AT GRIPS WITH THE ENEMY
Like a flash Bomba leaped to his feet and plunged into the underbrush.
He was not a moment too soon! With a yell, the headhunters sprang
toward the spot where he had been but a moment before.
Had Bomba been on a level plain, he could have laughed at his pursuers,
for none of them matched him in fleetness of foot. But when it came
to forcing his way through the heavy brush, they could move almost as
quickly as himself, and the noise he made would be a sure guide to his
pursuers.
Realizing this, Bomba adopted new tactics. With the litheness of a deer
he rose in the air, and with a series of successive bounds rapidly
increased the distance between him and the enemy. He hurdled the bushes
in great leaps while his heavier foes were forcing their way through
them.
At times he came to places where long creepers depended from the trees,
and in order to rest his legs he swung himself along by his arms from
one to the other with incredible celerity.
Bomba’s heart sang within him as the sounds of pursuit became fainter.
But just as he was beginning to feel that he had escaped the most
pressing danger a chorus of yells came from somewhere in front of him.
These were answered by savage shouts in the rear.
To go on would be to throw himself into the hands of his foes. To
retreat would be equally dangerous.
Turning to the nearest tree, Bomba shinned up it with the agility of a
monkey and sought refuge in the thick foliage that hid him from sight,
while yet permitting him to see what might be going on below.
What was in that tree he did not know. Perhaps a boa constrictor wound
about one of the branches. But he must take his chance between possible
death there and the almost certain death that threatened him on the
ground beneath.
He had scarcely ensconced himself, panting, in the fork of two great
branches before a dozen or more Indians were under his refuge,
jabbering with rage and disappointment. They had thought they had their
prey encircled and that all they had to do was to close in upon it. Now
it had vanished as though into thin air.
With their spears and machetes they viciously beat the brushwood to
right and left, thrusting their weapons into every thicket, their anger
growing as their efforts remained fruitless.
At last they paused and grouped themselves together for consultation.
Bomba’s eyes strained through the darkness, trying to ascertain their
number. His ears sought also to get what they were saying. Had it not
been for the noise of the tempest, he might have succeeded in this, for
he was familiar with most of the dialects of the jungle dwellers. But
all he could hear was a low growl that conveyed to him no meaning.
Then the sound of voices died away and the only noise was that of the
storm. The black mass of figures had dissolved. Bomba seemed to be
alone.
Had the headhunters passed on? Had they been warned perhaps of some
danger that menaced them as well as the fugitive?
For a moment the heart of the jungle lad leaped with hope. Then his
sensitive ear caught a rustling that he knew was not occasioned by the
wind.
No, they had not gone. Some, perhaps, but not all.
A lightning flash more dazzling than any that had gone before rent
the darkness of the jungle, flooding it with weird, unearthly light.
In that flash Bomba caught sight of several Indians crouched in the
vicinity of the tree.
There came a rending, splintering crash that nearly shattered his
eardrums, a detonation that seemed to shake the earth.
A giant tree near by, struck to the heart by the bolt, toppled and
crashed toward the earth. The Indians yelled and tried to flee. A
blood-curdling scream rang through the jungle as the tree trunk thudded
to the ground.
Bomba sensed what had happened. There was only one meaning to that
scream.
“The storm does Bomba’s work better than he can do it himself,”
muttered the lad.
If he had had any doubt that death had occurred, another flash showed
that he had made no mistake. The great tree in falling had caught one
of the Indians beneath it, crushing the life from his body instantly.
The other savages were not visible, and Bomba rightly guessed that they
would believe the spot to be under a curse and would shun it as they
would the plague.
“They will not come back to-night,” reasoned the jungle lad, “and
to-morrow will be too late, for Bomba will not be here.”
With Bomba, to think was to act. Reaching out, he clutched a handful
of creepers and slid to the ground. He paused a moment to get his
direction and then vanished into the underbrush.
There was no sign of his foes, and Bomba blessed that lightning stroke
that had sent them in panic flight. Not for the next ten minutes did
anything happen to give him alarm.
Then, without warning, he was struck from behind and fell to the
ground. The sound of a guttural voice was in his ears and sinewy
fingers wound themselves about his throat.
