“Sure we will!” declared Patsy energetically. “We can stand off all they can bring over. Eh, Chick?”
“I guess,” was Chick’s brief reply, as he brought another cartridge forward in his rifle. “You get, Mr. Arnold.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” was the pithy rejoinder.
He swung the light, but sinewy form of Adil over his shoulder, and broke his way through the wood the way they had come. Jefferson Arnold was a New York business man. But he had also hunted big game in several countries, and he was a woodsman who knew the game.
Hardly had Arnold gone, when a crowd of dark-skinned men broke cover across the clearing. They had knives and spears in their hands, and they were bent on mischief.
“Let go, boys!” cried Nick Carter.
He fired his rifle as he spoke, and simultaneously there was a report from the gun of each of his two assistants. They fired two more shots apiece as fast as they could pump them out, and the Hindus stopped in amazement that was dangerously near panic.
Yells of anger arose from them, but they did not seem to know what to do in the face of this sudden attack by the white men.
Nick Carter and his two assistants took advantage of the check they had given to dart to fresh cover, a hundred feet or so to the rear.
“It’s a good thing those dubs haven’t got guns,” remarked Patsy. “It’s a wonder they haven’t. What do you think they are?”