Chick was fighting valiantly, and though at least half a dozen spearmen had him in the middle of them, he was giving them all they could do to prevent his getting away.
One, two, three—went down under blows of his revolver. He had discharged all his cartridges, but the heavy pistol made a splendid war club.
“Hold them off another second!” shouted Nick Carter.
Chick did not reply in words, but he redoubled his efforts against his adversaries, knocking down another one just as he looked over toward his chief.
Undoubtedly what saved Chick’s life was the order of Calaman that he should be taken prisoner and not killed. The priest wanted him for certain purposes of his own. What those purposes were Nick Carter knew well enough, in view of the fact that the Festival of the Golden Scarab was set for the morrow.
“A wedge!” called out Nick to the men behind him.
They all understood. Even Jai Singh, who never had seen a football game in his life, comprehended the meaning and efficacy of a formation with a sharp edge, and weight behind it. As soon as Patsy took his place and made a sign, the tall East Indian fell into line.
With Nick Carter himself in the front, the flying wedge cut through a score of swarthy rascals who tried to stop them and made its way to where Chick was still battling for his life.
“Fall in, Chick!” shouted Nick.
There was a scuffle, in which it seemed as if everybody was fighting everybody else. Really, it was a scientific bit of strategy on the part of the white men, opposed to disorganized efforts by their untutored enemy.