Bomba the jungle boy

The jungle beasts came in swarms!

In the distance could be heard something like the soughing of a great wind. It grew in volume until it swelled into a roar. Then the jungle about the hut was alive with monkeys, scores of them, hundreds of them, with every passing moment increasing their numbers.

They saw the burning hut, and sensed Bomba’s extremity. They saw the lurking savages, and realized that they were Bomba’s foes.

Then there came pouring down from the trees a hail of the heavy castanha nuts that felled whatever they struck.

The surviving savages fled, with wild screams, in a headlong rout. And their demoralization was complete when Polulu, with a tremendous roar, came bounding in upon them, his eyes glaring, his tail lashing, his paws striking out like flails.

Bomba heard the shrieks of the affrighted savages, the jabbering of the monkeys, and the roars of Polulu. His jungle friends had not failed him. He and Casson were saved!

With smarting eyes he rushed to the door, threw off the heavy bar and swung the door wide.

Then he ran back to Casson, who was in a half comatose condition, pulled him to his feet and, half dragging, half lifting him, staggered through the doorway and laid his burden under the trees.

What blessed coolness was in the night air as Bomba drank it in deep draughts! And what added delight came to him as he felt on his uplifted face the plashing of raindrops!

Casson was now in a state of complete collapse, and Bomba was frightened at the ashen pallor of the old man’s face. He rushed to the river behind the cabin and brought water, with which he bathed Casson’s face. Then he chafed his wrists and slapped his hands, until the naturalist opened his eyes with a feeble moan.

The monkeys were all excitement, and chattered their sympathy with Casson and their delight at Bomba’s escape. They would have come down and surrounded the pair, had it not been for the presence of Polulu, who had returned from his pursuit of the savages and who now came up to Bomba and rubbed his great head against him.

Then the puma stretched himself on the ground at a little distance, and Bomba knew as well as if he had been told that his faithful guardian was settled there for the night. Woe to any skulking savage who might steal back there while Polulu was on guard!

But, as a matter of fact, there was no further attack to be apprehended that night, nor for many more to come. The Indians had paid heavy toll. Five lay dead on the ground, and probably twice that number in wounded had crawled away into the forest or been carried off by their comrades.

At least half of the raiders had been incapacitated, and among the wounded had been Nascanora himself, and all the unwounded survivors were at that moment rushing pell-mell through the jungle, frantically eager to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the cabin, where the white man’s magic had been capped by the calling of the jungle beasts to help.

As soon as Casson had been restored to consciousness and Bomba had bandaged his burns as well as he could, the lad turned his attention to the cabin.

But there was nothing he could do that nature was not doing still better. The rain was now coming down in torrents. It deluged the burning front wall until the blaze died out and great clouds of steam took its place.

Fortunately, the other three walls had caught in only a few places, and here, too, the flames were quickly extinguished.

The monkeys gradually dispersed after Bomba told them how grateful he was for their help and promised to soon see them again.

The storm increased in violence, and Bomba helped Casson into the hut. The roof had held and the floor was dry. Bomba made the old man as comfortable as he could in one of the new hammocks he had brought with him, and then crept into the other to get the rest he so badly needed and had so richly earned.

The last thing he was conscious of, as he dropped off to sleep, was that Polulu had come in and stretched his huge form across the doorway.

Bomba slept late, and when at last he opened his eyes the faithful puma had gone. He had stayed until all danger was over and then gone forth to his hunting.

Bomba himself was stiff and sore, but all concern for himself was quickly lost in his anxiety over Casson’s condition. The terrible experience through which he had passed had been too much for the old naturalist, and he was in a high fever. He did not recognize Bomba, and babbled incoherently in delirium. At intervals he would sink into a stupor that would endure for hours, to be broken again by wild tossings and meaningless phrases.

At times the words “Bartow” and “Laura” would escape his lips, but though Bomba listened eagerly for what would follow, nothing came that made more clear for him the mystery in which he was enshrouded.

The boy nursed Casson assiduously, using the simple but effective remedies whose power he had learned from Candido, the half-witted caboclo, and at the end of several days the fever broke.

From then on Casson mended rapidly, and Bomba was delighted to note that with returning strength his mind seemed less clouded. He had lost some of his apathy, and took a greater interest in the things about him.

The “door” was still closed, but he was trying harder to open it than he had before. At times a flash of memory seemed to come to him, and he would begin to speak eagerly, but before he had fairly framed a sentence the thought would elude him. At such times he was desperate, and would break out into a passion of weeping.

One day he called Bomba to him.

“Bomba,” he said, laying his thin hand on the boy’s shoulder, “I have tried and tried to tell you what you have a right to know, but I cannot remember. Sometimes I almost recall it, and then it vanishes. But there has come to me a name. There is someone who knows, and he can tell you much, perhaps all.”

“Who is it?” cried Bomba excitedly.

“It is Jojasta,” replied Casson. “Mark well that name, Jojasta.”

“I will never forget it,” said Bomba solemnly. “But what is he and where does he live?”

“He is the Medicine Man of the Moving Mountain,” replied Casson.

“The Moving Mountain?” repeated Bomba, in bewilderment. He had never heard the term before.

“It is a long way off,” explained Casson. “And it is hard to reach. But I will tell you how to get there. Yes, I know that now. But the other is too far away. That I cannot recall. Through Jojasta is the only way you can find out what you want to know, what you ought to know. You must go.”

How Bomba went there, the fearful perils he met, and the obstacles he surmounted on the way, will be told in the next volume of this series, entitled: “Bomba, the Jungle Boy, at the Moving Mountain; or, The Mystery of the Caves of Fire.”

Casson sank back exhausted, and Bomba knew there was nothing more to be told just then. But what he had heard filled him with hope.

He must tell his friends and let them share his joy. He took his harmonica and strayed off into the jungle, playing a dreamy, plaintive tune.

Soon his jungle friends of the air and treetops were all about him, Kiki, Woowoo, Doto, and scores of others. He smiled at them, talked and played for them. He was in a joyous, exhilarated mood, and they were glad for Bomba’s sake.

“You are all my friends,” he cried. “You helped Bomba when the men with bad hearts came to the cabin. Bomba loves you all. He does not want to leave you, but he must go. He will always think of you, and some day he may come back to you. But Bomba must go. He must find the men who have souls, the souls that are awake. For Bomba has a soul. And he must find the white men. For Bomba is white.”

He tore the puma skin aside and displayed his chest.

“Look, Woowoo! Look, Kiki! Look, Doto!” he cried, in an ecstasy of joy and pride. “Look, all of you! I will tell Polulu, too. I am white! Bomba is white!”

THE END