“And if you lose?” suggested the priest.
“If I lose, we will fight it out to a finish here and now. But remember this, Calaman: I hold in this little death stick of mine the lives of fourteen men. Each of the other white men with me can take as many more. Then there is Jai Singh, who casts the spear with mightier force than any other man in India——”
“I have some good spearmen,” interrupted the priest, with a slight shrug as he stroked his beard with one hand.
“You will need them all if I should fail to bring down that mountain goat,” rejoined Nick Carter. “You are a hundred and more against a mere handful of us. But that will not avail you. We shall conquer them all. And I may remark that it isn’t likely you, personally, will live long enough to know much about the outcome of the fight.”
Calaman waved this last statement aside with a sweeping gesture, as if it were not worth considering. Then, in calm tones, he answered:
“It shall be as you say, stranger. If the goat dies, I, Calaman, head priest of the Temple of the Golden Scarab, will lead you and yours into the city of Shangore, and there for a little time you shall be entertained as guests. This, also, I promise: You certainly shall see that other white man who is of your race—the man you have asked about. For the rest, we can speak of that later.”
“You mean in case I should happen to miss?” asked Nick.
“If you lose,” returned Calaman, “then we will fight at once. Some of my people you may kill with your death sticks and spears. But a mile down the valley are two hundred more of my guards. That means that, in the end, you will surely be overcome.”
“You are welcome to kill us, if you can,” said Nick Carter, as he looked over his rifle.
Calaman smiled in his most evil manner.