CHAPTER XXX—HIS JUST DESERTSThe Turk did not shrink before Budthorne. He remained unruffled as he said:“Very well; search the boat, gentlemen. As I know two of you to be responsible, you have my permission to look the yacht over from stem to stern.”“It’s a bluff!” growled Buckhart.But in his heart Dick was beginning to fear that neither Nadia nor Bunol would be found on the yacht.Budthorne was greatly wrought up, and he urged the others to come on.The Turk spoke to his companion, who stepped aside and disappeared.A moment later lights flashed up all over the yacht.The Turk stood smiling in the light of an electric lantern, his manner indicating his confidence in the result of the impending search.The lights showed two men forward, where they had been standing in the shadow of the pilot house.They were the pilot and engineer. One was a Greek and the other an Armenian.“Are these all of your crew?” demanded John Coddington.“Yes, sir.”Now that the lights were on, Professor Gunn came crawling cautiously over the rail onto the deck of the yacht, to which the steamer had been made fast.“Hum! ha!” he coughed. “I must see that nothing is neglected. Proceed with the search, gentlemen.”Medjid Bey, the owner of the yacht, lighted a Turkish cigarette and puffed away with indifference as the boarders began searching the yacht.It did not take long to search the small, but elegant craft from one end to the other, and not a trace of Nadia or Bunol was found.Budthorne was infuriated. He seemed almost deranged.“What have they done with her?” he cried. “What have they done with my sister?”Brad and Dick held a consultation in low tones.“We’re tricked, pard,” said the Texan. “The Spanish snake and the dirty Turk have fooled us. What can we do? They’ve carried Nadia off. I’m for taking that Mohammedan varmint by the throat and squeezing the truth out of him.”“I’m afraid we can’t get at the truth that way,” said Dick. “It is a bad piece of business.”“Bad! Pard, if that Spaniard harms a hair of Nadia’s head I’ll skin him alive! You hear me warble! I’ll kill him by inches!”Dick walked toward the stern of the yacht, which had swung quite close to the shore. Indeed, not more than twelve or fourteen feet of water lay between that end of the yacht and the bank, showing that the water was very deep there.Merriwell stood looking into the shadows of the palm grove, feeling desperate and baffled. Suddenly in the gloom of the grove there was a red spout of fire.The report of a pistol startled the peaceful night. Dick Merriwell dropped on the deck of the yacht. A roar of fury burst from the lips of Brad Buckhart. With two great leaps he reached the rail of the yacht and perched on it. Then he uprose and flung himself forward in a spring for the bank.He cleared the space and landed on the shore. Recklessly he charged into the palm grove, a pistol in his hand. The Texan believed his comrade had been shot down in a dastardly manner, and his heart was filled with a mad longing for vengeance.He ran toward the spot where the flash of the weapon had been seen. Through a dim bit of moonlight ahead of him a figure seemed to flit. That glimpse was enough for the Texan. He flung up his hand and his pistol barked twice.“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!”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!”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.”Buckhart struck a match and Dick made a hasty examination, questioning the wounded rascal. He found that Bunol had been wounded in the knee and was bleeding profusely. With his pocketknife Merriwell quickly cut away Miguel’s trousers and exposed the wound.The Spaniard lifted the upper part of his body and looked at his bloody knee. A groan escaped him, and then he began to sob. All the nerve had been taken out of him.Dick quickly cut a strip from the lower part of Bunol’s trousers leg, twisted it like a rope, tied it round the fellow’s leg above the knee, inserted his pistol barrel through the loop and began to twist, thus tightening the manufactured cord until it began to cut into the flesh and checked the flow of blood.In the meantime Brad had been questioning Bunol about Nadia, and the cowered wretch confessed that she was hidden close at hand in a portion of an excavated temple and still guarded by one of the two black men.A distant call startled the boys. When the call was repeated they recognized it as coming from some of their friends, and they answered it.Soon Colonel Stringer, Coddington, the professor, and Budthorne came hastening through the palm grove. As they approached, they saw a man dodging away. They ordered him to stop, but this resulted in his fleeing still more swiftly, and he quickly disappeared.Then the colonel declared he heard a low cry, not far away. The Texan joined them, declaring Bunol had confessed that Nadia was near by. They began searching, and soon they came upon the mouth of an excavation, one of many such, made by scientists in uncovering the ruins of old Memphis.From the depths of this opening Nadia answered his call. In a reckless, headstrong manner, the Texan let himself down into the opening, released all holds and slid to the bottom.