“Take cover! Quick!” he thundered. “Those two are bringing the whole pack about our ears.”
Everybody rushed behind rocks, rifle in hand, except Nick. He was looking over into the chasm.
“Chief!” cried Chick anxiously. “What’s the matter? What are you doing out there? They’ll fill you full of arrows and poison. Come back here!”
Nick Carter waved his hand to silence his terrified assistant. Then he flung himself flat upon the narrow path, with one of his long, sinewy, capable arms stretched down over the precipice.
There was a momentary strain, a quickening of the great detective’s breath. Then—a tall, dark, lean figure, in scanty white clothing, topped by a large white turban with a jewel in the center, leaped lightly upon the narrow path.
“Thank you, sahib!” said Jai Singh calmly, as, taking Nick Carter’s hand, he dragged him to the safety of the overhanging rock.
It was not Jai Singh’s way to offer effusive thanks, even for the saving of his life. But the detective knew that, even if he could not have depended on Jai Singh to the last drop of his blood before, he certainly could command it now.
“How many of those men are there, Mr. Arnold?” asked Nick of Leslie. “I mean, of those fellows from the other side of the mountains.”
“About twenty here,” was the reply. “In the whole country where they worship the Golden Scarab, many thousands.”
“I don’t care about the thousands,” answered Nick Carter. “What we have to attend to is the twenty or more who followed you.”