Bomba the jungle boy at the giant cataract

With Bomba, to think was to act.

In a moment he had made his way out on the bough to a point where the foliage thinned out and there was a chance of his being seen.

“Sobrinini! Sobrinini!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

At the call, the old crone ceased paddling for a moment and turned her haggard face in the direction of the tree.

“Who calls?” she cried shrilly. “Who is it that calls Sobrinini?”

“It is Bomba!” shouted the lad, at the same time shaking the bough of the tree violently to attract her attention.

She caught the movement of the foliage, and, peering closely, saw the outline of Bomba’s face and form.

“Bartow!” she cried. “Or is it Bartow’s ghost? You have come to see Sobrinini die.”

“No!” replied Bomba. “I have come to help Sobrinini live. Come quickly!”

This last admonition was prompted by the sight of another boat containing several natives of the island putting out from the shore. He sensed at once that their errand was hostile.

Sobrinini saw them too, and with a few strokes of her paddle brought the canoe directly beneath the jungle boy.

Bomba dropped lightly into the canoe, and then held it steady until Ashati and Neram had time to follow his example.

The other boat was coming on rapidly now, and time was pressing. Bomba took the paddle from Sobrinini’s hands and pressed her gently to the bottom of the boat.

But before he dipped the paddle into the water he drew his knife and shook it menacingly at the approaching natives.

“Go back or you will die!” he shouted. “This is the knife that frightened Nascanora. It made his heart like that of a woman. Who are you to stand before it when even the chief of the headhunters was afraid?”

It was a wholesome reminder, and it had an immediate effect. They recognized Bomba now as the jungle boy whose challenge Nascanora had been afraid to accept. That scene had made an indelible impression upon their minds. They stopped paddling, and excited jabbering ensued.

Bomba faced them for a full minute. Then with a disdainful gesture he replaced the knife in his belt, as though they were foes too insignificant to bother with any further, took up the paddle, and without once looking behind him made for the opposite shore.

His evident fearlessness and contempt decided the issue. The pursuing party, after a little irresolution, gave up the chase and turned the prow of their boat in the direction of Snake Island.

Sobrinini had said nothing coherent since her rescue, but sat crouched on the bottom of the boat mumbling to herself, her long, disheveled hair shielding her face. Bomba regarded her curiously from time to time, half expecting to see one or more snakes make their appearance. But it soon became apparent that all her horrid “pets” had been left behind in her hurried flight.

Ashati and Neram kept as far away from her as they could, crowding against each other to avoid contact with the “witch” whose name spread terror through all that region.

Why had she fled from the island where she had so long held sway? Why had her formerly submissive slaves turned against her? Bomba longed to question her, but had to defer that to another time. He wished that she had brought with her that picture, the picture of that sweet, beautiful woman, whose eyes had looked so fondly into his.

After a long siege of paddling, the boat touched the farther shore. Bomba jumped out and pulled the canoe far up on the shelving bank. Then he helped Sobrinini out, while Ashati and Neram leaped ashore quickly, glad to be freed from their enforced proximity to the witch.

At Bomba’s command, the men scattered to gather a little food from the forest, and soon returned with nuts and berries that partially satisfied their hunger.

Bidding them stay where they were, Bomba penetrated some distance into the jungle to see if he could pick up the trail of Hondura and his party.

He had not gone far before he began to sniff. He smelled smoke. His eyes followed the indications of his nostrils, and he finally caught sight of a shred of smoke rising above trees not far distant.

He was about to drop on his hands and knees and creep through the brush to reconnoiter, when he heard a sound that made his heart leap with delight.

It came to him faintly, and yet was unmistakable. Somebody was playing a harmonica!

Reassured now, but still not abandoning his habitual caution, he moved forward until from the shelter of a bush he could see encamped in a clearing, while they prepared their midday meal, a large party of natives, evidently on the warpath, as they were armed to the teeth.

He knew them at once. They were the Araos coming to the rescue of their chief. There was Lodo, evidently in command, a little apart from the rest. And there was Grico, squatting on his haunches and bringing weird sounds from Bomba’s harmonica for the delectation of his mates.

Bomba stepped from the shelter of the bush, his hands upraised with palms outward in sign of friendship.

There was a chorus of ejaculations, a hurried grasping of weapons, and then shouts of pleasure as they recognized the newcomer.