“Here she is!” he shouted, in delighted satisfaction. “She’s all right! Hooray! Whoop! Whoop-ee! Get a rope from the steamer and yank us out.”Medjid Bey gave an order to his engineer immediately after our friends left the yacht for the shore. The engineer hastened to get up steam. This was not such a difficult task, as the fires had been kept in a condition that would enable them to move with very little delay.The Turk leaned on the rail of his yacht and listened to every sound that came from the palm forest. Finally he spoke to the Greek, who had lingered near his master’s side.“Cast off from that steamer,” he said. “Do so quietly. Don’t attract attention.”Thus it happened that the captain of the steamer was surprised some moments later to discover that the yacht was floating clear of his boat. He sang out to Medjid Bey, but the Turk made no answer.A sound of moving machinery and puffing steam came from the yacht. The anchor was hoisted, the yacht swung round.“It’s no fight of mine,” muttered the captain of the steamer, in Swedish. “Let him go. I’ve earned my money.”When our friends reappeared on the shore, accompanied by Nadia and bearing the wounded Spaniard, they discovered that the yacht was rapidly disappearing into the silver mist, far down the placid Nile.On the return trip to Cairo Nadia told how Bunol and Medjid Bey had discovered the approaching of the steamer long before it arrived in the vicinity of the yacht. The Spaniard was confident pursuers were coming. He wished to fight them from the yacht, but the Turk objected.“Then put me ashore,” said Bunol. “Give me the girl and those two Nubians to take care of her. If they board your yacht, light up and keep away from them. I’m going to kill one of my enemies to-night. I’ll fire from the shore.”And so it happened that Nadia was dragged ashore and thrust into the excavation, the black men being left to guard her. One of them left the other, seeking to render Bunol assistance in the encounter with Buckhart; but Dick appeared in the nick of time. Finally the other took flight, and Nadia was found, exhausted and hysterical after her fearful experience, but otherwise unharmed.When Cairo was finally reached Miguel Bunol was ghastly white and limp from the loss of blood and pain he had endured. Dick lost no time in getting the fellow into a hospital.In the morning Merriwell visited his enemy. He wore a very sober face on returning to the Shepherd’s Hotel.“Is he dead?” asked Brad.“No; but he may not recover. His right leg has been amputated above the knee.”“Well, I opine he’s got what was his just due,” said the Texan.THE END.BURT L. STANDISHwhose stories in book form appear exclusively in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY has not lived in vain. Even if he does not write another line, he has accomplished so much good with his Merriwell stories that “Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” may be truly said to him on account of his splendid work. 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CHAPTER XXX—HIS JUST DESERTSThe Turk did not shrink before Budthorne. He remained unruffled as he said:“Very well; search the boat, gentlemen. As I know two of you to be responsible, you have my permission to look the yacht over from stem to stern.”“It’s a bluff!” growled Buckhart.But in his heart Dick was beginning to fear that neither Nadia nor Bunol would be found on the yacht.Budthorne was greatly wrought up, and he urged the others to come on.The Turk spoke to his companion, who stepped aside and disappeared.A moment later lights flashed up all over the yacht.The Turk stood smiling in the light of an electric lantern, his manner indicating his confidence in the result of the impending search.The lights showed two men forward, where they had been standing in the shadow of the pilot house.They were the pilot and engineer. One was a Greek and the other an Armenian.“Are these all of your crew?” demanded John Coddington.“Yes, sir.”Now that the lights were on, Professor Gunn came crawling cautiously over the rail onto the deck of the yacht, to which the steamer had been made fast.“Hum! ha!” he coughed. “I must see that nothing is neglected. Proceed with the search, gentlemen.”Medjid Bey, the owner of the yacht, lighted a Turkish cigarette and puffed away with indifference as the boarders began searching the yacht.It did not take long to search the small, but elegant craft from one end to the other, and not a trace of Nadia or Bunol was found.Budthorne was infuriated. He seemed almost deranged.