CHAPTER XI.
NICK HANDS BACK A RELIC.
“Beat them back, boys! It’s only a bluff!” shouted the voice of Leslie Arnold, from somewhere in the middle of the invaders.
“Look out!” bellowed Jefferson. “They’ve got my boy again! Carter, I depend on you!”
This was an unnecessary reminder. Nick had seen at a glance what the trouble was all about, and he hurled himself into the thick of the fighting with a vigor that sent half a dozen men reeling from him on either side.
As the detective thus made a way for himself, using only his fists, Leslie Arnold broke away from two gigantic men in the uniform of Calaman’s guards.
“Lend me a gun, somebody!” shouted Leslie. “They’ve grabbed mine away from me! A rifle, or pistol—anything that will shoot!”
But Nick Carter merely caught the young fellow by the hand, and, with a tremendous yank, dragged him away from the men who had been holding him.
The result of the pull was that Leslie came staggering forward, and was caught in the arms of his indignant father.
By this time Nick Carter had drawn his automatic revolver and was pointing it at the head of the foremost of the two men who had held Leslie Arnold.
The fellow knew enough of the power of the mysterious “death stick” to be in dread even of a little one. As he saw the stern face behind the revolver and watched the gently moving finger on the trigger, his mouth opened in terror and he let his long spear fall to the ground.
His companion, faced by a rifle in the hand of Chick, also let his spear sink into the sand at his feet, while their followers, some twenty strong, seemed ready to give up their weapons at the word of command.
“Stand!” roared Lord Slava, in a voice of thunder. “Who are you?”
The two leaders were wise in their way, and they had gathered enough of the trend of affairs in the last minute to understand that there had been a great change in the government of Shangore—which, in effect, meant all Bolongu.
They were assisted to this conclusion by the spectacle of the dead Calaman, who was being carried away by two men with no more respect than had been shown to the remains of the men killed by the Golden Scarab half an hour before.
“We were guards of the high priest Calaman,” was the reply of one of the men, with a decided emphasis on the word “were.” “We are now whatever my lord desires.”
Lord Slava grinned at Nick Carter.
“What do you think of these men?” he asked, in a low tone. “They were seemingly loyal to Calaman. But they are mine now—until somebody takes my power from me. Well, one must use what material comes to his hand. These men are no worse than most others in Shangore. They have been so oppressed for years that one cannot wonder they are truckling and time-serving.”
“What were they doing with my friend Leslie Arnold?” asked Nick.
“We had been told by Calaman to take care of him if he escaped the Golden Scarab,” said one of the two men. “We did not know that Calaman was dead, and we were obeying orders.”
“That’s just like Calaman,” remarked Lord Slava. “If, by any chance, this young white man, Leslie, had beaten the Golden Scarab, then he was to be put to death in some other way. I’m glad Calaman is dead.”
“So am I,” roared Jefferson Arnold. “Because it saves me the trouble of killing him. I would have done it right now, if somebody else hadn’t done it first.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Lord Slava, “I think everything is safe now. By the way, there are four servants of yours, who carried your baggage, waiting in the palace. I had them there, feeling sure that we should be victorious in what we have just now attempted, and I knew you would want your men. I have been appointed provisional governor of Shangore. You will dine with me to-night at the palace, will you not?”
Nick Carter willingly accepted the invitation on behalf of his companions, as well as himself, and then started out for a stroll about Shangore, with only Chick, Patsy, and Captain for company.
“I’ve always been saddled with old Calaman before when I looked over the city,” he remarked. “It will be pleasant to go where we please and see what we please, without that old rascal always on the watch.”
The dinner that evening at the palace was well served, and Lord Slava made a noble figure at the head of the table, as the host.
There were fifty people at the great board, most of them of noble blood and resembling in a general way Lord Slava himself.
Nick Carter had the place of honor on the right of the host, with Chick on his left. Close by were the two Arnolds and Patsy Garvan. The white men declared afterward that they never had sat at a pleasanter dinner table.
It was proved that the educated inhabitants of Shangore were full of wit and a certain delicate humor that would have done credit to New York, Boston, or Philadelphia, not to leave out Chicago and San Francisco.
“Say, chief,” whispered Patsy, after a particularly good story by Lord Slava, “we haven’t got anything on these people at our swell public dinners in New York, have we?”
“The after-dinner speaker and story-teller is not peculiar to any age or clime,” laughed Nick Carter. “I hope they are taking care of Jai Singh and Adil through all this.”
“They are dining with my principal officers in an adjoining hall,” volunteered Lord Slava, who had overheard the remark of his guest. “We owe a great deal to Jai Singh. We must not forget that he wanted to take up the challenge of the Golden Scarab. It was only the detestable meanness and pretense of Calaman that prevented his doing the work that fell to you, Mr. Carter.”
“I can hardly feel bitter against Calaman for that,” laughed Nick. “I had an experience in that arena which was entirely new to me, and I must confess that I enjoy new sensations.”
