But the priest was a perfect horseman, and he had control of his animal instantly.
“Well?” ejaculated Jefferson Arnold triumphantly.
Calaman did not allow any expression of surprise to escape him. He was too old a diplomatist for that.
That he was astonished there is no doubt. He had allowed the other white man he spoke of to make the same sort of test, which had failed. Now this quiet, keen-eyed man had knocked over the mountain goat at a longer distance, seemingly without difficulty.
The priest was busy stroking the neck of his mule when Nick Carter turned to him.
“If your men want meat,” he said coolly, “let them go and fetch it. I have sealed one side of the bargain.”
“That is true, stranger,” replied Calaman. “You have kept your word, and I will keep mine.”
The group of white men, with Jai Singh and Adil, were regarding the priest closely. All were ready for any indication of treachery.
Even Captain, who had been sniffing about in the rear, with the four coolies, seemed to realize that a crisis had arrived, for he came forward and rubbed against Patsy Garvan’s legs, as if to remind him of his presence.
“That’s all right, Captain!” whispered Patsy, stooping to pat the bloodhound’s great head. “I know we can depend on you.”