"Don't use your gun if you can help it," Stewart warned. "We don't want the police in on this!" As he spoke his fist shot out and the leader of the attacking party sprawled in the street. No sound came from Dawson, beyond a grunt, as he landed on the man he had singled out of the bunch. The ten seconds that followed were jammed with action, punctuated with the shrill cries for reinforcements from the Mexicans, and brightened here and there by the dull light from down the street which glinted off the long knives--the favorite weapon of the Latin-American fighter. Stewart and Dawson realized that they must not only fight, but fight fast. Every second brought closer the arrival of help from the rear, but Dawson waited until he could hear the reinforcements almost upon them before he gave the word to break through. Then-- "Come on, Jack!" he called. "Let's go!" Heads down, fists moving with piston-like precision, the two Americans plowed their way through. Dawson swore later that he felt at least one rib give under the impact of the blows and he knew that he nursed a sore wrist for days, but Stewart claimed that his energies were concentrated solely on the scrap and that he didn't have time to receive any impression of what was going on. He knew that he had to fight his way out--that it was essential for one of them to reach the telegraph office or the embassy with the news they carried. It was a case of fight like the devil and trust to luck and the darkness for aid. Almost before they knew it, they had broken through the trio in front of them and had turned down the Calles Ancha, running in a form that would have done credit to a college track team. Behind them they heard the muffled oaths of their pursuers as they fell over the party they had just left. "They don't want to attract the police any more than we do," gasped Dawson. "They don't dare shoot!" But as he spoke there came the z-z-i-pp of a bullet, accompanied by the sharp crack of a revolver somewhere behind them. "Careful," warned Stewart. "We've got to skirt that street light ahead. Duck and--" But with that he crumpled up, a bullet through his hip. Without an instant's hesitation Dawson stooped, swung his companion over his shoulder, and staggered on, his right hand groping for his automatic. Once out of the glare of the arc light, he felt that he would be safe, at least for a moment. Then, clattering toward them, he heard a sound that spelled safety--one of the open nighthawk cabs that prowl around the streets of the Mexican capital. Shifting Stewart so that his feet rested on the ground, he wheeled and raked the street behind him with a fusillade from his automatic. There was only a dull mass of whitish clothing some fifty yards away at which to aim, but he knew that the counter-attack would probably gain a few precious seconds of time--time sufficient to stop the cab and to put his plan into operation.