Chapter 3

NICK FINDS A NEW FRIEND.

“I should like to try one of the death sticks,” declared the priest
persuasively. “Could you show me how to do it?”

This was a feeler that the detective knew meant mischief if the priest
were able to follow it up. But there was no way of blocking the game
just then. So Nick seemed to accept it with perfect good humor.

“This is a white man’s weapon,” he warned Calaman, as he held up the
rifle for inspection. “You may try it. But sometimes it will hurt those
who do not understand it.”

“I will take the risk,” was Calaman’s dogged response.

“Very well. Then you place a cartridge in the breech in this way,”
explained Nick, as he illustrated with Jai Singh’s rifle, which he had
taken from the tall Hindu’s hand.

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.

Calaman appeared not to notice all this disturbance. But there is no
doubt that he knew all about it, and privately resolved to punish Mr.
Garvan in his own good time.

“You have shown me things, white man,” he purred, in his mildest manner
as he turned to Nick Carter. “Now I will show you that which none of
your race have seen before. Follow me!”

In a low tone he gave instructions to the captain of his guard. At once
a number of them formed into column and marched on ahead, while a few
remained behind, as bodyguard for the priest.

“Come!” requested Calaman.

As the little party of strangers marched through the streets behind
their priestly conductor, Nick Carter noticed that there was some sort
of suppressed excitement among the teeming populace.

Angry murmurs arose, and now and again stones and garbage were flung
from somewhere.

At first Nick and his companions thought the missiles were intended for
them. Soon, however, they saw that they were mistaken.

From a house on their right there suddenly dashed a man, naked to the
waist, who was brandishing a short, heavy-bladed sword, and who seemed
to be frantic with fury.

With a shriek of rage, he flew at the captain of the guard, and, with
one slashing cut, killed the man.

That was not all. He swept right and left with his formidable sword,
and down went two more soldiers.

It was over in a second, and the maniacal slayer seemed to be looking
around for new victims.

“Good!” ejaculated Jai Singh. “There is a man! Quick as a panther! And
how he can strike! He went clean through the skull and halfway through
the shoulder before his blade turned.”

Jai Singh had become suddenly filled with the blood fury that always
lay a little below the surface in him, and he would have dashed
forward with his spear, to fight anybody or anything, if Nick Carter
had not held him back.

“Stop!” he commanded in the Hindu’s ear, in stern tones. “This is not
our business. Keep out! We shall have enough fighting before we are
through. I’ll tell you when to use your spear.”

Jai Singh panted with eagerness to get into the fray.

“But, sahib,” he returned, in a hoarse murmur, “if I could stand back
to back with that man for a few moments—he with that sword of his, and
I with my spear—there would be a fight that you would like to see. We
two could eat up the whole guard of the old priest, and do what we
liked in Shangore!”

Nick Carter only waved his hand, and gradually Jai Singh subsided.

The strength and agility of the man who had run amuck were amazing.
He escaped from the ring of spears that hedged him in, seemingly by a
miracle. His sword flashed up and down, finding its mark each time. He
might have been invincible.

Numbers told at last, however. As the man’s arm tired, a spear was
thrust into his chest. He sprang back, with a roar of rage, and
flourished his sword valiantly. But it was no use. Another spear was
embedded between his shoulder blades from behind, and he dropped—dead.

The body was picked up and flung carelessly aside, the dead and wounded
guards were carried into a house near by, and the procession moved on
as if there had been no interruption.

Calaman had looked on impassively throughout the whole incident, but
Nick Carter could make out indications of cold, black rage working
within him. Also he noted the scowls of the populace and a certain
fidgeting of some of the soldiers in his vicinity.

One man in particular, whose rather elaborate uniform proclaimed him to
be an officer, showed that he was disgusted with the tragedy that had
just taken place, and that he blamed others than the wretched victims.

This officer was a fine-looking man, with well-cut, high-bred features,
while his black eyes appeared to look through anything upon which they
might chance to be fixed.

It was evident that he found it hard to restrain himself while the
poor, demented creature was struggling with the guard. Once or twice
he fingered his sword hilt. At such times his piercing eyes were fixed
upon Calaman, while his black brows met in a menacing frown.

He caught Nick Carter’s eye, and at once there was an understanding
between the two men.

“Why are such things allowed, my friend?” asked Nick.

“Because that fiend there, Calaman, and his under-priests, rule the
land,” was the savage reply, in an undertone. “They have the power and
the secret of the Golden Scarab. The people cry out and complain. But
that is all. They are superstitious, and they have never understood
what the Golden Scarab is, or how it controls their destinies.”

“Sounds like the worst kind of bunk,” muttered Patsy to Chick. “I’d put
my foot on this Scarab thing, if I lived here.”

“Hush!” returned Chick. “Let’s hear what this man has to say.”

“The priests rule everything in Bolongu, and particularly in this city
of Shangore,” went on the officer to Nick Carter. “Meanwhile we, the
nobles, and the rightful rulers of the land, have to pretend that
we are loyal to these same priests and that we follow their bidding
because we like it.”

“There is a nobility in Bolongu, then?” asked the detective.

“As old as any in the world,” was the proud reply. “Look you! That man
who rushed out of the house, with his bare sword, and who has just been
prodded to death, was of royal blood, a cousin of Prince Tillo. Yet,
because he was suspected of plotting against the priesthood, his wife
is condemned to die to-day by the Scarab.”

“Die by the Scarab? What does that mean?”

“You will see,” was the enigmatical answer. “It will be this afternoon.
Be careful, stranger, you walk a dangerous path! You have strange
powers, as I have seen with my own eyes. Yet Calaman is cunning and
will lay a trap for you. Even now you may be standing within reach of
the claws of the Golden Scarab.”

“What is the Golden Scarab I have heard so much about?” asked the
detective. “Surely a strong man like yourself, with a sword that no
doubt you know how to wield, could kill it—that is, if there is such a
thing as this Scarab, and it is not some fairy tale for children!”

“Wait till this afternoon. I’ll try and have more talk with you then.
Calaman is watching us now. When the people are gathered in the
amphitheater over there this afternoon, the white man you seek is to be
brought out to die the death of the Scarab!”

Horror-stricken as Nick Carter was when he heard this, he was glad
the officer had spoken so softly that only he had heard the words.
Particularly he was pleased that they had not reached the ears of
Jefferson Arnold. If they had, nothing could have prevented the peppery
old millionaire flinging himself at once upon Calaman and his guards in
an endeavor to save his son.

Such an attack could not but have been unsuccessful just then.

“You say the white man is to die this afternoon?” murmured Nick Carter.

“Yes, but not until some others who are condemned have been disposed
of.”

“But—this must not be,” exclaimed Nick, in the same low tone, but with
the fire of determination blazing in his gray eyes. “This young man
is the son of one of the most powerful and wealthiest men in the big
country from which I come—America. You have heard of it?”

“Of course I have,” returned the officer. “Who has not? But if this
young white man is to be saved, it must be by your own endeavors.
There is one thing more,” he added, after a short pause: “If I can
help in any way, I will. Perhaps I can. But no more words. Calaman is
beckoning.”