This was true. In some ingenious way, the dusky warriors had contrived to get Leslie separated from the others, and were forcing him to their rear.
“Come on, boys!” called out Nick Carter.
That was all he said, but both Chick and Patsy knew, from the tone, that it meant business.
Disdaining cover, the detective jumped into the middle of the path and rushed into the crowd of dark-browed Hindus who were shooting hatred from their black eyes as fast as they were sending arrows on their vain mission of death.
“Club your rifles and knock them down,” was Nick Carter’s order.
He swung his heavy revolver—he had no rifle—and brought down the foremost man like an ox struck by a sledge hammer. Then he darted forward until he was by the side of Leslie Arnold.
Two powerful natives were holding the young man by the arms, but in his right hand he still gripped the repeating rifle which he was no longer able to use.
With one blow of the revolver, Nick sent the man on Leslie’s left to the ground, and shooting out his left fist almost simultaneously, he caught the other fellow and laid him flat by the side of his comrade.
“Get to work with your gun, Leslie!” shouted Nick Carter. “Here come more of them!”
Indeed, it seemed as if there were no end to the evil-looking rascals now.