They came from below, as well as above. There was murder in every one of their fierce, scowling faces.
“It’s no use!” exclaimed Leslie Arnold. “They have us now. We can only try to fight our way down the hill, and get clear if we can.”
“You bet we can!” yelled Patsy Garvan, who had been fighting so hard that he was bathed in perspiration. “We can wipe out the whole works, if we stick to it. Come on, Chick! Watch me lay out that crooked-eyed citizen in front—the one who is swinging the spear.”
Chick had emptied the magazine of his rifle, but the weapon made a splendid club, and he circled it viciously in the air, so that it cleared the way all around him.
But, fight as they would, it was apparent that the small party could not hope to prevail against all these savage Hindus. There seemed to be fifty, at least.
It was now, when the situation looked hopeless, that an inspiration came to Nick Carter.
He saw that his party could not win with ordinary weapons. But he might use something else. It was worth trying, at all events.
With a loud shout of “Look! All of you!” he raised his hand and held before these men from the Land of the Golden Scarab, something upon which the sun shone redly and seemed to endow with life as he waved it about.
For a space while one might count three there was silence. Then, as Nick stepped forward, holding the object, whatever it was, in his hand, and pushing it into the face of the first man in the rank, an awful shriek arose, and the whole crowd turned and fled.
“Holy Gumbert!” cried Patsy. “What’s the answer?”