“What have they done with her?” he cried. “What have they done with my sister?”Brad and Dick held a consultation in low tones.“We’re tricked, pard,” said the Texan. “The Spanish snake and the dirty Turk have fooled us. What can we do? They’ve carried Nadia off. I’m for taking that Mohammedan varmint by the throat and squeezing the truth out of him.”“I’m afraid we can’t get at the truth that way,” said Dick. “It is a bad piece of business.”“Bad! Pard, if that Spaniard harms a hair of Nadia’s head I’ll skin him alive! You hear me warble! I’ll kill him by inches!”Dick walked toward the stern of the yacht, which had swung quite close to the shore. Indeed, not more than twelve or fourteen feet of water lay between that end of the yacht and the bank, showing that the water was very deep there.Merriwell stood looking into the shadows of the palm grove, feeling desperate and baffled. Suddenly in the gloom of the grove there was a red spout of fire.The report of a pistol startled the peaceful night. Dick Merriwell dropped on the deck of the yacht. A roar of fury burst from the lips of Brad Buckhart. With two great leaps he reached the rail of the yacht and perched on it. Then he uprose and flung himself forward in a spring for the bank.He cleared the space and landed on the shore. Recklessly he charged into the palm grove, a pistol in his hand. The Texan believed his comrade had been shot down in a dastardly manner, and his heart was filled with a mad longing for vengeance.He ran toward the spot where the flash of the weapon had been seen. Through a dim bit of moonlight ahead of him a figure seemed to flit. That glimpse was enough for the Texan. He flung up his hand and his pistol barked twice.“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!”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!”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.”Buckhart struck a match and Dick made a hasty examination, questioning the wounded rascal. He found that Bunol had been wounded in the knee and was bleeding profusely. With his pocketknife Merriwell quickly cut away Miguel’s trousers and exposed the wound.The Spaniard lifted the upper part of his body and looked at his bloody knee. A groan escaped him, and then he began to sob. All the nerve had been taken out of him.Dick quickly cut a strip from the lower part of Bunol’s trousers leg, twisted it like a rope, tied it round the fellow’s leg above the knee, inserted his pistol barrel through the loop and began to twist, thus tightening the manufactured cord until it began to cut into the flesh and checked the flow of blood.In the meantime Brad had been questioning Bunol about Nadia, and the cowered wretch confessed that she was hidden close at hand in a portion of an excavated temple and still guarded by one of the two black men.A distant call startled the boys. When the call was repeated they recognized it as coming from some of their friends, and they answered it.Soon Colonel Stringer, Coddington, the professor, and Budthorne came hastening through the palm grove. As they approached, they saw a man dodging away. They ordered him to stop, but this resulted in his fleeing still more swiftly, and he quickly disappeared.Then the colonel declared he heard a low cry, not far away. The Texan joined them, declaring Bunol had confessed that Nadia was near by. They began searching, and soon they came upon the mouth of an excavation, one of many such, made by scientists in uncovering the ruins of old Memphis.From the depths of this opening Nadia answered his call. In a reckless, headstrong manner, the Texan let himself down into the opening, released all holds and slid to the bottom.“Here she is!” he shouted, in delighted satisfaction. “She’s all right! Hooray! Whoop! Whoop-ee! Get a rope from the steamer and yank us out.”Medjid Bey gave an order to his engineer immediately after our friends left the yacht for the shore. The engineer hastened to get up steam. This was not such a difficult task, as the fires had been kept in a condition that would enable them to move with very little delay.The Turk leaned on the rail of his yacht and listened to every sound that came from the palm forest. Finally he spoke to the Greek, who had lingered near his master’s side.“Cast off from that steamer,” he said. “Do so quietly. Don’t attract attention.”Thus it happened that the captain of the steamer was surprised some moments later to discover that the yacht was floating clear of his boat. He sang out to Medjid Bey, but the Turk made no answer.A sound of moving machinery and puffing steam came from the yacht. The anchor was hoisted, the yacht swung round.