Bomba the jungle boy

An exclamation of amazement and relief fell from the old naturalist as he lowered the spear.

“But why—what—” he stammered, as he lay the weapon aside.

“The Indians!” panted Bomba, as he slammed the door shut and slipped into place the heavy bar he had fashioned while he was rebuilding the hut. “Nascanora and his head-hunters! They are here. You heard their cries. They have come to get you, to burn you in a fire.”

A light of comprehension came into Casson’s old faded eyes.

“But they shall not,” he cried, with a flare of the old courage and energy in which Bomba had formerly taken pride and which he had never expected to see again. “We will fight. I do not much care for myself; but if they kill me, they will kill you, too. And they shall not do it! We will beat them off!”

“Yes,” cried Bomba, his eyes kindling. “But they are many. We shall have to fight hard. We will fight with bows and arrows. And when they are gone, we will fight some more, you with the spear and I with the fire stick. And the machete, too, will be good. Yes, we will fight.”

For a time, however, it seemed that it might not be necessary to fight. After the first howls of fright and the frantic scurrying of the Indians before that awful apparition, a deep silence again fell on the jungle.

An hour passed, and still the hush continued.

In the truce thus gained, Bomba and Casson made all the preparations possible for the battle that seemed imminent. The old man, under the stimulus of the danger threatening them, regained something of his old energy and power to think and act.

How long this would continue Bomba did not know. But he was thankful for the change. It gave him a sense of comradeship, a relief from bearing a dead weight, and infused him with new heart and hope. How much Casson would be able to accomplish was of course conjectural, but there was a chance that even his feeble help might turn the scale of battle.

Together they got out their stock of arrows and laid them within easy reach. Bomba fully loaded the revolver and opened all his boxes of cartridges. The boy, in reconstructing the cabin, had made loopholes on all four sides through which the weapons could be discharged.

He took advantage now of the lull, and ate some handfuls of rice and raw maize and drank copious draughts of water. It was but a meager meal, but it refreshed him wonderfully.

Still the silence persisted, and the little garrison felt some perplexity.

“Do you think they may have gone away?” whispered Casson, with a little accent of hope.

Bomba shook his head.

“I do not think so,” he answered in the same low tone. “They have come too far. They will not go back without trying to kill us. At first they thought the snake was magic. They were afraid. But Nascanora will talk to them big words and they will come back. We shall have to fight.”

The last word had scarcely left Bomba’s lips when a terrific chorus of yells rang out and a concerted rush of savages was made on the door of the cabin.

The door bent, but the stout bar of lignum vitæ, almost as strong as iron, refused to break.

Bomba leaped to his feet and grasped his bow. He fitted an arrow to the string and took aim through a porthole at the nearest figure.

The bow twanged. The arrow whistled on its way. There was a wild scream from the Indian, who threw up his hands and plunged forward on his face.

Casson had also snatched a bow and essayed to follow Bomba’s example. But his sight was defective and his hand tremulous, and the missile failed to find a target.

But one of the Indians had fallen anyway, and although this counted for little when the number of their foes was considered, the moral effect was on the side of the besieged. They had got in the first blow and served notice on the attackers that they would have to pay in lives for whatever they got.

The shadowy figures had disappeared as though by magic, seeking shelter behind the trees that fringed the clearing.

Bomba could hear the sound of axes. His enemies were cutting down a tree. For what purpose?

The question was quickly answered. A dozen savages emerged from the shadows, bearing between them a heavy log ten feet long, with the evident purpose of using it as a battering ram to beat in the door.

Bomba knew that if they succeeded in this, Casson and he were lost. Once let that horde invade the cabin, and nothing could avail against overpowering numbers.

No time for arrows now. He had a far quicker weapon at hand. The white man’s fire stick!

They were so near that he could not miss. So swiftly that the repeated detonations blended into one continuous report, he emptied the five chambers of the revolver.

At that close range every shot took its toll in dead and wounded. Several fell, others staggered back to the shelter of the woods. Among the wounded Bomba recognized the towering figure of Nascanora. The log went down with a crash, and the survivors of those who had been carrying it fled in panic.

It was not only the execution done, but the way it had been done that filled them with fright. Few of them had ever before heard the report of a firearm—perhaps none of them. The spurts of flame and the roar of the weapon confirmed their conviction that the hut was the habitation of wizards.

A snake that walked on two feet! Fire that spoke and killed! What chance had they with their bows and arrows, especially when they could not see their targets?

Bomba handed the revolver to Casson to reload, and in the meantime fitted another arrow to his bow. But though he strained his eyes through the darkness, he could find nothing at which to shoot.

For a long time there was silence about the hut, and now for the first time Bomba permitted himself to hope that their foes had withdrawn, for that night at least, and perhaps permanently. Their losses had been serious. The threat of the battering ram had failed. Perhaps they had had enough of the contest.

But this conjecture had not thoroughly taken into account the resources and ingenuity of Nascanora.

From the woods came something in a trail of flame, and the next moment there was a soft thud in the logs that formed the wall.

Several others followed in quick succession. And now the ground immediately in front of the hut was streaked with flickering shafts of light that momentarily grew brighter.

Casson was mystified.

“What are they doing?” he asked wonderingly.

Bomba had been asking himself that question, too. And now the solution came to him, and his heart sank.

“They are arrows with fire in their tails,” he answered. “They are trying to burn the hut.”

For a moment despair clutched their hearts. This was something on which they had not counted, something against which they had no way to fight.

Bomba’s first impulse was to dash outside the door and tear down the burning arrows. But he realized at once that this would be suicide. In the light that came from the torches he would offer a perfect target and a dozen arrows would be buried in his body.

Now the two within the hut heard an ominous crackling which told them that the wall was catching fire. It grew louder and louder. It seemed to spell their doom.

They were in a fearful plight. If they stayed inside, they would be burned to death. If they rushed outside, nothing could save them from the arrows of their invisible foes.

Invisible! It was this that made Bomba grind his teeth in rage. He had often faced death, but on those occasions he had seen his foes and had had his chance of selling his life dearly. Now even this poor privilege would be denied him. He and Casson would be shot down with perfect impunity by the enemies behind the trees. Long before he could reach them, he would have fallen.

Other arrows with their fire trails had followed the first flight, and Bomba knew by the increasing light on the ground that the wall must be studded with them.

The crackling now was becoming a roar, and Bomba could tell that the logs themselves were afire. Spurts of flame began to creep through the cracks, and the heat became unbearable.

He and Casson tried to beat out the interior blaze with boards, but for every flame they extinguished a dozen more appeared. The wall had fairly caught, and the fire was beyond their control. The end seemed very near.

Bomba mentally said farewell to life. It was hard to die right on the threshold of life. All his dreams had faded. He would never see the white men again, never solve the mystery of his existence.

Their hands and faces now were blistered by the heat, and they were forced to retreat to the farther part of the hut. There was a little water there, and they dashed it over them. Then they drenched some cloths that they wrapped around their necks and faces.

“Bomba, my boy!” said Casson, in one of his rare expressions of affection. “I’m an old man, and weary. But you’re a lad and should live on.” The old man went on, but now the words became mere muttering.

Hope now was gone. They could not help themselves and there was none to help them.

None to help them?

Bomba started as though from an electric shock.

He sprang to one of the portholes and sent out a loud, long, undulating cry that rang weirdly through the jungle.

Again and again he repeated the cry with all the power of his lungs.

It was the call that he had used many times to summon his jungle friends to his side, and they had always come!

Would they come now?

Would they face fire?