[Illustration: BOMBA DROPPED FLAT ON THE GROUND
Bomba on Jaguar Island Page 144]
BOMBA
THE JUNGLE BOY
ON JAGUAR ISLAND
OR
Adrift on the River of Mystery
BY
ROY ROCKWOOD
AUTHOR OF “BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY,” “THROUGH THE
AIR TO THE NORTH POLE,” “ON A TORN-AWAY
WORLD,” ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
BOOKS FOR BOYS
_By_ ROY ROCKWOOD
THE BOMBA BOOKS
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY
GREAT MARVEL SERIES
THROUGH THE AIR TO THE NORTH POLE
UNDER THE OCEAN TO THE SOUTH POLE
FIVE THOUSAND MILES UNDERGROUND
THROUGH SPACE TO MARS
LOST ON THE MOON
ON A TORN-AWAY WORLD
THE CITY BEYOND THE CLOUDS
SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS ON MOTOR CYCLES
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR RACING AUTO
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR POWER LAUNCH
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS IN A SUBMARINE
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR ICE RACER
DAVE DASHAWAY SERIES
DAVE DASHAWAY, THE YOUNG AVIATOR
DAVE DASHAWAY AND HIS HYDROPLANE
DAVE DASHAWAY AND HIS GIANT AIRSHIP
DAVE DASHAWAY AROUND THE WORLD
DAVE DASHAWAY, AIR CHAMPION
CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, New York
COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WHAT THE LIGHTNING REVEALED 1
II. AT GRIPS WITH THE ENEMY 8
III. THE BLAZING CABIN 20
IV. TERRIBLE JAWS 27
V. HOW THE INDIANS CAME 34
VI. THROUGH THE JUNGLE 41
VII. A PERILOUS CROSSING 51
VIII. THE WARNING 59
IX. THE SKELETON 68
X. WRITHING COILS 78
XI. THE TRAILING PUMAS 85
XII. A TERRIFIC BATTLE 99
XIII. IN THE BOA CONSTRICTOR’S FOLDS 107
XIV. EYES THAT GLARED 117
XV. THE RUSHING RIVER 127
XVI. JAGUAR ISLAND 135
XVII. THE HIDDEN LISTENER 143
XVIII. DISCOVERED 151
XIX. IN THE HANDS OF THE TRIBE 157
XX. DAZZLING TREASURE 165
XXI. THE DEEPENING MYSTERY 174
XXII. THE CREEPING DEATH 182
XXIII. THE FIRE STICK SPEAKS 193
XXIV. THE VOLCANO’S ROAR 199
XXV. THE ISLAND SINKS 204
BOMBA
THE JUNGLE BOY
ON JAGUAR ISLAND
CHAPTER I
WHAT THE LIGHTNING REVEALED
Bomba crouched beneath the shelter of an overhanging rock, straining
his ears for a faint sound not born of the storm.
The rain was coming down in a pitiless torrent. The thunder battered
against the surrounding hills and went off grumbling into the distance,
to be swallowed up in louder detonations. Trees bent before the fury
of the wind like a bow in the hands of an archer. Some of the smaller
trunks, wrenched from their roots, fell with a thud to the ground.
Castanha nuts, like pebbles from the sling shot of a giant, pelted the
jungle in a deadly hail. It was a devastating storm that for the time
subdued all other forces of the jungle.
None but the ears of the boy of the jungle could have detected that
faint sound through the clamor of the tempest. None but the eyes of
Bomba could have seen that something that stood out like a black blot
against the vivid background of the lightning.
Bomba crouched lower beneath the jutting rock and one hand slipped to
the belt at his waist, firmly gripping the handle of his razor-edged
knife. Whether man, beast or reptile threatened, Bomba was not to be
caught off his guard.
A crash of thunder that seemed to rip the very heavens asunder, a flash
of lightning like a jagged finger of fire searing the sky, and again
Bomba saw that blot, but this time more distinctly.
With a smothered exclamation, Bomba slipped into the narrow gully that
ran behind the rock, a gully, now half filled with water but thickly
fringed with bushes, concealing him from the eyes of his enemies.
For the flash of lightning had revealed no lurking jaguar, hungry for
its prey. The foes of Bomba were of a far deadlier kind, deadlier
even than the wicked anaconda with its folds of steel. For these were
headhunters--bloodthirsty, cruel, cunning--bucks of the tribe of the
dreaded chief, Nascanora.
The eyes of Bomba, keen as those of the big cats that stalked the
jungle, had counted three of these in the brief space of the lightning
flash. They stood like naked statues, each gripping a spear, the eyes
of each prodding the deeper shadows beneath the overhanging rock.
Rage was in the heart of the jungle boy, and fear; fear not for himself
but for Cody Casson, his one white friend who had reared him from
infancy; Cody Casson, now frail and wasted, who lay helpless, perhaps
close to death, in the hut of Pipina, the squaw.
