stars; yet the American lad clutched the wrist of his antagonist and held fast. It was well he did so, for the Spaniard had drawn a knife, and this he was trying hard to use. Bunol cursed in Spanish. He twisted and squirmed, seeking to free his hand. He was astonished at the strength of Buckhart, for he believed the Texan had been brought down by a bullet and was sorely wounded. “You die hard, American dog!” he panted; “but die you shall!” “Not by your hand, you varmint!” retorted Brad. “Oh, I’ll kill you yet!” The Texan was gathering his strength, and suddenly there was an upheaval, Bunol being unable to pin the husky chap to the ground. Snarling like a mad dog, the Spaniard writhed in an eellike effort to escape from the clutch that continued to render his knife hand helpless. Powerful though he was, Buckhart felt his hold slipping. There was perspiration on Bunol’s wrist and on the Texan’s fingers. The task of maintaining that grip grew more and more difficult. Still Buckhart realized that it was possible his life depended on his success in clinging to the fellow’s wrist. Suddenly Bunol snapped his hand free. “Now,” he snarled; “now I kill you!”