Bomba the jungle boy

Bomba’s eyes swept round the circle and rested on the scarred, hideous face of a powerful savage, the symbols on whose chest proclaimed him chief.

He knew it was his arch-enemy, Nascanora!

Bomba drew a long breath and thanked the jungle instinct that had warned him of danger and kept him from blundering right into the hands of the enemy.

Some sort of incantation had evidently been in progress, as was manifest from the presence of a kettle over the fire in which the medicine man had been stirring his horrid brew. The shaman had now desisted, and had reported to the chief the will of his gods.

That it fitted in with the chief’s plans was shown by the words that fell from Nascanora’s lips.

“Cody Casson,” he said. “The gods say he is Man of Evil. He bring trouble to the tribe. He must die.”

“Ugh!” came in a concerted grunt of assent from the men squatted on their haunches about the fire.

Bomba lay motionless, his heart thumping against his ribs. He had come at an opportune moment. He would learn the plans of the enemy.

So they would kill Casson, would they? Well, they would have to kill Bomba first. His lips drew back from his teeth, and his fingers sought his knife.

“We know now where Casson live,” the chief went on. “Morana found the place. He tell us wild boy Bomba is away. Casson is alone. We go now. Catch Man of Evil. We bring him here——”

“Ugh!” his followers cried again on a higher note of excitement. “We go. Now!”

“We take Man of Evil,” cried Nascanora, the scowl on his distorted features horrible to see. “We tie him to tree. We make fire,” he made a gesture as though his hands held flint and steel. “We burn Cody Casson. Then Man of Evil bring not bad things to tribe of Nascanora.”

Bomba waited to hear no more.

Swiftly, noiselessly, still flat upon his stomach, he backed out through the heavy underbrush and tangle of vines. He knew that not only his life but that of Casson depended on his getting away without letting Nascanora guess at his presence there.

When he had got far enough away to think it safe for him to rise to his feet, he was startled by a great noise of shouting that swelled into a fiendish shriek.

He thought at first that they must have discovered him, despite his caution, and were in pursuit. But he had been so careful that he dismissed this for another solution.

The shout must mean that the pow-wow was over, and that they were getting ready to start for the hut where Casson waited for Bomba, alone and unprotected.

Setting off with strides like those of a deer, Bomba vowed that he would outrace the Indians. He must get to the hut before them, or Casson was lost.

But the Indians, too, were swift and adept in getting through the jungle. Knowing that they would take the most direct trail, Bomba was forced to choose a more circuitous one.

His chief hope lay in his extraordinary fleetness of foot. If this did not fail him and if he met with no other mishaps in the jungle, he might yet be able to reach the hut and make some preparations for defense before Nascanora and his followers reached it on their errand of destruction.

He made his way with desperate energy and all the speed he could infuse into his legs, pausing for no obstacle great or small.

In the course he had chosen lay a primitive bridge that had been placed across one of the streams that abounded in the region. The bridge consisted simply of the trunk of a mirity palm, wet and slippery from the recent storm.

If Bomba had followed his usual custom on such occasions and kicked off his sandals, so that his bare feet might get a grip on the log, he could have passed over it in perfect safety, as he had done hundreds of times before.

But so frantic was his haste and so great his belief in his ability to maintain his balance on any footing, however precarious, that this time he did not stop to remove his sandals.

He had traversed almost the entire length of the bridge and had nearly reached the further shore when he slipped and fell, scrambling and kicking, into the water.

It would not have been so bad if in the fall he had not struck his head against the log. This dazed him for a moment, but the shock of the water revived him and brought him to the surface sputtering and furious.

He struck out strongly for the shore, but at the same moment something bit viciously at his leg. Bomba knew at once what it was—the saw-toothed piranha, the voracious fish that abounds in all the tributaries of the Amazon.

It was fortunate for Bomba that he had been so close to the farther shore when he fell. A few vigorous strokes, and he reached the shore. As he drew himself up, another piranha caught his foot in its vice-like jaws and hung on grimly, even after Bomba had drawn himself clear of the water.

