Bomba the jungle boy

The puma and the boy rested for a time, while Polulu licked his wounds, and when Bomba went on again the puma accompanied him for some distance through the jungle.

It was getting late, and Bomba began to wonder whether he would be able to visit the village of the Araos and return on the same day.

He could spend the night in the jungle, of course. He had done it many times before and had not been afraid. Now, especially with Polulu to guard him, he would be safe enough.

But Casson! There was always Casson. At any time now he might be made the victim of an attack by the fierce head-hunters of Nascanora. And when that time came, if it should come, Bomba wanted to be at the old man’s side to live or die with him as fate might determine.

He pushed on as fast as he could, the faithful Polulu still beside him, the jaboty slung over his shoulder. He was getting close to the maloca now, and if there was any chance of accomplishing his errand and getting back before midnight, he meant to take advantage of it.

Still faster he went, Polulu padding beside him and keeping away by his presence not only jungle enemies but Bomba’s friends, the monkeys and the parrots, who gave him a wide berth when they saw the grim guardian that kept pace with him.

When they drew near to the place where Bomba expected to find the tribe he was searching for, the boy said good-bye to Polulu, telling him that if the Indians saw him coming accompanied by a puma they would consider his visit an unfriendly one.

Whether Polulu clearly understood this or not, he knew that he had received his dismissal, and with a last friendly rub of his tawny head he disappeared into the jungle. But Bomba had a feeling that he was hovering somewhere near, ready at the slightest need to come again to his help.

Bomba began to be troubled now because he had no more to take as a present to the Araos than the jaboty. He had had so much to do in preserving his life through the course of the momentous day that he had had but little time to look for game.

Once he thought that fortune was going to favor him. It was when he caught sight of a tapir close to the edge of a small stream. But the tapir had seen him first and disappeared like a shadow in the depths of the jungle before Bomba could bring his weapon into play.

He was greatly disappointed at this. Some tapir meat would have been a succulent present to bring to the Araos. Laden with such a gift, he could hardly have failed to be received with gratitude and friendship.

However, he had no more time to hunt. He at least had the jaboty, and he could promise to bring the natives more game at some future time if they would let him have the hammocks he needed.

The sound of a drum rang through the jungle. Bomba halted, head up, every sense alert.

He was hard upon some Indian maloca, that was certain. The medicine man of the tribe was beating the drum to propitiate the particular god worshipped by his people.

Was it the village of the Araos he was approaching? It should be, by his reckoning of time and distance. Yet it was by no means certain, for these tribes shifted their locations frequently as they followed the game trails or searched for better fishing places.

Even if it were some other tribe, however, Bomba had no reason, he thought, to fear their active unfriendliness. The head-hunters were the only real enemies that he was conscious of having in the jungle.

He went on, therefore, trying to stifle some vague premonition that was stirring within him. He had a feeling, an instinct, that something unpropitious was in the air.

Soon the increasing signs of human habitation warned him that he was in close proximity to a village.

In accordance with Indian etiquette, which resents a sudden intrusion, he clapped his hands and shouted.

The echo of the shout died away in the forest. There was no answering call.

Bomba waited stoically, betraying no outward sign of uneasiness. After a few moments he shouted more loudly than before.

Still there was no answer, and he began to be seriously perturbed.

If the Indians had been in a friendly mood, they would already have sent out a scout to see who the visitor was, what he wanted, and welcome him to the maloca.

A third time Bomba shouted. Still no answer. All the previous sounds of life and activity he had noted had been hushed, and above everything hung the silence of the grave.

And now Bomba had the impression that the jungle was filled with shadowy, furtive forms. He felt that each tree and thicket might be hiding an enemy, ready the next instant to make the intruder a target for his arrow.

Still the lad remained quietly where he was, not moving a muscle and showing no signs of alarm.

There was a slight rustle immediately behind him, and Bomba turned quickly.

There, where the instant before had been nothing, stood a dark-skinned Indian, magnificent in his six-feet-two of brawn and muscle.

The face of the Indian bore no welcoming smile. On it was a scowl so black that Bomba’s heart sank within him!