The priest stretched out one of his long arms and pointed to a goat that stood on a pinnacle of rock, clearly defined against the soft blue of the sky.
“There is one of our mountain goats,” he said. “The other white man told me he could kill a goat at eighty paces with his death stick. Therefore, I told him he lied.”
“The nerve of him!” grunted Patsy, deep in his throat.
“I put him to the test,” continued Calaman, “and he failed. Let me see if you can kill that one. Then I may believe in some of the things you tell.”
Jefferson Arnold swore softly to himself.
“It’s an infernally long shot, Carter!” he whispered. “The old rip knows that as well as we. And there’s a whole lot hanging on the result. It’s a good two hundred yards, and the light is tricky.”
“But it can be done,” returned Nick Carter quietly.
“I know it can. But it isn’t certain—or wouldn’t be to me. You’re a better shot than I am. You’ll have to take the job. That is, if you let him dictate to you at all. My advice is to tell him to go to Halifax and fight it out right here.”
“We shouldn’t have a chance,” declared Nick. “I would rather fight than make terms with him. But we have to consider what we can do—not what we would like.”
“I suppose you’re right,” conceded Jefferson disgustedly. “But I know I’d like to wade in and take a chance. I’d give him a couple of minutes to get to cover, and after that we’d get busy. Durn these people in these out-of-the-way corners of the world, anyhow.”