While the jungle boy struggles desperately to loose that strangling
hold, it may be well, for the benefit of those who have not read the
preceding volumes of this series, to tell who Bomba was and what had
been his adventures up to the time this story opens.
Bomba could never remember a time when he had not lived in the jungle.
His only companion and guardian was Cody Casson, an aged naturalist,
who had withdrawn from civilization and the life of white people to
settle in one of the remotest recesses of the Amazonian jungle. Whether
he was related to him, Bomba did not know and had never wondered. He
would not have known the meaning of relative. He only knew that he
loved Casson and that Casson loved him, although the latter seldom
demonstrated any affection in words, spending days at a time in moody
abstraction.
The old man’s state had grown worse after a certain memorable day when
he had fired a gun at an anaconda which was threatening to attack
Bomba and the weapon had burst in his hands. The reptile was wounded by
the flying missiles and retreated, but Casson had received a serious
injury to his head. Bomba nursed him back to some degree of physical
health, but Casson from that time on was half-demented, and the care of
providing for the two had fallen on the lad’s shoulders.
For such youthful shoulders it was a heavy burden, but it helped to
develop the lad into a wonder of strength and daring. Dangers of all
kinds surrounded him, wild beasts and reptiles with which the jungle
swarmed, and only quick wit and dauntless courage could preserve his
life. But necessity is a hard taskmaster, and under its spur Bomba
learned all the craft of the jungle. Keen of eye, swift of foot, supple
of muscle, and strong of heart, he matched himself against his foes and
so far had come out the victor. He was now about fourteen years old,
but few grown men had his strength and resources.
Of the outside world he knew nothing. All his life was circumscribed by
the jungle. Casson had started to give him a smattering of learning,
but the explosion of the rifle had brought this to an abrupt stop.
So Bomba roamed the jungle like a young faun at the beginning of the
world. His face was as bronzed as that of an Indian from constant
exposure to sun and storm. But there was undeniable proof in his
features, in his aquiline nose, his firm jaw, his brown hair and eyes,
that he was of white blood. He wore the native tunic, or mendiyeh, and
a puma skin was slung across his breast--that of Geluk the puma that
he had come across and killed when it was trying to slay the friendly
parrots, Kiki and Woowoo. Beneath his bare arms and legs powerful
muscles glided and rippled. Homemade sandals encased his feet.
His weapons consisted of a bow and arrows, and he wore at his belt
a machete, or two-edged knife, fully a foot in length, a fearful
blade when it came to hand-to-hand fighting. In addition he had a
five-chambered revolver, the only firearm of which he was possessed,
and which had been given to him by two white rubber hunters after he
had rendered them a signal service.
Despite its perils, he loved the life of the jungle, and but for
one thing would have been reasonably happy. That thing was the
consciousness of his white blood. It tugged at his heart, and while it
gave him pride, it also tormented him. The call of the blood was strong
within him. He knew that, somehow, he was out of place. Something was
always calling him to go elsewhere, beckoning him on to new horizons,
telling him that he belonged to the white people.
He had a great yearning to know of his parentage. He had not the
slightest memory of his father or mother. Again and again he had
questioned Casson on this point, but the old man’s memory always failed
him at the very moment of revelation. In these efforts to recall the
past Casson had frequently muttered the words “Bartow” and “Laura,” and
Bomba had inferred that the names were those of his father and mother.
But the further knowledge he craved was denied him.
How Bomba saved the camp of Gillis and Dorn, rubber hunters, from a
night attack by jaguars--how he trapped the deadly cooanaradi, the most
dreaded serpent of the South American wilds, when it pursued him; his
adventures with alligators and anacondas; the besieging of his cabin
by the headhunters; how his friends of the forest came to his aid when
he was fearfully beset; all this is narrated in the first volumes of
this series, entitled: “Bomba, the Jungle Boy; or, The Old Naturalist’s
Secret.”
Later on, Casson told Bomba that, though he himself could not remember
the facts about the lad’s parentage, the latter could get that
information from Jojasta, the medicine man of the Moving Mountain.
