Bomba the jungle boy

In a moment’s time Bomba had taken a grip on himself.

He returned the scowl of the Indian with a flashing smile that showed all his white teeth, and, beating with his two clenched hands upon his bronzed chest, cried in a loud voice that held no sign of quavering:

“Karo Katu Kama-rah!” thus declaring himself “Good white friend!”

Without any relaxing of his scowl, the Indian grunted “Ugh” and pointed to the jaboty slung over Bomba’s shoulder.

The boy took the still living turtle by the bush cord with which it was tied and held it out to the Indian.

The latter received it with another grunt, and, beckoning Bomba to follow, threaded his way through the bushes to the maloca.

Bomba followed, knowing by a sixth sense that he was himself being followed and spied upon. He could feel eyes boring into his back. Yet not once did he catch sight of a dark-skinned form, nor did the cracking of a single twig beneath a brown foot betray the presence of anyone but himself and his Indian guide in all the silent jungle.

In a few minutes they reached the maloca.

It was only a small Indian village, with perhaps thirty primitive dwellings arranged in circular fashion about a small clearing.

The “huts” were of the simplest sort. Some were merely hammocks, swung between two poles. Palm leaves formed the roof of these rude abodes, wholly insufficient to shelter their owners from the mildest of tropical storms.

But the dwelling of the chief was more elaborate. This was more like the cabin that Bomba shared with Casson, except that only two sides of it were enclosed.

The chief met him in the center of the clearing, surrounded by some dozen stalwart young warriors. The chief himself was an old man, wizened and toothless, with an inscrutable expression in the small eyes he turned upon Bomba.

The latter looked around on the ring of faces. There was nothing encouraging in them. All bore scowls similar to that of the scout who had led him to the maloca.

Bomba stood motionless, the target of all these unfriendly eyes, while the man who had first met him advanced toward the chief and laid the jaboty at his feet.

There followed a brief harangue in the Indian tongue that was carried on in so low a tone that Bomba could not hear what was said.

Then the chief motioned to him to come forward. Bomba obeyed, his face a perfect mask for the tumult of emotions that was surging within him.

The harangue had evidently not helped his cause. The faces were, if possible, still more unfriendly, and there were mutterings that portended an approaching storm.

Could it be that this tribe had made some sort of treaty with the head-hunters and had joined with them in the attempt to kill the two whites?

This was possible, Bomba thought, but hardly likely. There was a deadly antipathy between the two tribes, and the head-hunters probably planned to make the Araos their victims as soon as they had made an end of Casson and himself.

It was much more probable, Bomba thought, that the visit of the head-hunters to that district had been laid by the Araos at the door of Casson. It might have brought to a head all the superstitious feelings they themselves had entertained in regard to the old naturalist. Perhaps he was a Man of Evil, as the head-hunters declared. If so, he ought to be put out of the way. At any rate, if he were killed, perhaps the head-hunters would go back to the Giant Cataract and trouble the Araos no more.

In this conjecture Bomba was right. The tribe was sorely troubled by the incursion of their dreaded enemies. At any time they might be attacked and wiped out. If the whites had not been in that district, the head-hunters would not have come.

So, on the innocent heads of Casson and Bomba they were prepared to vent the irritation caused by this invasion. And here was one of the troublemakers who had walked right into their hands. What better opportunity to get him, at least, out of the way? Casson could be dealt with later.

So Bomba’s instinct had not played him false when it had warned him that he was in danger. He read doom on the faces of all that scowling group.

He knew that to try now to escape would be useless. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that all escape was cut off from the rear. A score or more of Indians had magically appeared to swell the group, no doubt those who had been following and spying upon him in the jungle.

The women and children of the tribe had gathered at one end of the maloca, and were looking on stoically at the scene.

As Bomba reached the circle of Indians about the chief a dozen sinewy hands reached out to grasp him. In a moment more he would be helpless, a prisoner where he had expected to be a guest. And none knew better than Bomba what it meant to be a prisoner of the Indians.

But before one of the reaching hands could close upon him there came a shrill cry from among the group of squaws and maidens.

While all turned in surprise at this unexpected interruption, a small girl, not more than six or seven years old, detached herself from the group and rushed toward Bomba.

While the lad stood amazed and unable to move, the little thing took his hand in her own and turned to face the chief.

“Kama-rah!” she exclaimed impetuously. “Kari Katu Kama-rah!” and touched the white boy on the chest.