“It’s no fight of mine,” muttered the captain of the steamer, in Swedish. “Let him go. I’ve earned my money.”When our friends reappeared on the shore, accompanied by Nadia and bearing the wounded Spaniard, they discovered that the yacht was rapidly disappearing into the silver mist, far down the placid Nile.On the return trip to Cairo Nadia told how Bunol and Medjid Bey had discovered the approaching of the steamer long before it arrived in the vicinity of the yacht. The Spaniard was confident pursuers were coming. He wished to fight them from the yacht, but the Turk objected.“Then put me ashore,” said Bunol. “Give me the girl and those two Nubians to take care of her. If they board your yacht, light up and keep away from them. I’m going to kill one of my enemies to-night. I’ll fire from the shore.”And so it happened that Nadia was dragged ashore and thrust into the excavation, the black men being left to guard her. One of them left the other, seeking to render Bunol assistance in the encounter with Buckhart; but Dick appeared in the nick of time. Finally the other took flight, and Nadia was found, exhausted and hysterical after her fearful experience, but otherwise unharmed.When Cairo was finally reached Miguel Bunol was ghastly white and limp from the loss of blood and pain he had endured. Dick lost no time in getting the fellow into a hospital.In the morning Merriwell visited his enemy. He wore a very sober face on returning to the Shepherd’s Hotel.“Is he dead?” asked Brad.“No; but he may not recover. His right leg has been amputated above the knee.”“Well, I opine he’s got what was his just due,” said the Texan.THE END.BURT L. STANDISHwhose stories in book form appear exclusively in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY has not lived in vain. Even if he does not write another line, he has accomplished so much good with his Merriwell stories that “Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” may be truly said to him on account of his splendid work. In addition to the works of Mr. Standish, there are books by Horatio Alger, Jr., Oliver Optic and dozens of other popular writers in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY that make this line great, big value at Fifteen Cents per Copy.“The Right Books at the Right Price”NOTICE: If these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the price of each copy to cover postage.STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORKPUBLISHER’S NOTENotwithstanding the fact that the sales of magazines have increased tremendously during the past five or six years, the popularity of a good paper-covered novel, printed in attractive and convenient form, remains undiminished.There are thousands of readers who do not care for magazines because the stories in them, as a rule, are short and just about the time they become interested in it, it ends and they are obliged to readjust their thoughts to a set of entirely different characters.The S. & S. novel is long and complete and enables the reader to spend many hours of thorough enjoyment without doing any mental gymnastics. Our paper-covered books stand pre-eminent among up-to-date fiction. Every day sees a new copyrighted title added to the S. & S. lines, each one making them stronger, better and more invincible.STREET & SMITH, Publishers79-89 SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKDICK MERRIWELL’S PRANKS***
The Turk did not shrink before Budthorne. He remained unruffled as he said:
“Very well; search the boat, gentlemen. As I know two of you to be responsible, you have my permission to look the yacht over from stem to stern.”
“It’s a bluff!” growled Buckhart.
But in his heart Dick was beginning to fear that neither Nadia nor Bunol would be found on the yacht.
Budthorne was greatly wrought up, and he urged the others to come on.
The Turk spoke to his companion, who stepped aside and disappeared.
A moment later lights flashed up all over the yacht.
The Turk stood smiling in the light of an electric lantern, his manner indicating his confidence in the result of the impending search.
The lights showed two men forward, where they had been standing in the shadow of the pilot house.
They were the pilot and engineer. One was a Greek and the other an Armenian.
“Are these all of your crew?” demanded John Coddington.
“Yes, sir.”
Now that the lights were on, Professor Gunn came crawling cautiously over the rail onto the deck of the yacht, to which the steamer had been made fast.
“Hum! ha!” he coughed. “I must see that nothing is neglected. Proceed with the search, gentlemen.”
Medjid Bey, the owner of the yacht, lighted a Turkish cigarette and puffed away with indifference as the boarders began searching the yacht.
