Chick carried his rifle, and his revolver was in his pocket. Jai Singh had his spear—a weapon which, in his capable hands, was equal to any firearm—and he kept it ready in his muscular fingers, ready to hurl it when a foe should appear.
The fellow who had sent the arrow was too cunning to allow himself to be seen. When he had drawn his bowstring he was some eighty yards away, and above the party headed by the detective, and he had kept out of sight.
Jai Singh and Chick had covered a good half of that distance before the foe could notch another arrow to the string.
Just as the two pursuers showed themselves above a ledge of rock, an arrow flashed toward them.
It was like a striking snake, and the “whang” it made sounded to Chick as if it were right in his ear.
But there was another flash just as the arrow came. It was Jai Singh’s spear.
He swept it sideways just in time to prevent the missile burying itself in Chick’s chest. There was a sort of snapping sound, followed by the tinkle of metal on stone.
Jai Singh had cut the arrow in two with one stroke, and it was the barbed-iron head falling upon the rock that had caused the tinkling Chick had heard.
The barbed arrow point had been so near to Chick that the side of it had grazed his shoulder, tearing the white linen of his coat, but not breaking the skin below.
“Go ahead, Jai Singh!” sang out Chick. “We’ve got to get that fellow!”