There was more talk and jollity over various things, and then Nick Carter got to his feet, and in a speech that Patsy afterward said was a bully one, thanked Lord Slava for his assistance in rescuing Leslie Arnold, winding up by requesting him to accept the rifle that had killed the head of the Golden Scarab and had helped to bring a better government to Shangore.
The rifle was accepted with thanks, and after the dinner Nick Carter gave Lord Slava a few lessons in handling it.
Early in the morning, three days later, the party of white men, with their four coolies carrying provisions, and with Jai Singh and Adil leading the way, departed for the mountain pass that would be their first stage on the way home.
Lord Slava sent an escort of a hundred men to get them through the pass, after loading the four coolies with presents for their employers.
These presents were mostly in the shape of jewels and golden ornaments, so that they were not very heavy, although the coolies were so loyal to Nick Carter that they would not have complained if they had had to carry much more than they did.
Slava had been chosen permanent governor of Shangore, and there was great rejoicing all through the Bolongu country, as well as in the city.
Before the soldiers who had brought them to the pass went back, Leslie Arnold and his father had a rather lengthy confab apart from the rest of their party.
“I want to send something back to Lord Slava,” said Leslie. “If it had not been for him, I shouldn’t be here now, in all probability. With Carter and you shut up in that dungeon, what chance would you have had of getting at me before that devilish beetle contrivance poisoned me to death?”
Jefferson Arnold shuddered. He knew too well how near he had come to losing his only son.
“You’re right there, Leslie,” he assented. “But what can we give to Slava? The man has more gold and silver and precious stones than he wants, as it is. I don’t know what we can give him that he would care for.”
“He would appreciate the sentiment of gratitude that prompted us, at all events,” returned the young man.
“That’s all right, Leslie,” grunted his father. “But I should like our sentiment to take a form that would please him outside of that. Wait a minute. We’ll ask——Hello, Carter!”
“What is it?” asked the detective.
“Come over here. We want to ask you something.”
Nick Carter strolled over to the two Arnolds and gave them a good-humored nod.
“Go ahead! What’s the difficulty?”
In a few words Leslie Arnold explained what they wanted to do, and the quandary they were in as to how to do it.
“We should like to present Lord Slava with something he would like to possess, and at the same time make him understand in some tangible way how grateful we are.”
Nick Carter reflected for a few minutes. Suddenly he exclaimed, in a tone of conviction, as he slapped his right fist into the palm of his other hand:
“I believe I have it!”
“What?” asked Jefferson Arnold. “Something that he would like to have, do you mean?”
“That is exactly what I do mean,” replied the detective. “Moreover, I have it right here, in my pocket.”
“A photograph of yourself?”
“No. Not exactly,” smiled Nick Carter. “I don’t suppose he’d care for that.”
“I don’t agree with you there,” dissented Leslie. “But what is it you have?”
Nick dived into one of his coat pockets and brought out a round object wrapped in a cloth.
“Here is something that I am sure Lord Slava would like to have. In fact, I consider it belongs to him more than to any one else. I took it to keep as a memento of this trip through India and of the people of the Land of the Golden Scarab. But I willingly give it up.”
He unrolled the cloth, and held up the shriveled head he had taken from the cavern of the old witch doctor whom they had surprised hanging over a brazier and caldron more than a week before.
Jefferson Arnold and his son both backed away and looked incredulously at Nick Carter—disgustedly, in fact.
“What in thunder would he want such a thing as that for?” roared Jefferson. “I can’t bear to look at it.”
“Perhaps not. But don’t forget that this is the head of Prince Tillo, an uncle of Lord Slava’s. Different people have different ideas, my dear Arnold,” continued Nick Carter impressively. “I believe that if Lord Slava had this mummified head to hang in the temple at Shangore, he would be better pleased than with anything else you could give him. Suppose you ask the captain of his guard over there.”
After some persuasion, Jefferson Arnold followed Nick’s advice. The eagerness with which the soldier took the grisly relic told them they had hit on the right thing.
“Lord Slava would have given many jewels for this,” he said. “May I take it to him?”
“You certainly may,” answered Jefferson, trying to hide a grimace of disgust. “With my compliments, and the gratitude of both my son and myself.”
* * * * *
It was three months later, when Nick Carter and his two assistants sat in the handsome library in Nick Carter’s home in Madison Avenue, New York, that the detective asked Patsy what the little three-cornered plate of gold was that he had seen in his hand the night before.
Patsy grinned.
“It is a relic of our trip into Shangore, in the Himalayas,” he replied. “I grabbed it before we left that amphitheater after all the fuss. I found it in the sand.”
“Well, but what is it?”
“Only one of the scales from the Golden Scarab. I was going to have it mounted in a frame, to hang up in the library. It was to be a present to you from Chick and myself.”
“I shall be very glad to accept it,” smiled Nick Carter. “It will help me to realize, when I look at it, that all that adventure in Shangore was not a dream.”
THE END.