“Holy one,” he said, “we can best your enemies who follow.”

“How?” eagerly.

“Yonder is the chief’s bullock cart.  I myself will find the bullocks!”

“What then?”

“We shall be on the way south before the others land.”

“An extra handful of gold for you!  Get the oars out!  Let us hurry!”

“More, holy one; these men will obey me.”

“They shall be well paid.”

Umballa had reached the point where he could not plan without treachery.  He proposed to carry the basket into the jungle somewhere, bury it and make way with every man who knew the secret; then, at the proper time, he would return for it with a brave caravan, his own men or those whose loyalty he could repurchase.

The landing was made, the basket conveyed to the bullock cart, which was emptied of its bait and leopard trap; the bullocks were brought out and harnessed—­all this activity before the fishing boats had covered half the distance.

“I see light,” murmured Umballa.

He tried to act coolly, but when he spoke his voice cracked and the blood in his throat nigh suffocated him.

“Sand, holy one!”

“Well, what of sand?”

“You can dig and cover up things in sand and no one can possibly tell.  The sand tells nothing.”

They drove the bullocks forward mercilessly till they came to what Umballa considered a suitable spot.  A pit was dug, but not before Umballa had taken from the basket enough gold to set the men wild.  They were his.  He smiled inwardly to think how easily they could have had all of it!  They were still honest.

The sand was smoothed down over the basket.  It would not have been possible for the human eye to discover the spot within a perfect range.  Umballa drove down a broken stick directly over where the basket lay.  He had beaten them; they would find nothing.  Now to rid himself of these simple fools who trusted him.

The man who longed to become the chief’s successor was then played upon by Umballa; to set the two factions at each other’s throats; a perfect elimination.  Umballa advised him to rouse his friends, declare that the white people had taken the gold away from the holy man, to whom it belonged as agent.

Thus, in this peaceful fishermen’s village began the old game of gold and politics, for the two are inseparable.  Umballa, in hiding, watched the contest gleefully.  He witnessed the rival approach his chief, saw the angry gestures exchanged, and knew that dissension had begun.  The men of the village clustered about.

“Where have you hidden it?” demanded the chief.  “It belongs to the Sahib.”

“Hidden what?”

“The treasure you and the false holy one took from the forbidden cave!”

“False holy one?”

“Ay, wretch!  He is Durga Ram, the man who murdered the king of Allaha.”

The mutineer laughed and waved his hand toward the smoking ruins of the promontory.