Bomba the jungle boy

The men sprang to their feet at this ominous declaration and their eyes swept the forest in every direction.

“And the boy speaks of this as calmly as though it meant nothing to him or us!” exclaimed Jake Dorn.

“I wonder if he really knows what he is talking about,” cried Gillis. “Tell me,” he demanded turning to Bomba, “what makes you think there are jaguars all about us?”

“I smell them and I hear them,” returned Bomba. “First I heard them a long way off. They were screaming. Then they came nearer, and they were snarling. Now they are nearer still, and they are purring. I hear them.”

“More than I do, then,” said Gillis, after a few moments, when he and his comrade had listened with all their ears. “But I’ve heard some wonderful stories of the smell and hearing of those who have lived long in the jungle, and perhaps the boy is right. If he is, we’ve got a fight on our hands all right. When is this little shindig going to take place?” he asked Bomba grimly, as his hand tightened on the stock of his rifle.

“I do not know shindig,” answered Bomba.

“When will the jaguars try to kill us?” asked Dorn.

“Not for a long while,” replied Bomba. “Not till it gets very dark and many more come.”

“That’s cheerful,” muttered Gillis.

“They smell the blood of the tapir,” Bomba went on. “Then they come and see many men here. Much meat for the jaguars.”

“We’ll leave out those pleasant little details,” said Dorn, repressing a shudder. “It seems likely that we’re in for the fight of our lives, and you and I will have to do the most of the fighting, Gillis. These natives aren’t good for anything.”

“I will help,” said Bomba.

“By ginger, I believe the boy will!” exclaimed Gillis. “He’s as plucky as a wildcat. Though I’m afraid that bow and arrow won’t do much against such beasts.”

“I have my machete,” Bomba reminded them, half drawing the gleaming weapon from its leather sheath.

“I’m blest if the little rascal isn’t thinking of fighting them hand to hand!” ejaculated Gillis in admiration.

“I do not want to, but I will if I have to,” said Bomba. “It is better to kill than be killed. But wait, I think of something.”

While he had been talking, his eyes had been roving among the trees that edged the clearing, and they lighted as they fell on a tree with triangular pointed leaves.

He pointed to a pail that was lying near one of the packs.

“Let me have that,” he said, pointing to it.

“What do you want of it?” asked Dorn.

“Don’t bother with questions,” suggested Gillis. “The boy has something in mind, and after what I’ve seen of him I’m willing to give him a free hand. Here it is,” handing the pail to him.

“Now,” said Bomba, “make the fire big. The jaguars will go back from the light. I have to go into the woods. I do not want them so near.”

Gillis gave a few sharp orders to the natives and they heaped brush on the fire, which had been allowed to die down, and soon it was crackling fiercely, sending a broader zone of light through the surrounding forest.

This made the immediate proximity safe for the time, and Bomba took the pail and started out for the tree he had discerned.

“Wouldn’t one or both of us better go with you?” asked Dorn anxiously. “It isn’t right to let you go in there alone.”

“No,” said Bomba. “I must do my work myself. You can keep the iron sticks ready. But you will not need them yet.”

He took the pail and went unhesitatingly into the woods. The heavy underbrush closed behind him and swallowed him up, though the lurid glare of the fire gave those in the camp occasional glimpses of his progress.

Bomba made his way toward the tree he sought, and, reaching it, set down the pail and drew his machete.

He drove the knife through the bark and into the body of the tree as far as his strength permitted. Then he drew the knife down in a long vertical slash.

He pulled the blade out, lifted the pail, held it under the cut and waited.

In a few moments a sticky sap began to exude from the tree, at first slowly, and then more rapidly. Soon it was trickling in a thin stream into the pail.

It was eerie work waiting there, where he knew that greenish-yellow eyes were watching him from the jungle, only deterred for the moment from coming nearer by the light that came from the fire. But Bomba had learned patience in the hard school of the jungle, and he stood like a statue, the pail in one hand, his machete in the other ready for instant use, until the receptacle was nearly full.

Then he took it and, tilting it slightly so that a thin but steady stream fell on the leaves that carpeted the jungle, he made the circuit of the camp.

The white rubber hunters caught sight of him at intervals during his course, and watched his progress with bated breath.

