“You bet it had gone down,” remarked Patsy Garvan. “I never knew a camp fire that didn’t go down, unless you lay down before it and blew it most of the night.”
Nick Carter and Chick both smiled. They gave Patsy credit for close observation. Both had noticed this peculiarity of camp fires themselves.
“There was a fight, and I believe Sahib Leslie killed some of them,” continued Adil. “We could not tell how many there were. But it seemed as if fifty men jumped out of the darkness and grabbed at him.”
“They wanted to take him prisoner, eh?”
“That’s what they did at last,” answered Adil. “But for a while there was a fight which was good. I stood by the side of Sahib Leslie, and we shot four—five—many men. They had spears like that.”
He pointed to the lance that had wounded the oarsman in the arm, and which lay in the bottom of the boat.
Nick Carter had taken the implement in his hand, and was looking it over thoughtfully.
He had seen at a glance that it was different from any of the weapons used by the Sepoys or other men in the lower part of Hindustan. Still, it was well made, and there were strange figures burned into the iron head with some strong acid.
“The party must have divided, Adil,” he suggested. “You were brought down here a prisoner. But Mr. Leslie went somewhere else.”
“Yes. Those who brought me wanted much money before they went back to their own country. They said they would make me get it for them.”