Nick Carter felt sure, from the priest’s expression, as he narrowed his eyes under their bushy brows, and glanced in the direction of some of his followers, that he was considering the desirability of trying the experiment on one of them.
He thought better of it after a second or two of reflection. A twisted smile came upon his face, evidently forced, and he affected a genial air as he turned again toward the detective.
His good-natured manner did not deceive anybody, least of all Nick Carter. The latter waited calmly for what was to follow.
“It is not necessary to give me any more proofs, my stranger friends,” smiled Calaman. “We will start for my city at once. Your men are weary with their long travel. I will let my own guards carry their loads for them.”
Nick did not like to see his ammunition cases go into the care of the guards, more particularly as he remarked that the priest gave them quick signs to get them, first of all. But it was impossible to refuse what pretended to be an act of courtesy.
“I am sorry I cannot give you horses to ride,” said the priest. “But I have none. By your courtesy, I will ride by your side on this mule of mine. I am not so young as once I was, and if I walk, I soon become fatigued.”
The procession started, with everybody apparently friendly to everybody else, and all in good humor.
The coolies were glad to be relieved of their packs, and chattered among themselves with more animation than they had shown since they began their long hike.
Jefferson Arnold drew close to Nick Carter, seeking an opportunity to speak to him without being observed by the keen-eyed Calaman.
“We are walking into the jaws of a trap, old man,” he whispered. “That old rascal means mischief.”