Bomba, therefore, after providing for Casson’s safety while he should
be gone, set out to see Jojasta. From the very outset his path was
beset with perils. Flood and earthquake, man and beast sought his life.
He was instrumental in delivering from the hands of the savages a Mrs.
Parkhurst and her son, Frank, and his association with the two deepened
his desire to know more of that white civilization with which they were
so familiar. He was hurled into a subterranean cavern, escaped by a
hair’s breadth and finally reached Jojasta and the Moving Mountain.
There disappointment awaited him; but he was told that if he could find
Sobrinini, the witch who dwelt near the Giant Cataract, she might give
him the knowledge for which his soul longed.
Baffled for a time but not disheartened, Bomba resolved to search out
Sobrinini, though warned that great peril would attend the attempt.
How true that warning was he soon had reason to learn. He fell into
the power of Nascanora and was doomed by him to torture and death. How
his quick wit saved him; the terrible dangers to which his indomitable
spirit refused to yield, and which he finally surmounted; how he found
Sobrinini at last on her island of snakes and brought her back with
him, only to be tantalized with imperfect revelations that made it
still necessary to hunt out Japazy on Jaguar Island is told in the
preceding volume of this series, entitled, “Bomba, the Jungle Boy, at
the Giant Cataract; or, Chief Nascanora and His Captives.”
And now to return to Bomba as he writhed and struggled to shake himself
free from that terrible grip on his throat!
He knew that he was fighting for his life.
What was it that had waited for him with the stealth of the panther to
leap upon him as he passed?
That one of the headhunters of the tribe of Nascanora had him in his
grip, Bomba knew at the first touch of those fingers of steel about his
throat.
Few could break the grip of the jungle Indian. Only those bred as Bomba
had been among the very wild beasts of that tangled region could have
hoped to free himself of that strangle hold.
With a tremendous heave of his powerful young shoulders Bomba flung
himself upon his back, the Indian half over him. With frantic fingers
the lad tore at that clutch about his throat.
Above, the thunder rumbled dourly. Dim flashes of sheet lightning
served to deepen by contrast the darkness that enveloped the
antagonists.
Strain as he would the lad could not force that hold to break. His
head was reeling, his brain confused and black spots danced before his
glazing eyes.
A flash of lightning brighter than the rest showed him the Indian, on
whose face was an expression of fiendish gloating.
That look was a spur to Bomba’s failing senses. He thought of Casson,
left defenseless with Bomba dead, and by a mighty effort raised himself
and drove his knee with all his strength into the flesh beneath the
ribs of his antagonist.
The blow was a surprise to the Indian, who counted his adversary as
already beaten. He grunted with dismay and pain. For the fraction of an
instant his grip relaxed, and in that instant Bomba had burst the iron
ring about his throat and was on his feet.
With a bellow of rage the savage also sprang upright, whipping out a
short knife from his belt.
But quick as he was, Bomba was quicker. He saw the gleam of the
Indian’s steel, drew his own machete and with one stroke sent his
enemy’s weapon whizzing off into the underbrush.
Like a panther, the Indian sprang upon the white boy, and before Bomba
could strike home with the machete had seized upon the lad’s hand,
striving to bend it backward and possess himself of the machete.
But if the Indian was strong, so was Bomba. He was fighting for two
lives, his own and Casson’s, and, moreover, one of his fierce rages
was upon him; one of those wild bursts of fury that for the moment
gave him the strength of the jaguar, the wile of the fox, the quickness
of the snake.
Bomba was all these in one now, as he fought with the Indian, straining
backward and forward, resisting the pressure upon his knife arm,
striving with all the power in him to drive downward the shining point
of his machete, to sink it to the hilt in his enemy’s flesh.
For some minutes the fierce struggle went on. Then, with a sudden
twist, Bomba broke the Indian’s hold, leaped backward several feet, and
threw his machete.
It would have found its mark had not the savage fallen forward with the
sudden releasing of Bomba’s pressure. The knife grazed his head. Thrown
off his balance, the savage tried to recover himself. But the slime of
mud and leaves made treacherous footing and the Indian plunged headlong.
Bomba was upon him with the swiftness of a jaguar!