While showing the priest how the cartridge was put in, Nick had slyly driven the muzzle of the weapon into the sand at his feet, plugging the barrel very badly.
“I see,” observed Calaman. “Is that all?”
“Not quite. You place this end of the stick against your shoulder, to hold it firm. Then you press your finger against this bit of steel. When you do that there will be a loud noise, and the bit of lead, like those you saw in that dried head, will fly out and strike anything that may be in the way.”
Calaman listened intently. Then he took the rifle in his hands with the joy of a child in handling a new toy.
Under Nick Carter’s guidance, he placed the butt against his shoulder, and pulled the trigger.
The detective had said there would be a loud noise.
There was. The plugged rifle came near bursting, and the recoil knocked Calaman backward in a most undignified somersault, with a badly bruised shoulder and half stunned.
“I told you it was a white man’s weapon,” chuckled the detective, “and dangerous to those who did not understand it. You are not hurt?”
The priest did not reply to the question. He was scowling wickedly, as he got up, with the assistance of two of his guards, and rubbed his shoulder.
Patsy Garvan could not repress his mirth. He let out a loud snort of enjoyment before Chick could stop it, and then had to get behind the others to recover himself.