It did not take long to search the small, but elegant craft from one end to the other, and not a trace of Nadia or Bunol was found.
Budthorne was infuriated. He seemed almost deranged.
“What have they done with her?” he cried. “What have they done with my sister?”
Brad and Dick held a consultation in low tones.
“We’re tricked, pard,” said the Texan. “The Spanish snake and the dirty Turk have fooled us. What can we do? They’ve carried Nadia off. I’m for taking that Mohammedan varmint by the throat and squeezing the truth out of him.”
“I’m afraid we can’t get at the truth that way,” said Dick. “It is a bad piece of business.”
“Bad! Pard, if that Spaniard harms a hair of Nadia’s head I’ll skin him alive! You hear me warble! I’ll kill him by inches!”
Dick walked toward the stern of the yacht, which had swung quite close to the shore. Indeed, not more than twelve or fourteen feet of water lay between that end of the yacht and the bank, showing that the water was very deep there.
Merriwell stood looking into the shadows of the palm grove, feeling desperate and baffled. Suddenly in the gloom of the grove there was a red spout of fire.
The report of a pistol startled the peaceful night. Dick Merriwell dropped on the deck of the yacht. A roar of fury burst from the lips of Brad Buckhart. With two great leaps he reached the rail of the yacht and perched on it. Then he uprose and flung himself forward in a spring for the bank.
He cleared the space and landed on the shore. Recklessly he charged into the palm grove, a pistol in his hand. The Texan believed his comrade had been shot down in a dastardly manner, and his heart was filled with a mad longing for vengeance.
He ran toward the spot where the flash of the weapon had been seen. Through a dim bit of moonlight ahead of him a figure seemed to flit. That glimpse was enough for the Texan. He flung up his hand and his pistol barked twice.
“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!”
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!”
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.”
Buckhart struck a match and Dick made a hasty examination, questioning the wounded rascal. He found that Bunol had been wounded in the knee and was bleeding profusely. With his pocketknife Merriwell quickly cut away Miguel’s trousers and exposed the wound.
The Spaniard lifted the upper part of his body and looked at his bloody knee. A groan escaped him, and then he began to sob. All the nerve had been taken out of him.
Dick quickly cut a strip from the lower part of Bunol’s trousers leg, twisted it like a rope, tied it round the fellow’s leg above the knee, inserted his pistol barrel through the loop and began to twist, thus tightening the manufactured cord until it began to cut into the flesh and checked the flow of blood.
In the meantime Brad had been questioning Bunol about Nadia, and the cowered wretch confessed that she was hidden close at hand in a portion of an excavated temple and still guarded by one of the two black men.
A distant call startled the boys. When the call was repeated they recognized it as coming from some of their friends, and they answered it.
Soon Colonel Stringer, Coddington, the professor, and Budthorne came hastening through the palm grove. As they approached, they saw a man dodging away. They ordered him to stop, but this resulted in his fleeing still more swiftly, and he quickly disappeared.
Then the colonel declared he heard a low cry, not far away. The Texan joined them, declaring Bunol had confessed that Nadia was near by. They began searching, and soon they came upon the mouth of an excavation, one of many such, made by scientists in uncovering the ruins of old Memphis.
From the depths of this opening Nadia answered his call. In a reckless, headstrong manner, the Texan let himself down into the opening, released all holds and slid to the bottom.
“Here she is!” he shouted, in delighted satisfaction. “She’s all right! Hooray! Whoop! Whoop-ee! Get a rope from the steamer and yank us out.”
Medjid Bey gave an order to his engineer immediately after our friends left the yacht for the shore. The engineer hastened to get up steam. This was not such a difficult task, as the fires had been kept in a condition that would enable them to move with very little delay.
The Turk leaned on the rail of his yacht and listened to every sound that came from the palm forest. Finally he spoke to the Greek, who had lingered near his master’s side.
“Cast off from that steamer,” he said. “Do so quietly. Don’t attract attention.”
Thus it happened that the captain of the steamer was surprised some moments later to discover that the yacht was floating clear of his boat. He sang out to Medjid Bey, but the Turk made no answer.
