Bomba the jungle boy

Bomba had never before come face to face with a member of the tribe of head-hunters. Only at rare intervals had any of these men of evil omen invaded that section of the jungle where he and Casson lived.

But when they had come they had left behind them a wake of death and destruction. They were cruel and ruthless. They sought for heads as the North American Indians used to seek for scalps with which to adorn their wigwams and testify to their valor.

One of these dreadful trophies hung at the belt of the Indian who now stood regarding Bomba with a scowl that sent a chill to the boy’s heart.

But Bomba let no sign of apprehension show itself on his face, which had been schooled to repression and self-control by his jungle experiences.

On the contrary he smiled amicably and put up his hands, palms outward, as a sign of peace and good will.

“Good hunting, brother?” he asked, in the language that with certain variations was common to all the tribes of the region and with which he was perfectly familiar.

“Ugh!” the Indian grunted noncommittally, as he scanned Bomba with glowering eyes that had in them nothing of friendliness. “You white boy?”

“Yes,” replied Bomba.

“You live with white man that has long hair and walks with a stick?” pursued the Indian.

Bomba nodded.

“The white man bad medicine,” said the Indian, his scowl deepening and his hand tightening on his spear.

“He is good medicine,” declared Bomba.

“He is a Man of Evil,” was the reply. “He bring trouble on my people. Much sickness. Many die. Chief Nascanora very angry. He make talk with big medicine man, and medicine man say there will always be sickness as long as white man stay alive.”

A thrill of apprehension ran through Bomba.

“Old white man is good man,” he protested energetically. “He hurts nobody. He would like to cure people, not make them sick. He has been here many years. He is a brother. He has a good heart.”

“He is a Man of Evil,” repeated the other doggedly. “Medicine man say so. Medicine man know. Tribe will have trouble, much trouble, unless old white man die.”

Bomba tried to collect his thoughts, which had been thrown into a tumult by these ominous words. It came to him that perhaps this man was an emissary of death chosen by the tribe to accomplish its purpose. If this were so, Bomba, boy though he was, would have been ready to do battle with him for the life of Casson.

But if the man were not alone, if companions were near at hand, that would put another aspect on the matter. Then craft and strategy would have to make up for the disparity of numbers.

“My brother has come a long way,” Bomba said, changing the subject. “The home of his people is near the Giant Cataract. Why has my brother come so far from his own people to do his hunting alone?”

“I am not alone,” was the answer. “Many of my people are near me. If I call, they will come.”

Bomba had learned what he wanted to know. This was but a straying member of a large party. The news was not reassuring, but it showed him where he stood. At all costs he must avoid a combat at this moment.

His revolver, fully loaded, was at his belt and, despite his unfamiliarity with the weapon, he could not have missed at such close range. But the report would have summoned the man’s companions, who were probably not far away.

So he restrained his impulse to draw it, and without any betrayal of fear smiled into the man’s face, waved his hand carelessly in farewell, and passed on. In a moment the jungle had swallowed him up.

The Indian had made an instinctive movement with his spear, and then checked himself and stood undecided. The dauntless bearing of the boy disconcerted him.

Bomba, the instant he felt sure that his movements were hidden from the native, dropped his careless attitude and made his way with all the haste of which he was capable through the jungle. He must reach their hut as soon as possible and warn Casson—poor, helpless, old Casson—who would be an easy prey if the enemy came upon him unawares.

He had not gone far before he heard a loud shout behind him. This was followed a moment later by answering shouts from many directions.

He knew at once what they meant. The Indian had summoned those of his companions who happened to be within earshot. There would be a hurried gathering, a hubbub of exclamations, and then, like a pack of wild animals, they would be upon his trail.

Bomba was as lithe and strong as a young panther, and if the going had been reasonably clear, he could probably have distanced the head-hunters. But he had the disadvantage of having to make a path in many places as he went along. He had to hack his way often through tangled thickets, and this took up precious time. His enemies, on the contrary, could follow without stopping the very path that he had made with infinite labor. It was one of the ironies of his situation that he was making the way easier for his pursuers. He was actually helping them to overtake him.

