WHAT THE DEATH STICK DID.
There was a grin on the face of the priest that even the full gray
beard could not conceal. He believed he had set an impossible task for
this strange white man. He did not want him to win.
What purpose he had in case of failure was locked in his own bosom.
Perhaps he meant to kill the whole party.
Or he may have meant to make them prisoners. The Golden Scarab was
always crying for sacrifices, according to the people of that land.
“I accept your test,” went on Nick Carter. “But on one condition: Your
mountain goat is quite four spears’ lengths away even for the strongest
of your men. That means that my death stick is four times as powerful
as any of your spears.”
Calaman nodded.
“If I win, you shall lead us into your city of Shangore and deliver up
the white man you hold prisoner. In exchange for him I will give you
some of these strange weapons of ours.”
“And if you lose?” suggested the priest.
“If I lose, we will fight it out to a finish here and now. But remember
this, Calaman: I hold in this little death stick of mine the lives of
fourteen men. Each of the other white men with me can take as many
more. Then there is Jai Singh, who casts the spear with mightier force
than any other man in India——”
“I have some good spearmen,” interrupted the priest, with a slight
shrug as he stroked his beard with one hand.
“You will need them all if I should fail to bring down that mountain
goat,” rejoined Nick Carter. “You are a hundred and more against a mere
handful of us. But that will not avail you. We shall conquer them all.
And I may remark that it isn’t likely you, personally, will live long
enough to know much about the outcome of the fight.”
Calaman waved this last statement aside with a sweeping gesture, as if
it were not worth considering. Then, in calm tones, he answered:
“It shall be as you say, stranger. If the goat dies, I, Calaman, head
priest of the Temple of the Golden Scarab, will lead you and yours
into the city of Shangore, and there for a little time you shall be
entertained as guests. This, also, I promise: You certainly shall see
that other white man who is of your race—the man you have asked about.
For the rest, we can speak of that later.”
“You mean in case I should happen to miss?” asked Nick.
“If you lose,” returned Calaman, “then we will fight at once. Some of
my people you may kill with your death sticks and spears. But a mile
down the valley are two hundred more of my guards. That means that, in
the end, you will surely be overcome.”
“You are welcome to kill us, if you can,” said Nick Carter, as he
looked over his rifle.
Calaman smiled in his most evil manner.
“We may not kill you,” he hissed. “We shall try to take you alive. If
we do, I would remind you that we, of the Land of the Golden Scarab,
have ways of dealing with our prisoners that are not known to others.”
There was no mistaking the awful meaning of these last words. Nick
Carter knew that, if he should be taken prisoner, it would be to serve
as a sacrifice to the wretched gods these people worshiped. He knew,
also, that his death would be indescribably horrible.
But he showed nothing in his calm face of what thoughts passed through
his brain. He turned away from the priest, saying curtly:
“Enough words! Draw your mule a little to one side, so that I may have
a clear view of what I am to shoot.”
Calaman did as Nick requested, and the detective glanced over to where
the goat was browsing placidly on the hilltop, quite unsuspicious of
the plans against its life. It was a rather larger animal than the goat
commonly seen in the United States, and it had long, backward-curving
horns that gave it the appearance of being bigger than it really was.
Nick Carter was not deceived by this, however. He knew exactly what he
had to do, and he estimated the size of his target as closely as was
necessary.
“It will be easy shooting if there are no flickering clouds,” he
muttered to himself, as he leveled his rifle and steadied his elbow
against a rock.
Jefferson Arnold, his son, Chick, and Patsy all held their breath in
suspense, and Jai Singh stopped cleaning his spear.
While the air was perfectly still, the light was tricky, as Jefferson
Arnold had remarked. It was all against a clean kill.
“You’d better sight for something over two hundred yards, don’t you
think?” suggested the millionaire, as Nick Carter glanced along his
rifle barrel.
“I’ll make it for two hundred and fifty, and aim low,” returned Nick.
“Distances are deceptive in this atmosphere.”
Carefully he adjusted his sights and got his range. The foresight of
his rifle came upon the animal’s shoulder, where he meant to place it.
He did not pull the trigger at once. For a couple of seconds he
hesitated. Even his iron nerves were strained to an uncomfortable
tension.
Crack!
The muzzle of the rifle jerked upward, and they heard a dull knock, as
the bullet struck its target.
Nick had made a bull’s-eye. The goat turned a complete somersault, and
rolled over on its side. It made a convulsive effort to get up, fell
back—and lay still!