Bomba knew with a sure instinct the reason for the presence of the
headhunters of Nascanora, now far from their tribal abode in the shadow
of the Giant Cataract. They were once more on the trail of Casson;
Casson whom Bomba loved. They would try to capture him, take him to
their village and torture him, and then, when death had brought an end
to his sufferings, place his head on Nascanora’s wigwam.
The hand of Bomba clutched convulsively at the handle of his knife. He
vowed to the gods of the thunder and the rain that he would protect his
friend to the last gasp; that if Casson were to die, he, Bomba, would
die with him, stretched across his body.
But it was too early yet to think of death. Too long had Bomba braved
the perils of the jungle not to know the fleetness of his foot, the
sureness of his eye, the strength of his muscles. Bomba had fought the
braves of Nascanora’s tribe before; had beaten and outwitted them. He
would fight them again, matching his strength against their strength,
his brain against their brain. And he told himself that Bomba would win.
Stealthily as a shadow, still crouching low behind the bushes, Bomba
crept along the gully, his ears strained for any sound that might
indicate pursuit.
Had they seen him? Had his form beneath the shadow of the rock been as
plain to them as theirs to him?
Bomba doubted this, for the rock was sheltered by the overhanging limbs
of trees, while the Indians had stood up straight, clearly outlined
against the tangled undergrowth of the jungle.
The advantage so far was Bomba’s. But how long could he hope to retain
it?
Bomba pushed against the wind almost as against a solid obstacle. It
required all his strength to keep his feet. The lightning, that was now
almost incessant, filled the forest with weird light, illuminating the
tree branches and swaying vines in a fantastic tracery. Heavy ropes
of creepers swung from the branches above the boy’s head and wrapped
themselves about him, impeding his progress.
With teeth gritted, Bomba fought the fury of the storm. It was
terrible, but not so ruthless and relentless as the enemy he was
trying to leave behind.
An unusually vivid flash of lightning illumined a faint trail at
Bomba’s right. He would leave the gully here and strike homeward toward
the cabin of Pipina, where Casson lay, all unknowing of the danger that
threatened him. He had been on his way there when the storm had risen
and forced him to seek shelter beneath the lee of the rock.
A tree fell with the sound of rending branches directly in front of
him. The outflung boughs caught him, swept him backward; castanha
nuts pelted about him, now just grazing him and again leaving painful
bruises on his body.
He freed himself and struggled doggedly onward. It was not far to the
hut of Pipina now, but, pursued by the demons of the storm and having
to hack his way at times through the underbrush, each yard had to be
fought for.
Then, suddenly, Bomba stopped.
His hand grasped tightly the hilt of his knife, his eyes narrowed as
they searched an especially heavy clump of bushes.
Another flash illumined the thicket and Bomba saw the ugly head of a
jararaca, the rattlesnake of the South American jungle, upraised to
strike.
As the world was again bathed in blackness the serpent sprang. At the
same instant Bomba dodged, his hand darted forward and caught the
reptile by the neck. His fingers closed upon that slimy neck like a
ring of steel. The snake writhed fearfully and threw its coils about
Bomba’s arm.
Had the lad’s fingers relaxed the merest trifle, the fangs would have
found their mark. But those fingers kept up their relentless pressure
until the thrashing coils gradually grew limp.
To make assurance doubly sure, Bomba beat the reptile’s head against a
rock, then flung the hideous thing far from him into the bushes.
“The snake is quick,” said the boy to himself, in justified pride, “but
Bomba is quicker.”
He plunged forward again, but in a moment stopped, listening intently.
What was that?
Only the threshing of the rain, the roar of the wind?
No, it was different from either of these. It was the sound of one or
several bodies pressing through the heavy undergrowth that in places
grew higher than a man’s head.
And it was not the body of a jaguar or a puma that was pushing through
the thickets. Bomba was familiar enough with the habits of these
creatures to know that on a night like this they would remain closely
sheltered in their caves. None of them would brave the fury of the
elements.
Nor was it the odor of animals that was borne to him. Bomba’s long
residence in the jungle had developed his sense of smell so that it was
almost as keen as that of the jaguar itself. His nostrils dilated now
as he sniffed the air and caught the unmistakable scent of human kind.
He had thought that he had left his enemies behind. Now he knew that
they were also in front. It was from that direction that the scent had
come.
It was no small party with which he had to deal. Nascanora’s braves
were out in force. All Bomba’s subtlety and force would be needed that
night, if he were to keep his head on his shoulders. And Bomba valued
that head highly.
He went forward now more slowly, more cautiously, pausing to look about
him warily when the lightning illumined the jungle.
At one brilliant flash he dropped behind some bushes as though shot.
Not more than a dozen yards away three Indians were creeping toward
him, spear points lowered, glinting evilly!