HOW THE INDIANS CAME
Bomba strained his ears and again heard the thing that had startled
him. It was a faint cry, rising and falling like a wail somewhere in
the bushes.
“Help!” came the voice, eerie as that of a banshee in the darkness.
“Help, Bomba! Help!”
Into Bomba’s heart sprang a great joy. This was the voice of Pipina,
the squaw--the voice that he had never expected to hear again. And
where Pipina was, must be Casson!
He was off like a deer in the direction from which the cry had come.
“Bomba hears you,” he called softly. “Bomba is coming.”
“Help!” came the feeble voice again. “Pipina is caught and cannot get
loose. Come quickly.”
Bomba wondered why he did not hear Casson’s voice, if Casson still
lived. But he said nothing and hurried on, hacking a passage through
the undergrowth.
He came nearer and nearer to the wailing woman until, pushing aside a
tangle of vines, he saw her. The moon, following close on the heels of
the tropical storm, was now riding high in the heavens and shedding a
soft luster over the jungle. By its light, Bomba caught sight of Pipina
as she stood holding out helpless hands to him.
She had been caught in a thorn thicket that had cruelly scratched her
hands and arms as she had struggled to free herself. Her wrinkled face
was drawn with pain.
By the deft use of his machete Bomba cleared away the clutching
branches and released her. The old squaw staggered dizzily, and the lad
put this arms about her shoulders to support her.
“Casson!” muttered Bomba hoarsely. “Tell me, Pipina! Tell me quick!
Where is Casson?”
The old woman drooped her head and stood there like a bowed statue of
grief, but said nothing until Bomba, mad with anxiety, shook her gently
by the shoulders.
“Do you hear, Pipina? Where is the good white man, Cody Casson, my
friend?”
Then the old woman raised her hands above her head and gave vent to a
wailing, desolate cry.
“Pipina no can tell. Casson her friend, too, good friend. He is gone.”
Bomba’s face darkened and again his heart contracted under the cold
hand of anguish.
“Tell me, Pipina,” he commanded. “Where has he gone? What has become of
him?”
“We sit down and I will tell you,” returned the squaw. “Pipina weak,
sick--”
For answer, Bomba cleared a space and, taking the old woman, placed her
as comfortably as he could with her back resting against a giant tree.
He sat down opposite her, his arms folded, his glance full upon her
face.
“Now, Pipina, tell Bomba all,” he urged.
The old woman looked about her and shuddered. She wrapped her skinny
arms about her as though they were a garment and had power to ward off
the chill of the night.
“Headhunters--they gone?” she asked fearfully.
“Gone,” said Bomba tersely. “Where is Casson?”
“Bomba make them go away all by himself,” continued the squaw
admiringly. “Bomba great man some day--”
Bomba bent toward her.
“Do not talk foolishly, Pipina. Bomba not care about himself. Pipina
tell about Casson.”
The old woman gave her wailing cry and rocked herself back and forth
drearily.
“We have bad time, Casson, Pipina,” she said. “We all alone in hut,
wishing Bomba come. Storm come, but not Bomba. Thunder like roar of
pumas, many pumas.”
“Bomba caught in storm,” explained the lad. “No could come till storm
stopped.”
“Pipina listen for sound of Bomba’s feet,” went on the squaw. “Pipina
afraid. She think danger near. Wish Bomba would come quick.”
She said this, leaning forward, in a quick, hissing whisper. Now she
relaxed against the tree and stared gloomily into the heavy shadows of
the jungle.
“Casson not too good,” she muttered. “Pipina worry about Casson. Worry
hard.”
“What was wrong with Casson?” cried Bomba, exasperated beyond measure
by the slowness with which Pipina got on with her story.
“He very sick,” returned the squaw. “He not right.” She touched her
forehead significantly. “He walk back and forth, back and forth, and
talk to himself. He say: ‘Laura, Laura, dear sweet Laura. Must tell
Bomba. Bartow and Laura and little boy--’”
Bomba caught the arm of the old woman in an eager grip.
“Go on,” he commended. “What else did Casson say? Tell Bomba.”
But Pipina shook her head.
“He not say more,” she said. “Only those words he say again and again.
Then he stop, listen at door of hut, listen and then walk up and down,
up and down.”
“Go on,” cried Bomba.
“Then we hear things. We think you come. We happy. We sing. We dance.
But no, Bomba not come. It is the headhunters that come to try to kill
Casson and Pipina--”
Bomba gave a low growl like that of an animal and ground his teeth
together.
“They come.” The voice of the old woman rose again in eerie wailing.
“Casson, Pipina, we close door, push bolt, as Bomba tell us. We heap
things against door. Casson he take down old gun, but it not work.
He put fire stick through hole in hut. He think frighten bucks of
Nascanora.”
Bomba groaned as he saw the picture of old Cody Casson, brave to the
last, defying death, his only weapon a “fire stick” that would not work.
“It happen quick,” went on Pipina with a helpless shake of her head.
“One, two, three--like that,” with a snap of her bony fingers. “The
headhunters come. They have heads, fresh heads, women, children heads,
on string at waists. They want more heads, Casson’s head, Pipina’s
head. They beat on door. They say: ‘Open. No hurt. Nascanora friend of
Casson.’”
Again came that growl as of an angry jaguar from the clenched teeth of
Bomba.
“Forked tongues! Black hearts!” he snarled. The woman nodded.
“Casson no open door,” she resumed. “He know Nascanora. He say things.
Make big chief mad. He beat more hard on door. He shout: ‘Casson witch
doctor. He put a spell on sick people of our tribe. Nascanora burn
Casson and hut of Casson with him.’”
A smoldering fire was in Bomba’s eyes that boded no good to the chief
of the headhunters.
“Then Nascanora bring fire to the hut of Pipina,” went on the squaw.
“His bucks come with heaps of vines and leaves. They wet and not burn
at first. But after they burn, burn hot, and the hut of Pipina begin to
burn too.”
“But you got away, Pipina!” burst in Bomba eagerly. “You got away from
the headhunters and the fire. That was good. But how did you do it?
Tell Bomba. Do not make much words.”
The old woman shrugged her shoulders and there was a touch of pride in
her tone as she replied:
“Beneath the hut of Pipina there is a hole, and this hole it lead under
the ground out into the jungle.”
Bomba stared at her.
“A hole!” he exclaimed. “A passage! Why you not tell Bomba?”
The squaw smiled inscrutably.
“None know but Pipina.”
Bomba was listening with the most intense interest and wonder.
“Go on,” he cried, as Pipina paused.
“Pipina take up board in floor of hut,” went on the old woman. “Then
get down and crawl through hole. Casson come too. Long time to creep
through hole. Then come to end. Out into jungle where wet and cool.”
“Then Casson got out safely?” cried Bomba.
The squaw nodded, and Bomba gratefully took her old wrinkled hand in
his.
“Pipina has saved the life of Casson,” the lad said gravely. “For this
Bomba thanks Pipina. He will never forget.”
The old woman threw her hands above her head, rocking herself back and
forth.
“Ayah, ayah!” she wailed. “Pipina save the life of Casson, but she lose
him after. For when Pipina look around Casson is gone!”