A sound of moving machinery and puffing steam came from the yacht. The anchor was hoisted, the yacht swung round.
“It’s no fight of mine,” muttered the captain of the steamer, in Swedish. “Let him go. I’ve earned my money.”
When our friends reappeared on the shore, accompanied by Nadia and bearing the wounded Spaniard, they discovered that the yacht was rapidly disappearing into the silver mist, far down the placid Nile.
On the return trip to Cairo Nadia told how Bunol and Medjid Bey had discovered the approaching of the steamer long before it arrived in the vicinity of the yacht. The Spaniard was confident pursuers were coming. He wished to fight them from the yacht, but the Turk objected.
“Then put me ashore,” said Bunol. “Give me the girl and those two Nubians to take care of her. If they board your yacht, light up and keep away from them. I’m going to kill one of my enemies to-night. I’ll fire from the shore.”
And so it happened that Nadia was dragged ashore and thrust into the excavation, the black men being left to guard her. One of them left the other, seeking to render Bunol assistance in the encounter with Buckhart; but Dick appeared in the nick of time. Finally the other took flight, and Nadia was found, exhausted and hysterical after her fearful experience, but otherwise unharmed.
When Cairo was finally reached Miguel Bunol was ghastly white and limp from the loss of blood and pain he had endured. Dick lost no time in getting the fellow into a hospital.
In the morning Merriwell visited his enemy. He wore a very sober face on returning to the Shepherd’s Hotel.
“Is he dead?” asked Brad.
“No; but he may not recover. His right leg has been amputated above the knee.”
“Well, I opine he’s got what was his just due,” said the Texan.
THE END.
THE END.
BURT L. STANDISHwhose stories in book form appear exclusively in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY has not lived in vain. Even if he does not write another line, he has accomplished so much good with his Merriwell stories that “Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” may be truly said to him on account of his splendid work. In addition to the works of Mr. Standish, there are books by Horatio Alger, Jr., Oliver Optic and dozens of other popular writers in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY that make this line great, big value at Fifteen Cents per Copy.“The Right Books at the Right Price”NOTICE: If these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the price of each copy to cover postage.STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK
BURT L. STANDISH
whose stories in book form appear exclusively in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY has not lived in vain. Even if he does not write another line, he has accomplished so much good with his Merriwell stories that “Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” may be truly said to him on account of his splendid work. In addition to the works of Mr. Standish, there are books by Horatio Alger, Jr., Oliver Optic and dozens of other popular writers in the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY that make this line great, big value at Fifteen Cents per Copy.
“The Right Books at the Right Price”
NOTICE: If these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the price of each copy to cover postage.
STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK
PUBLISHER’S NOTENotwithstanding the fact that the sales of magazines have increased tremendously during the past five or six years, the popularity of a good paper-covered novel, printed in attractive and convenient form, remains undiminished.There are thousands of readers who do not care for magazines because the stories in them, as a rule, are short and just about the time they become interested in it, it ends and they are obliged to readjust their thoughts to a set of entirely different characters.The S. & S. novel is long and complete and enables the reader to spend many hours of thorough enjoyment without doing any mental gymnastics. Our paper-covered books stand pre-eminent among up-to-date fiction. Every day sees a new copyrighted title added to the S. & S. lines, each one making them stronger, better and more invincible.STREET & SMITH, Publishers79-89 SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Notwithstanding the fact that the sales of magazines have increased tremendously during the past five or six years, the popularity of a good paper-covered novel, printed in attractive and convenient form, remains undiminished.
There are thousands of readers who do not care for magazines because the stories in them, as a rule, are short and just about the time they become interested in it, it ends and they are obliged to readjust their thoughts to a set of entirely different characters.
The S. & S. novel is long and complete and enables the reader to spend many hours of thorough enjoyment without doing any mental gymnastics. Our paper-covered books stand pre-eminent among up-to-date fiction. Every day sees a new copyrighted title added to the S. & S. lines, each one making them stronger, better and more invincible.
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
79-89 SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKDICK MERRIWELL’S PRANKS***