Under such conditions, it was only a matter of time before they would catch up with him. Already he could tell by the crashing of the underbrush that they were nearer.

But he kept on, spurred by desperation. His lungs were laboring, his breath coming in shorter and ever shorter gasps. He was reaching the limit of his endurance. The end could not be long delayed.

As his eyes roved frantically from right to left, he caught sight of an opening in the side of a small knoll a little way off from the direction in which he was headed.

His pursuers were close behind him now. At any moment the foremost of them might appear in sight.

Like a flash, Bomba turned in the direction of the cave and bolted into it headlong, pitching at full length on the ground within.

He lay there in the semi-darkness panting heavily, trying to regain his breath, the little that he had left having been knocked out of him by the fall.

He could hear the rush of the pursuers as they passed by in the direction he had been heading, and he breathed a sigh of heartfelt relief as he heard their steps receding in the distance. For the moment he was saved.

But he knew this was only a reprieve. It would not be long before his enemies would realize that they were on a false trail. They would miss the sound of his steps, the marks of his machete on the bushes. Then they would retrace their steps and search every nook or cranny in which he might be hiding. And they could hardly fail to discover the cave!

As soon as he could breathe again, he rose to his feet and reconnoitered the hiding place that had, temporarily at least, proved his salvation. What his eyes could not see his touch supplied.

There was no apparent exit from the cave except the opening through which he had come. But at the back, partly hidden by a shelf of rock, was a small crevice only a few inches wide. It seemed impossible at first that it could permit the passage of his body. But by placing himself sidewise and drawing in his breath he finally managed to worm his way through and found footing on the other side.

Now he could breathe more freely. He could crouch down in the narrow passage behind the crevice and be concealed from the sight of anyone at the entrance of the cave. To a casual observer the cave would seem empty.

And even if a careful search were made and his hiding place discovered, he would be in a natural fortress. No arrow or spear could reach him. An Indian would be too big to wriggle through that crevice, and if he tried to do so, he would be at the mercy of the lad’s knife or pistol while he was making the attempt.

The first glow of exultation had barely subsided when Bomba could tell by the sounds outside that his enemies were returning. He could hear a babble of voices and grunts of rage and disappointment at the escape of their prey.

He crouched low behind his barricade, scarcely daring to breathe.

The steps came nearer and nearer.

Then suddenly there was a guttural exclamation of surprise mingled with triumph, and he knew that they had discovered the entrance to his hiding place.

The shout was followed by dead silence, which Bomba was at no loss to interpret.

His enemies knew that if he were there he would be desperate, fighting with his back against the wall. None of them was eager to be the first to enter and face him. There was no need for impetuous action. If he were there, he could not escape.

So they were drawing stealthily nearer, probably from the side, so as to escape a possible whizzing arrow, the only weapon with which they thought he would be equipped.

For some minutes the deathlike silence continued. Bomba could feel, though he could not see, that fierce, keen eyes were peering in, trying to pierce the darkness that at the back of the cave was almost absolute.

Then came a hissing sound, and a flaming torch was thrown into the cave, its flaring light illuminating every crevice of the interior.

Apparently it was empty. If the fugitive had entered there, it seemed evident that he must have escaped by some other exit.

To discover that other exit, if there were one, several of the Indians crowded into the cave, and one of them picked up the torch to make a more thorough search.

He had scarcely done so before a terrific hubbub arose from his companions on the outside of the cave. Something had frightened them.

The men within rushed out, and there was a snapping and crashing as the whole party forced its way through the underbrush, evidently in panic flight.

What had happened? Bomba asked himself. Was one terror to be succeeded by another?

He listened with all his ears. There was no sound except that caused by the stampede of the Indians, now steadily growing fainter.

Minutes passed and still no sound. The strain became unendurable.

Slowly, very slowly, Bomba raised his head and peered over his barricade.

All he saw was a shadow.

But that was enough to chill his blood.

For the shadow that lay on the ground before the cave was that of a giant puma, one of the fiercest inhabitants of the Amazonian wilds!

The owner of the cave had returned!