Nick Carter followed the direction of Patsy’s pointing finger, and saw William Pike writhing on the ground. A spear was still in his chest.
The man was not dead. Indeed, he seemed to have wonderful strength considering that he had received a wound which, in the very nature of things, must prove fatal.
He rolled over to one side as Nick approached him, and fixing a glare of vengeful hatred on the detective, gurgled:
“It’s all right, Carter! You think I didn’t know you! Well, I did. It is not the first time we’ve met. I always swore I’d get even with you, and I’ve done it. You sent me to the pen for two years. If it hadn’t been for you, my alibi would have stood. Then I came to India, and you’ve followed me here. Well, you’ll never get away alive, and I—I——”
Something welled up in his throat that choked him. He gasped, tried to speak again, and rolled over, dead!
All this had taken only a few seconds.
Nick had seen through this sudden attack, and he knew it was caused by the treachery of this man, who had been caught by one of the spears that had been hurled by the guards of the priest, Calaman.
“I can’t pity him!” thought Nick, as he dashed ahead to get out of the glare of light from the torches. “Come on, boys!”
They were not clear yet, however.
Calaman himself appeared on the drawbridge, in the midst of his men, and Nick heard him give orders to “Capture the white men and bring them back!”