Never had Brad Buckhart been nearer death than at that moment, for Miguel Bunol really meant to make his words good. He intended to cut the throat of the helpless boy, who was held for slaughter by the powerful black man. But Brad’s time had not come. Out of the near-by shadows leaped still another figure. Bunol was bowled over with a kick. Then the heavy butt of a pistol fell on the head of the black man, who pitched forward across the Texan. “Brad! Brad!” called a voice that was filled with anxiety; “are you all right?” Then the strong hands of his dearest friend on earth pulled Buckhart from beneath the stunned giant. “Pard,” gasped the Texan, in joyous bewilderment, “is it you? Why, I certain reckoned you were dead a heap! I saw the flash and saw you fall on the deck of the yacht.” “But I saw a moving shadow in the grove and dropped just in time to escape being shot in my tracks,” said Dick. “Are you hurt?” “None at all. But where is that varmint Bunol? Only for this other galoot I’d choked the truth out of him or finished him. Where is he? There—there he goes!” Bunol had taken flight, running as fast as possible through the grove. Instantly both lads were off in pursuit, determined not to let the scoundrel give them the slip. “Shoot, pard!” urged Buckhart. “He may slip us if you don’t!” “And I may kill him if I do. I want to force him to tell where we may find Nadia.” “Better kill him than to let him get away,” panted Brad. “If I had my gun——” Crack! Dick fired. There was a cry of pain ahead of them, and they saw the fleeing figure fall. “Nailed him, Dick!” exulted Brad. “That’s the ticket! That was the way to stop him!” In truth, Merriwell had brought the fleeing Spaniard down with a single shot. In a moment they reached the fellow, who was lying on the ground, alternately cursing and groaning. As they came up, Bunol lifted himself on his left elbow. His right hand went back. A shaft of moonlight gleamed on something in his hand. The Texan uttered a warning cry. Dick Merriwell dropped as if shot, and for the second time that night he did so barely in time to escape death at the hand of his bitter enemy. The huge knife Bunol had taken from the black man whistled through the air, barely missing Merriwell as he fell. Then Buckhart pounced on the young scoundrel. “You dog!” grated Brad. “I sure will cook you this trip!” But Dick interfered a moment later, checking the fury of the boy from the Pan Handle country, and preventing him from injuring the Spaniard further. “Go ahead!” whimpered Miguel, in a way that seemed quite unusual for him. “You may as well finish the job! You have smashed my knee, and I’ll bleed to death, anyhow!” “I must have hit him in the leg,” said Dick. “I fired low.”