“What on earth do you suppose the boy is doing?” asked Dorn.

“Looks as though he were weaving some magic charm out there,” muttered Gillis. “Something perhaps that he has learned from the witch doctors of the region. It’s making me creepy! It’s uncanny!”

The men were immensely relieved when Bomba at last emerged from the shadows, put down his empty pail, and seated himself on a stump near them.

“What have you been doing?” asked Gillis.

Bomba picked up the pail.

“Feel,” he said, pointing to the interior.

Gillis put his finger on the bottom of the pail, and when he withdrew it, it was covered with a pale, yellow, sticky substance. It felt uncomfortable, and he tried to rub it off with a bit of cloth. But this he found was almost impossible.

“Sticks closer than a brother,” he muttered. “What is it and where did you get it?”

“From the tree,” replied Bomba. “I stuck my knife in the tree and hurt it. The tree wept. These are the tears of the tree.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dorn, “the boy’s a poet.”

“Right enough,” agreed Gillis. “What he means, of course, is that he tapped the tree and got this gum-like sap from it. But why did you do it and what have you done with most of the sap?” he asked, addressing himself to Bomba.

“I spilled it on the leaves all around the camp,” said Bomba. “It is good for us and bad for the jaguars.”

The men looked at each other in perplexity.

“Can you make out what he’s getting at?” asked Dorn of his companion.

“Not in the least,” replied Gillis. “It’s all Greek to me. How is it bad for the jaguars?” he asked Bomba.

“The jaguars step on it,” explained Bomba. “The leaves stick to their feet. They try to shake them off. But the leaves stick. Then they try to rub them off with their heads. The leaves stick to their heads. The gum gets in their eyes. It is bitter. It makes them blind. They get frightened. They cannot see where they are going. They forget all about the white man and the meat. They cry. They run. That is all.”

The men looked at each other, struck dumb with amazement.

“That is all!” exclaimed Gillis, when he had recovered his breath. “By ginger, it’s enough!”

“I should say it was,” agreed Dorn. “Boy, I take off my hat to you.”

As he was bareheaded at the moment, Bomba was a little puzzled at this, but he sensed the warm approval of the white men, and his heart rejoiced. He, too, was white, and he had made his brothers happy.

He thought it well, however, to add a word of warning.

“You must keep the iron sticks ready,” he said. “Most of the jaguars will be stopped by the gum. But some of them, maybe one, two, three, will miss the leaves that stick and they will get into the camp.”

“We can probably handle them,” said Gillis. “At any rate we’ll do our best. I only wish we had more brushwood to keep the fire going strong. But we hadn’t counted on this wholesale raid, and now it would be as much as one’s life was worth to go into the forest for more. We’ll have to worry along as best we can.”

Having to husband their resources, they could only maintain a moderate fire, and as the hours wore on they had to be still more economical in feeding it.

As the zone of light narrowed they knew that their enemies were creeping closer, waiting only for the most opportune moment of attack.

They had put the camp into the best position for defense that circumstances permitted. The natives had been warned of the danger and had spears and arrows ready, though the white men knew that they would be far more ready to run than fight when the pinch came.

Toward midnight a sudden spitting and snarling rose on one side of the camp, to be taken up shortly on the other. There came the sound of heavy bodies rolling about in the underbrush and crashing through thickets. All the natural caution of the cat tribe seemed to have been abandoned in a rush of panic terror. The snarls and roars swelled into a hideous din that made the natives quake with fear, but that the white men understood.

Bomba’s spell was working!

But though they exulted, they did not abate one jot of their vigilance.

It was fortunate for them that they did not, for a few minutes later a huge, tawny body came hurtling through the air, landed within twenty feet of Gillis, and crouched for a second spring.

Two rifles spoke simultaneously with the twang of Bomba’s bow. The jaguar quivered, rolled over on its side, and lay still.

While their eyes were still fastened on it there came a roar from another direction, and a second jaguar landed behind Gillis and Dorn. They turned and fired, but so hurriedly that they either missed or only slightly wounded the animal. Before they could fire again it would be upon them! They dodged and clubbed their rifles, horror-stricken, awaiting the attack.

Like a flash Bomba drew his machete.

The beast launched itself in the air.