But, even as he struck, Buckhart sent him backward with a surge, and the keen blade merely slashed the sleeve of the American lad. Brad fancied he knew just where he had dropped his pistol, and he hastily felt round for the weapon. “Let me get it,” he growled, “and I’ll make a sieve of that cur!” He was given little time to search. Bunol recovered quickly. He saw the other feeling about on the ground. Crouching, he half rose and launched himself at Brad. The boy from the Pan Handle country, however, was on the alert, and, with equal swiftness, he sprang aside. The Spaniard missed his intended victim, but the knife in his fingers struck fire from a stone, on which it was broken near the hilt. A snarl of dismay escaped the lips of the murderous wretch. Then Buckhart grappled with him again. Brad did not know the knife was broken, so he made a grab at Miguel’s wrist to prevent him from slashing. “Whoop!” came from the lips of the Texan. “This sure is the real thing in the way of a scrimmage. It’s a right long time since I’ve been in one like this.” Bunol cursed bitterly. At last he realized that his antagonist could not be seriously wounded. Although he did his best to break away, the American lad hurled him down and held him. One of Brad’s hands found Miguel’s throat. “Got ye now!” he grated triumphantly. “Tell me where you have taken Nadia! Speak quick, or you’ll never have the chance to speak at all!” “Go ahead!” gasped the helpless scoundrel. “Kill me! Kill me, and you’ll never set eyes on her again!” “Where is she?” “You can’t force me to tell.” The fingers on the throat of the Spaniard tightened. Bunol’s breath hissed in his throat and then stopped. “I certain am not in a fooling mood,” said Brad, “and it’s up to you to talk plenty fast.” Bunol could not talk then, and he could do nothing but gasp when the crushing hold was relaxed. “I’ll give you about twenty seconds to begin unloading your mind,” said Brad. “Time is flying a heap. Ten seconds gone! Fifteen seconds! Time’s up!” The cry that Bunol started to utter was cut short by the pressure once more applied to his throat. Then a figure came flitting through the shadows, dark as night and silent as a phantom. It sped to the spot and was on Buckhart before the Texan realized that another was present. The boy was hurled aside. He had been attacked by a huge black man. This fellow flung Buckhart from Bunol and pinned him to the ground, a knee on his breast. Gaspingly the Spaniard rose. “Hold him, Kahireh!” he gasped. “Don’t let him get away! Where is your knife? Let me have it quick!” His hands fumbled in the girdle of the black man. A moment later he uttered a cry of satisfaction. A bit of moonlight that came through the palms fell on the blade of a long knife that gleamed in the Spaniard’s hands. “Hold him still, Kahireh!” grated Miguel. “Now I will cut his throat!”