TERRIBLE JAWS
At sight of the cayman, Bomba’s heart for a moment seemed to stop
beating.
A wild hope that perhaps the brute was asleep and would not perceive
his presence was quickly dispelled as the lad caught sight of two
fiery eyes fixed upon him. Then the huge mouth opened, displaying the
horrible array of teeth that, if they once closed on the lad, would
bite him in half as easily as a pair of shears would snip a thread.
Despairingly, Bomba felt for his machete. He knew that it would avail
little except perhaps to wound. It would simply help him to die
fighting.
Then his heart leaped. His feet felt the river bed beneath them! He had
reached the shallower part of the stream! Now he would have a footing,
something that would give him a purchase and enable him to use his bow
and arrows.
Quick as lightning, he unslung the bow from his shoulder and drew an
arrow from its quiver. With one motion he fitted the arrow to the
string and let fly.
The light from the fire gave him what he needed for his aim, and the
arrow entered the eye of the monster and penetrated to the brain.
With a fearful bellow of rage and pain, the great brute leaped half out
of the water and fell back, only to churn the water into a seething
whirlpool. In its wild flounderings the end of its serrated tail caught
Bomba on one of his legs and threw him farther out into the stream.
Bomba did not mind the blow, so full of exultation was he at the mortal
wound he had inflicted on his enemy. But his elation changed to fear
when he saw the scaly back of another alligator breaking the water. The
brute had been attracted by the uproar created by its stricken comrade
and was coming swiftly.
Luckily, the bank was not far away, and, putting all his power into his
strokes, the boy swam as he had never swum before. He reached the shore
not a moment too soon, for the hideous jaws snapped close behind him as
he pulled himself up the bank.
The impulse was strong on Bomba to shoot another arrow at the reptile
and send it to join its companion. But arrows were precious now, and
all he had would perhaps be needed for human foes.
So he repressed the impulse and hurried along the bank until he had
come near the fringe of trees that bordered the clearing in which
stood the hut. He could not yet see the hut itself. But to reach it he
would have to make a dash across the clearing.
In the dark he could have eluded the eyes of his enemies, for no
snake could move more silently. But now the open space was flooded
with light. No figures were visible, but he knew that many eyes were
watching from the surrounding woods.
Still he must chance it. He had faced death too often to let it daunt
him now.
Summoning all his strength, he darted out into the open. His first few
bounds carried him fifty feet. Then he dropped to the ground as a dozen
arrows whizzed over his head.
It was upon this that Bomba had counted. He had timed his drop for just
the instant that would allow the startled savages to aim and let fly.
He was up again on his feet, and before arrows could again be fitted to
strings had gained another fifty feet. Again he repeated his stratagem,
but this time not without scathe, for an arrow grazed his ankle.
“The arrow may be poisoned,” he thought to himself, as he felt the
twinge of pain. “If it is, this is the end of Bomba.”
He reached the shelter of a tree and whirled behind it. On the side of
the clearing he had just left, one of the headhunters, keen after his
prey, had come from behind his shelter.
Like lightning, Bomba fitted an arrow to his string. There was a twang,
a hideous yell, and the savage threw up his hands and fell headlong.
“There will be one less to fight Bomba,” muttered the lad. “They will
find that Bomba can shoot.”
If any had been inclined to follow the fallen Indian, they had
hesitated when they had seen him drop, and Bomba had a moment’s
breathing space. He flew from behind the tree and, availing himself of
what shelter he could find in his flight, came in sight of what had
been his home.
His heart sank within him. The cabin was a mass of flames. It was
impossible for life to be sustained in that furnace for a minute. If
Casson and Pipina had been trapped there, they were already far beyond
human help. They must be just what the hut itself would be in a few
minutes more, a heap of smoldering ashes.
For a moment Bomba forgot everything save the agony that clutched at
his heart. Then a sound brought him back to the danger that menaced him
personally.
Out from the shelter of the trees, crouched almost double, their
horrible faces illumined by the lurid light of the flames, came a
number of the headhunters.
They approached in a semicircle, cutting off Bomba’s retreat toward the
front and on either side. Back of him was the blazing hut, the heat
from which was already scorching his face and hands.
Bomba felt that he was trapped. His doom seemed sealed. He felt for the
handle of the machete at his belt. He grasped his bow. He would not
allow himself to be taken alive. Better instant death than the tortures
of Nascanora. And he vowed that he would take more than one of his
enemies with him.
He bent his bow, took quick aim and fired. A bronze-skinned buck
clapped a hand to his breast, gave a frightful howl, and fell writhing
in the dust.
But before Bomba could fit another arrow to his string there was a
concerted rush and a dozen hands reached out to seize him.
Bomba leaped back quickly and drew his machete. His eyes blazed, his
muscles tensed.
The Indians yelled and leaped forward.
Bang!
A sharp detonation clashed against their eardrums like a crash of
thunder. The force of the explosion shook the earth and flung the
natives to the ground.
Bomba found himself on his face, half-stunned, bewildered. Mysterious
missiles hurtled over his head, exploding in mid-air.
He raised himself cautiously to his knees and saw a sight that brought
hope to his heart.
The Indians were in full retreat, and as they fled they looked over
their shoulders at him fearfully, as though they blamed him for their
discomfiture.
Bomba well knew the mind of the Indian. The cause of the explosion and
the trembling of the earth were unknown to them. So they reasoned that
it must be a spell thrown over them by Bomba, friend of the old witch
doctor, Casson, to destroy them and save himself.
The Indians stopped in their mad flight at the edge of the jungle and
looked back. One of them, more daring than the rest, raised his bow and
took aim.
But before he could release the string one of the flying missiles
struck the would-be slayer, hurling him to the ground.
This was too much. The savages turned terror-stricken and fled from
that scene of mysterious death.
By this time Bomba had realized what must have caused the explosion.
Their little store of powder, so carefully guarded by Casson and
himself, had gone off when reached by the hot breath of the fire. The
flying missiles were the last of the cartridges belonging to his
revolver, that wonderful gift of Gillis and Dorn, the white rubber
hunters.
Bruised and shaken, Bomba staggered to his feet, hardly able to believe
his good fortune.
But as he turned back toward the cabin a great wave of desolation
flooded his heart.
There lay the cabin, now a heap of ashes. Were the ashes of Casson and
Pipina also there? Had those faithful ones come there to their death?
With a sob Bomba threw himself on the ground and abandoned himself to
uncontrolled grief.
This, however, was of short duration. A wild rage welled up in his
heart, rage against the wicked Nascanora and his cruel tribe.
“They shall pay!” the lad cried, leaping to his feet. “For every drop
of Casson’s blood they shall pay! There will yet be wailing in the huts
of Nascanora. It is I, Bomba, who swear it!”
He paused, head upflung, listening.
What was that sound?