They crowded about him with every manifestation of delight, overwhelming him with questions. And cries of joy went up as Bomba, in as few words as possible, told them what had happened and that Hondura with the ex-captives must be close at hand and coming to meet them.

Instantly their meal was forgotten as they gathered up their weapons and supplies and prepared to go forward to greet their chief, their women, and their children.

Grico, the man with the one eye and the split nose, had listened to Bomba’s story with such absorbed interest that he still held the harmonica loosely in his hand. Bomba reached out coolly and took it from him.

Grico looked astonished and sheepish. And he was still more abashed when Bomba, noting a protuberance in Grico’s pouch, reached in and drew out the precious revolver.

“It was good of Grico to keep these for Bomba till he should come back again,” said the boy in the friendliest of tones, as he stowed away the treasures in his pouch.

His look was so kindly, so innocent, that Grico did not know what to do or say. Ordinarily this would have meant a fight. But Grico knew that Bomba was a bad opponent to pick for a fight, and, besides, at this moment, the boy was high in the favor of the tribe.

And Bomba’s eyes were very compelling, despite their friendliness. Grico had never heard of an iron hand in a velvet glove, but he felt that something of that kind was very close by.

So he swallowed hard for a moment, and then took advantage of the opening that Bomba had given him.

“Y—yes,” he stammered. “Grico found them in the jungle and kept them for Bomba.”

“Grico did well, and Bomba will not forget,” said the lad gravely.

It was arranged hastily that Bomba should go back and get his companions and then join the war party as they went forward to meet their chief.

Ashati and Neram greeted Bomba’s news with cries of delight. Sobrinini showed no emotion whatever. It was doubtful whether she understood. She was sunk in a state of apathy, the natural reaction from her exciting experiences.

It was difficult to get her to her feet at all, but the need was urgent and Bomba put his strong arm under hers, and with Ashati and Neram made as good time as possible in the direction of the line of march.

Luckily, their journey was not prolonged, for before an hour had passed a joyous hubbub not far ahead told them that the two parties had joined forces. Hondura and the ex-prisoners were once more with their own people.

Bomba was welcomed with wild acclaim when he came into view. Casson and Pipina especially greeted him with tears and embraces that testified how deeply they were moved.

There was a great feast to celebrate the reunion, followed by a long powwow between Hondura, Grico and Lodo. Bomba was invited to join the conference, but declined, as he felt this was a matter that concerned them chiefly and he did not want to take any responsibility for the future movements of the tribe.

The result of the powwow was that the natives formed themselves into two bands. One, consisting of picked warriors under the leadership of Lodo, with Grico as his lieutenant, proceeded toward the Giant Cataract to give battle to the headhunters and remove forever, if possible, that menace to the peaceful tribes of the region.

Others, under the guidance of the aged chief, Hondura, convoyed the rescued women and children in the direction of their maloca, which they planned to rebuild.

The grateful Hondura detailed eight of his men to make two litters on which they bore Casson and Sobrinini, who had reached the limit of their strength, to the cabin of Pipina.

When their paths at last diverged, Hondura and Bomba clasped each other by the shoulders and vowed eternal friendship. Pirah wept bitterly at the separation, and could only be comforted by Bomba’s promise to come to see her before long.

Bomba had cherished a vague hope that something dramatic would take place when Casson and Sobrinini were brought face to face. He hoped the meeting would unlock the floodgates of memories which they shared in common.

But to his bitter disappointment nothing of the kind occurred. Age had changed each so utterly that neither recognized the other. They looked at each other indifferently, and then their eyes turned away.

He had not named either one to the other as yet, and both were so apathetic that they showed no curiosity. But though disheartened, Bomba did not wholly despair. When they should get to the cabin of Pipina he would try again.

Ashati and Neram had begged to be allowed to go along with Bomba, and he had willingly agreed. The faithful fellows were devoted to him heart and soul, and they might be of great service to him whenever he should be compelled to absent himself from the cabin.

Shred by shred, in monosyllables and muttered exclamations, Bomba gathered, as he walked beside Sobrinini’s litter, the reason for her flight from the island. He had already guessed it pretty accurately.

Her harsh rule had for a long time galled the natives, who sought an excuse for rebellion. That excuse had been found in the visit of Nascanora. They had expected that she would annihilate him on the spot. Was she not a witch? But when, on the contrary, Nascanora had triumphed and taken her guest from under her protection, their belief in her supernatural powers failed, their long-smothered resentment broke forth, and she had been compelled to flee for her life.

