They started off along the mountainside at a brisk pace, for the early-morning air was still cold, and exercise was a pleasure—to the white men, at all events.
The witch doctor, or priest, led the way. His hands were tied behind him, and some ten or twelve feet of rope was attached to his waist.
Jai Singh held the end of this rope, like a man taking a pig to market, and in the sash worn by Jai Singh was thrust the sacrificial knife. Nick Carter had passed it to him before they started.
Nick himself had his rifle, with his automatic revolver ready to his hand in a pocket. The others were likewise armed—as they had been from the first—and there seemed little chance of the captured priest getting away, even if he had not been so securely bound.
The way seemed to be so easy that Nick was rather puzzled. He had expected to find all kinds of hindrances, considering how jealous the Bolongu people were over the secrets of their land.
Not far from the entrance to the cave they came to a hidden gully, the top of the divide. It was a path quite invisible from a distance—a mere snail track between towering mountains. Nick Carter realized that they were traveling by a secret path known only to an initiated few, and that few confined to the priesthood of Bolongu.
They all kept a watchful eye on their guide, but he seemed not to be aware of that fact. He was unconcerned, and even cheerful—so far as such a saturnine individual could be said to be so.
Always, however, there was a malevolent cunning in his eyes which made Nick Carter keep him under constant surveillance.
The prisoner never pulled at his bonds, nor resented the fact that Jai Singh was holding him in a leash as if he were an animal. Instead, he stepped along at a lively pace, as if he were rather enjoying the walk, and so little enmity did he show to his captors that now and again he called back to them a word of caution when the path took a sharp turn or dipped abruptly.
At the end of two hours’ march they reached a ridge from which they could look down into a great valley, about ten miles square. Carpeted with fresh grass of the most beautiful green, there were several streams running through it, all converging in a large lake on the other side.
By the side of this lake was a city, whose towers and minarets shone like gold in the morning sun.
“Are they Mohammedans over there?” remarked Jefferson Arnold. “Seems to me I see something like mosques scattered about among the other buildings.”
“Most likely the people of the place have built temples and churches according to their fancy, taking their patterns in architecture wherever they happened to find them,” answered Nick. “India is a land of many religions, remember, and there are enough believers in Mohammed in the country to account for mosques anywhere.”
There were outlying villages in the distance. But the city itself looked as solid as any in all India. It was surrounded by a wall which could not have been less than forty feet in height, and thick enough to harmonize with its height.
As the little party gazed downward from their elevated position, they were able to see into the very heart of the city, and Nick Carter uttered an involuntary gasp of admiration. He had not expected anything so fine in this otherwise deserted region.
There was a great stadium, with its tiers of solid-stone seats—the sort of structure that has become rather familiar in university towns of the United States of late years—which looked as if it might accommodate fifty thousand people.
Near to it towered the glittering golden dome of the temple, and there were other great buildings only less striking than the temple itself.
“What place is this?” asked Nick Carter, although he felt sure he knew.
“It is Shangore, the capital of Bolongu,” replied the captive priest.
As he gave this information, and saw that all his guards were occupied in staring down at the magnificent panorama spread before them, he made a quick movement with his bound hands which surely would have attracted the attention of any one of the three detectives if any had chanced to be looking in his direction at the moment.
But it was one time when they were not quite so vigilant as usual, and the priest used it to his advantage.
In some way he had managed to loosen his ropes a little, and, with his bound hands he got a grip on a small knife concealed in the folds of his robe.
With one slash, he cut the rope by which Jai Singh had been keeping him a prisoner. Then he gave vent to a shrill whistle that echoed and reëchoed among the rocks they had just come through, and dashed away, waving his arms.
He was entirely free of his bonds, and the party soon had evidence that the whistle was a signal.
It brought a response like the whistle of Roderick Dhu to his clans. As if by magic, a great crowd of dark-visaged men, armed with spears, short swords, and shields, arose on every side, menacing Nick Carter and his friends.
“Gee! What kind of circus is this?” exclaimed Patsy. “Who are all the supers with the pigstickers? Is this a joke, or are all these dubs the real thing?”
Jai Singh was not the first person to note the escape of the priest. But he was the first to take action. In two bounds he reached the fugitive, his big spear flashing in the sun. The next moment it had buried itself in the back of the fleeing man.