Bomba kicked out viciously, and the fish loosened its hold and dropped back into the water. The boy scarcely took time to examine his wounds, though they were very painful and, he knew, would be still worse on the following day. That was, he thought, with a stab at his heart, if he should ever see the light of the next day!

He was furious with himself. Bomba, to have lost his footing on the bridge, Bomba, who had always prided himself on being so sure-footed! The mishap had delayed him seriously. Perhaps it had sealed Casson’s doom and his own.

The journey seemed never-ending as he pressed on, spurring his jaded muscles to the utmost. He was faint from hunger and wearied by the many adventures of that exciting day. His feet felt as if they were weighted with lead. The one that had been bitten by the piranha was already badly swollen, and every step was accompanied by a torturing pang.

And to this physical pain was added the agony of apprehension that with every moment became more acute. Had his enemies preceded him? Had they perhaps already reached the hut?

At last he reached the vicinity of the hut. The crisis was at hand. Perturbed as he was in mind, his jungle cunning did not desert him.

He drifted toward the location of the hut like a shadow. Not a twig snapped under his feet to betray him. He dropped on his hands and knees and crept in this position for a hundred yards to a little elevation from which he would be able to look down directly on the hut. Reaching the spot, he parted the vines and looked through.

It was so dark now that none but jungle-trained eyes could have distinguished anything in the dense pall of blackness. But Bomba had eyes almost as keen as those of Polulu.

Not a sound broke the heavy silence of the night. But for Bomba’s eyes, he might have exulted in the thought that he had outstripped the Indians in the race, that he had reached the hut in time to warn Casson.

But there was a shadow near the hut, and at little distances were other shadows completely encircling it—a sinister ring of threatened death.

Bomba’s heart beat faster, his breath seemed almost to whistle through his clenched teeth.

The odds were fearful ones—thirty to two at least, really thirty to one, for Casson could not be relied on in his half-demented state, and whatever fighting was done would probably have to be done by Bomba.

The jungle boy thought quickly. Force alone would not avail. He must use strategy, even as he had used it in the case of the cooanaradi.

But what and how? He racked his agonized brain, seizing at some expedient only to dismiss it the next moment as futile. And every instant he expected to hear the bloodcurdling war whoop of the savages as they rushed the cabin.

Then like a flash it came to him!

With incredible swiftness, still on hands and knees, he made his way to a hollow tree. This had been his playroom since his earliest childhood, and in its trunk Bomba had stored many of his treasures.

Chief among these was the skin of a great anaconda, slain by Casson many years ago. It had had a great fascination for Bomba, and many a time he had arrayed himself in it, dragging its great length behind him. Often he had used it to scare playfully his friends of the jungle.

The monkeys and parrots had fled in dismay, and when Bomba had cast it aside had returned timidly and looked at him reproachfully for having played a practical joke upon them. Polulu had bared his teeth when he first saw it, and had sheepishly abandoned his hostile attitude when Bomba had emerged and laughed at him.

Now it was to serve for something sterner than play. Bomba’s face was grim as he got into the great skin and wrapped the front part of it about his head and shoulders.

The dried head, with the great jaws gaping, had been retained in its entirety, and Bomba held this before his face as he prepared to emerge from his hiding place. The horrible object was one calculated to strike terror to the stoutest heart.

But for the full success of the stratagem light was needed. The Indians must see the fearsome thing in all its ghastliness.

Bomba felt about for one of the pine knots that in earlier days he had used to illuminate his play place. He found one, full of resin, and, concealed by the tree, lighted the torch. In a moment it was blazing brightly.

With a weird, hideous scream that rang through the silent jungle and startled it into a hundred echoes, Bomba left his shelter, flinging the torch ahead of him and dashed down upon that sinister ring of figures about the hut.

The ruse worked. There were shrieks of terror, and the savages gave way before the horrible vision of a snake that ran on two feet and made a noise like the screaming of demons!

The way to the hut was clear. In a few great bounds Bomba had reached it and catapulted himself through the doorway.

With a hoarse cry Casson grasped a spear that leaned against the wall near at hand and raised it on high.

“No, no, Casson! Do not strike!” gasped the boy, as he let the empty snake skin slip from him to the floor. “It is I, Bomba! Look!”