The little party reached the cabin of Pipina without any untoward happening, the braves departed for their maloca, and the little household, now increased by three, was reëstablished.

Bomba waited till several days had elapsed and his aged charges had become rested and strengthened after their exhausting experiences before he broached the subject that was nearest his heart.

Then, one evening after supper, he turned to them as they were sitting dreamily in the large room of the little cabin.

“Casson!” he said. “Sobrinini! Look upon each other and tell me what you see.”

They started at his sharp command, and gazed bewilderedly at him, then at each other.

At first there was no recognition, but as they gazed fixedly a dawning wonderment came into their eyes.

Casson was the first to speak.

“Sobrinini!” he cried. “No, that is not Sobrinini. Sobrinini was beautiful. Sobrinini could sing. And yet—and yet——”

“Casson!” exclaimed Sobrinini in her turn. “It cannot be Casson. He was young and strong, and his hair was like that of the raven. But I am Sobrinini. I can sing. Listen!”

She sprang to her feet and sang in her cracked voice the song that Bomba had heard in the language he did not understand. As she sang, Casson began to beat his withered palms together in applause, and finally got to his feet and started to dance about the room.

It was weird and uncanny, and Bomba looked on, fascinated yet horrified, until the song ended, the dance stopped, and the aged participants sank trembling in their chairs.

“You do know each other!” cried Bomba. “And you know about my father and my mother. Tell me, oh, tell me who they were, where they are! Tell me!”

They looked at him, trying to gather their poor scattered wits. Casson rubbed his forehead with his hand.

“Ask Jojasta,” he muttered. “I cannot remember. The door is closed. But Jojasta knows. Ask him.”

“But Jojasta is dead!” exclaimed Bomba.

“Oh, yes,” replied Casson. “You told me he was dead. Then ask Sobrinini. Nini will know.”

In desperation, Bomba turned to the woman.

“You tell me,” he begged. “You were going to tell me when Nascanora came. Tell me now!”

“I forget—I forget,” murmured Sobrinini. “I cannot tell you, Bartow.”

“I am not Bartow,” said Bomba.

“Then you are his ghost,” muttered the crone.

“No, no!” cried Bomba. “Look at me. Try to remember.”

She stared at him long and hard.

“If you are not Bartow nor Bartow’s ghost, you are his son,” she declared. “Andrew Bartow and Laura—yes, her name was Laura—had a son who was named Bonny. She used to sing to him like this—” and again she crooned the tender cradle song that had stirred Bomba so strangely.

She relapsed into meditation, still humming that haunting song.

“Yes,” prompted Bomba eagerly. “Where are Bartow and Laura now? And Bonny——”

“Bonny!” she repeated. “Oh, yes, Bonny was stolen. He was stolen from home by—by—Japazy! That was his name—a half-breed. Japazy hated Bartow and hated Casson, too. I do not know why he hated them. And then—and then—oh, I cannot remember! But ask Japazy—he will know. Look for Japazy on Jaguar Island above the cataract.”

Her voice died away in disjointed mutterings, and from neither her nor Casson could he get anything clearer that evening nor in the days that followed.

The boy was desperate. It seemed that the half-demented man and woman could get no further. Bomba had got merely a clue.

But that in itself was something. How Bomba followed it up and what exciting perils and adventures he met in fulfilling his task will be told in the next volume of this series, entitled: “Bomba the Jungle Boy on Jaguar Island; or, Adrift on the River of Mystery.”

From the pain and disappointment in his heart Bomba sought relief with his wild friends of the forest. They could always sympathize with his mood and in some degree understand it. To them he talked, and they chattered in reply. And his sore heart was eased in their companionship.

One day, when he had been playing his harmonica and Doto, the monkey, and Kiki and Woowoo, the parrots, and others of their mates were gathered around him, there was a crashing in the bushes, and faithful Polulu, the giant puma, bounded into the clearing.

The others scattered like magic as the formidable beast came up to Bomba, purring and rubbing his head against him.

“Good old Polulu!” exclaimed Bomba, as he caressed the great head affectionately. “He is one of Bomba’s best friends. Bomba is glad to see him. But Bomba cannot stay with Polulu long. He is going on a long journey. For Bomba’s place is not here. He is not a native of the jungle. He has a soul. He is white. Yes, Bomba is white. And Bomba’s soul cannot be at rest until he dwells among the white people.”

THE END