“Got him!” murmured Patsy, with a sigh of relief.
Nick Carter got up from his knee, threw out the empty shell, and
slipped another cartridge into the chamber.
He looked to see what had become of Calaman.
The report of the firearm had scared the white mule, causing him to
leap violently to one side.
But the priest was a perfect horseman, and he had control of his animal
instantly.
“Well?” ejaculated Jefferson Arnold triumphantly.
Calaman did not allow any expression of surprise to escape him. He was
too old a diplomatist for that.
That he was astonished there is no doubt. He had allowed the other
white man he spoke of to make the same sort of test, which had failed.
Now this quiet, keen-eyed man had knocked over the mountain goat at a
longer distance, seemingly without difficulty.
The priest was busy stroking the neck of his mule when Nick Carter
turned to him.
“If your men want meat,” he said coolly, “let them go and fetch it. I
have sealed one side of the bargain.”
“That is true, stranger,” replied Calaman. “You have kept your word,
and I will keep mine.”
The group of white men, with Jai Singh and Adil, were regarding the
priest closely. All were ready for any indication of treachery.
Even Captain, who had been sniffing about in the rear, with the four
coolies, seemed to realize that a crisis had arrived, for he came
forward and rubbed against Patsy Garvan’s legs, as if to remind him of
his presence.
“That’s all right, Captain!” whispered Patsy, stooping to pat the
bloodhound’s great head. “I know we can depend on you.”
“We will go on as soon as you are ready,” continued the priest, to
Nick. “You shall visit our city, and you shall see the white man who is
there. After that we will talk. Had I not seen you kill that mountain
goat, I should not have believed—though I, too, can do something of the
same kind, in another sort of way.”
He signed to three of his men to go and fetch the body of the goat.
While they were gone, he sat quietly in his saddle, watching them as
they came staggering along with their burden.
They held it up for him to look at, and he examined the bullet wound
with much interest.
“It is a very small hole,” he muttered, half to himself. “My men say
it was done at a distance of six good spear throws. The death stick
must have great power. With twenty of those sticks I would be able to
command——Ah, well, we shall see!”
He motioned to his men to lay the dead goat down, and beckoned Nick
Carter to come closer.
“Stranger, how many men can you kill with that stick before its power
is gone?” he asked. “And what is the greatest distance at which it will
do its work?”
“Come here, boy?” called out Nick Carter to one of the coolies. “Bring
two of the cartridge cases.”
When the boxes were brought over and laid on the ground by him, the
detective touched one with his foot.
“In that box,” he said, “are the lives of a thousand men and more. As
for the distance that they will kill, if you or one of your men will
stand up at a thousand paces from where I am, I will lift my death
stick and find him as easily as I did that mountain goat.”
There was nothing bragging in the detective’s tone. He spoke only as
any one might tell a truth which was beyond dispute.
Nick Carter felt sure, from the priest’s expression, as he narrowed his
eyes under their bushy brows, and glanced in the direction of some of
his followers, that he was considering the desirability of trying the
experiment on one of them.
He thought better of it after a second or two of reflection. A twisted
smile came upon his face, evidently forced, and he affected a genial
air as he turned again toward the detective.
His good-natured manner did not deceive anybody, least of all Nick
Carter. The latter waited calmly for what was to follow.
“It is not necessary to give me any more proofs, my stranger friends,”
smiled Calaman. “We will start for my city at once. Your men are weary
with their long travel. I will let my own guards carry their loads for
them.”
Nick did not like to see his ammunition cases go into the care of the
guards, more particularly as he remarked that the priest gave them
quick signs to get them, first of all. But it was impossible to refuse
what pretended to be an act of courtesy.
“I am sorry I cannot give you horses to ride,” said the priest. “But
I have none. By your courtesy, I will ride by your side on this mule
of mine. I am not so young as once I was, and if I walk, I soon become
fatigued.”
The procession started, with everybody apparently friendly to everybody
else, and all in good humor.
The coolies were glad to be relieved of their packs, and chattered
among themselves with more animation than they had shown since they
began their long hike.
Jefferson Arnold drew close to Nick Carter, seeking an opportunity to
speak to him without being observed by the keen-eyed Calaman.
“We are walking into the jaws of a trap, old man,” he whispered. “That
old rascal means mischief.”
“I know it,” returned Nick, in the same low tone. “But he hasn’t got us
yet.”