Bomba the jungle boy at the giant cataract

Bomba raged within himself at this enforced delay in his journey. But resistance against such odds would be nothing less than suicide.

And apprehension was in his heart as he moved along with his captors. He was by no means sure that he would be able to prove to the natives that he spoke the truth concerning their chief.

After all, the only proof he had was that writing on the wall, and if they thought that he was trying to deceive them they might regard the writing as part of his plan. There was no likelihood that any of them would be able to decipher it for themselves.

So it was with no great confidence as to the ultimate outcome that he made his way back to the cabin, surrounded by the lowering bucks of the Araos tribe and feeling the suspicious gaze of Lodo boring into his back.

They traveled swiftly, as the way was familiar, and it was not long before they reached the deserted hut. Bomba led them into it and pointed out the faint scrawl on the wall.

Lodo could make nothing of it, and looked from the writing back to Bomba with a fierce scowl and a tightened grasp upon his knife.

“You read,” he said, and the cruel point of the knife pricked Bomba’s bare shoulder and brought a tiny trickle of blood. “No fool Lodo.”

Bomba read the words twice under Lodo’s direction, and still the giant was unconvinced. The other bucks patterned their conduct on his and crowded around Bomba, muttering and growling like beasts of the jungle about to close in on a helpless prey.

“You lie!” The point of Lodo’s knife pricked again at Bomba’s shoulder, deeper this time, and a red stream followed it.

Still Bomba did not flinch, giving the sullen Indian look for look without a sign of fear.

“You lie!” again shouted Lodo, working himself into a frenzy of fury. “Braves see Hondura near the hut of Casson, the white medicine man. Hondura not come back to his people. Bomba hide Hondura. Bomba must die!”

His knife was upraised in menace. A shudder of anguish passed through Bomba, but he said no word. A dozen hands reached out to seize him, a dozen knives were pointed at his throat——

“Wait!” A guttural voice came from the doorway of the hut, and Grico, he of the one eye and the split nose, forced his way through the ring of angry Indians. “Let me see writing on the wall. I tell you if Bomba lie.”

Grico was a native of tremendous physical strength. He had for a while lived in one of the towns on the coast, and as a boy had been taken under the care of an English missionary school. Here he had been taught the rudiments of education. But the call of his jungle blood had proved too strong to be resisted, and he had run away and thrown in his lot with the Araos tribe.

There, when he reached manhood, he became known as the swiftest runner and the greatest hunter of them all. He had lost one eye and acquired his split nose in a battle with jaguars, in which he had shown almost superhuman strength and courage.

He had become therefore a person of great influence in the tribe, not only because of his prowess as a hunter but also because of his knowledge of the world outside and his education, which gave him great superiority over his ignorant and simple-minded mates. And he was cunning enough to make this count for all that it was worth and considerably more, considering that, after all, he had gained only the merest smattering of learning.

Bomba knew something of the history of Grico, and hope sprang in him anew as the giant caboclo made his way through the sullen group and peered at that faint scrawl upon the wall. Slowly he read the words aloud:

Then he turned to the Indians, his one eye gleaming at them in a contemptuous manner.

“Bomba speaks truth,” he said. “Those are the words he said, and that is the writing on the wall. Take the point of your knife away, Lodo. The boy is right. Chief Hondura has been taken away by the wicked Nascanora. We will capture Nascanora and tie him to a tree and pile the brushwood up about his knees and with flint and stone make red flames that will lick at his flesh and bones. Ayah! Ayah!”

The cry of vengeance, indescribably weird and savage, was taken up by the Indians and filled the jungle with a long wailing shriek that chilled the blood of Bomba as he thought of what might have happened to him had it not been for Grico’s timely appearance.

Once their enmity was turned from him, the Indians became as friendly and pleasant as they had been savage a few moments before.

One of them found a bit of native cloth in the hut and bound it about the wound in Bomba’s shoulder. Then they squatted outside the hut to hold a council and decide upon plans for the rescue of their chief.

While the Indians talked in their guttural language, sometimes sitting for many minutes of silence between their laconic sentences, Bomba fretted and fumed, eager to be once more on the trail of the headhunters.

However, he could not risk offending Lodo and his braves, who might prove valuable helpers in his quest, by going off too abruptly. So he waited, answering as best he could the questions that Lodo and Grico put to him from time to time.

He told them of the previous visits of the headhunters to Casson’s cabin, how he had beaten off their attacks, how he had wounded Nascanora himself, how he had captured Ruspak, their medicine man, and how in the jungle he had overcome the braves of Tocarora.

“I think there are two bands of headhunters,” he said, when asked for his opinion. “Nascanora is at the head of one, and Tocarora, his half-brother, leads the other. They will join each other somewhere in the jungle. Then Nascanora will be strong enough to fight the Araos if they come looking for their chief.”

“But they did not think of Grico!” said he of the split nose, his one eye gleaming balefully. “Grico will get other braves who will fight with the Araos to get back Hondura. Hondura has been good to Grico. Grico will show that he is grateful.”

Bomba knew that this was no idle boast. Grico’s courage was so well established that he would have no trouble in rallying many bucks of other tribes under his leadership. If he could do this, the Araos and their auxiliaries would prove formidable enemies, even to the redoubtable headhunters.

But Bomba knew that this would take time and be the subject of innumerable powwows before the avengers would get fairly started. And with the knowledge he had of Casson’s danger he was in no mood for delay. He must go on. They could follow later.

He knew the risks he ran in going alone. He would be only one against the hordes of Nascanora. But his wit had served him so often where mere force would have failed that he was willing and eager to trust to it again.

So when a favorable opportunity presented, he broached his plan to his new-found allies.

“Bomba will go first and try to find the trail while Lodo and Grico are getting their braves together,” he said. “If Bomba finds them near by, he will come back and tell you, so that you may come and fight them. If he finds they are far off, he will leave a trail of his own so that you may move fast through the jungle. Does Bomba speak well?”

Lodo and Grico consulted.

“Bomba speaks well—” Lodo was beginning when there was a sudden commotion in the surrounding jungle. A moment later a strange company broke into the clearing.

Bomba saw that they were squaws of the Araos tribe. The faces of the women, usually so stolid, wore the ghastly gray of terror. They had come from afar and swiftly, for their flesh was torn by thorns and spiked vines and their breath came in gasps.

One of them, who was the squaw of Lodo and seemed to be the leader of the women, came over to her husband and stood before him, striving to regain breath enough to speak.

“What is it, woman?” cried Lodo. “What has happened?”

“The maloca,” she got out at last. “Bucks come. They burn our houses. They carry off the women. They take the children. All gone.”