It was Jai Singh’s idea of justice, and there could be nothing said in criticism. He saw that his villainous witch doctor had deliberately led the white men and their companions into a trap, and hence was, in his opinion, at least, deserving of death.
The priest, with a sort of coughing grunt, rolled half over, moved convulsively, and then—lay still! An ugly dark patch spread slowly over his white robe.
Jai Singh took little notice of the man he had dispatched. He saw other work to do. So, with a guttural oath, he leaped over the body of the priest and charged straight at the next man in line.
There was a clash of steel, a lightning-like thrust and parry, and the man went down with a clatter, as his big shield fell to the ground, with himself on top of it.
“Come back!” roared Nick Carter and Jefferson Arnold together. “There are too many for you!”
“Very well, sahib!”
Jai Singh called out this acquiescence and then sailed in some more.
He struck swiftly to right and left, sending two more of the warriors to the earth. Then, satisfied that he had done something to uphold the dignity of his white companions and his own caste, he trotted back to see what the detective and Jefferson Arnold wanted.
He soon saw that the little party of invaders were able to take care of themselves.
Nick Carter’s rifle cracked twice, to check those of the enemy who were closing in. Jefferson Arnold and Patsy Garvan also blazed away, and with good effect, for they hit what they aimed at.
The men who had so suddenly come into view at the whistle of the now dead priest, fell back in the face of the determined attack of the strangers, and finished up by darting back to the cover from which they had first broken.
There must have been more than a hundred of them. All were big men, well armed. They were a foe not to be despised, even if the force against them had been as great as their own.
They were skillful hunters, too—masters of scouting and woodcraft. Had they not been, they never could have taken an ambush that would escape the keen vision of Nick Carter and Jai Singh, especially with Chick and Patsy also in the party.
“Hello! Look at the congressman over there on the jackass!” exclaimed Patsy Garvan. “Who turned him loose? Shall I plug him?”
“No, Patsy! Wait!” ordered Nick Carter. “I think he is going to talk to us.”
“All right. I won’t shoot,” answered Patsy, in a tone of disappointment. “But I could fetch him dead easy. He’d better not give you any back slack, or I’ll hand him a lead pill anyhow,” he added grumblingly. “I have no use for some of the people I meet in this country.”
The person Patsy had referred to was a man of about sixty years of age, and evidently a person of importance. He was not on a “jackass,” as Patsy had called it. He bestrode a handsome white mule, caparisoned with golden trappings that glittered brilliantly and must have cost a large sum of money in themselves.
When the other men rushed to cover, this one person sat calmly in his saddle, contemplating the scene as if it interested him, but without any sign that he considered himself in danger.
His features were rather thin, and had a sinister cast. This impression was given more especially by his eyes, which were very dark and penetrating, and shifted continually in the deep caverns in which they were set. He had a rather prominent nose, a high forehead, and a long gray beard that concealed all the lower part of his face.
His dress consisted mainly of a long robe, richly embroidered in gold, and upon his breast there hung some sort of talisman, suspended from his neck by a golden chain.
Nick Carter had formed his little band in battle array at the first alarm. He had marshaled Chick, Patsy, Jefferson Arnold, and Adil as a small covering ring for Leslie Arnold and the four coolies who were carrying the baggage, while Jai Singh had taken his place on the left flank.
Everybody in the party except the coolies had his rifle leveled, and could have shot this man on the white mule at any moment. But he showed no disturbance. He looked at the white men as if they were some curious species of animals he was seeing for the first time.
He uttered some words in a strange tongue, shrugged his shoulders, and urged his mule toward Nick Carter.
The mule picked his way carefully under the hardly perceptible movement of the rider’s hands on the bridle, stepping aside to avoid the body of the dead priest, and at last stopped a few paces from the detective.
As the man sat there, not more than a dozen feet distant, Nick Carter had an opportunity to survey him carefully. He noted that his frame was powerfully built, and that his face was crafty and cruel. Yet, when he spoke, it was in a marvelously soft and gentle voice.
“He’s got something up his sleeve,” whispered Patsy into Nick Carter’s ear. “Look out for him.”
“I am looking out,” returned Nick. “Keep quiet, and you and Chick be ready for anything.”