THROUGH THE JUNGLE
A pang like the stab of a knife went through Bomba.
“What mean you, Pipina?” he cried. “Speak. Speak fast.”
“We stand up from hole,” the squaw explained. “We find us far in the
jungle away from the headhunters of Nascanora. Yet Casson and Pipina
still afraid.”
“You hide?” asked Bomba.
The old woman nodded, looking about her fearfully.
“We go far, very far, into the jungle,” she said. “We hide behind big
rock. From there we see light from fire. Nascanora he think we are in
hut. He think Casson and Pipina burn like tapir meat on the end of
spit. But Pipina too smart for him. Pipina she fool the great chief
Nascanora.”
Her words ended in a chuckle. There was something so ghastly in mirth
at a scene that had so many elements of tragedy that Bomba felt the
hair rise on his scalp, and he spoke sharply to Pipina.
“You have not told Bomba what happened to Casson. Do not laugh and say
foolish words. Speak wise words and few words. Tell Bomba of Casson.”
“Ayah!” wailed the squaw. “I look to see the clearing, the cabin. I
look hard. I look long. Pipina’s eyes were turned from Casson. Then I
turn and see him. Then Pipina look again at cabin only as long as for a
monkey to swing from tree to tree. Yet when Pipina turn again--Casson
is gone.”
“Gone!”
Bomba sprang wildly to his feet and looked about him.
“You do not know what way he went?” he asked.
“No, Pipina does not know,” came sadly. “He was gone, and Pipina did
not dare go from behind the rock for fear she be caught by the bucks of
Nascanora.”
“But why should Casson wander off?” asked Bomba, in bewilderment. “He
was safer behind the rock in the company of Pipina.”
The old woman sighed and touched her forehead again with her scrawny
finger.
“He not right here,” she reminded him. “He not know what he do. Maybe
he go to find Bomba.”
“He cannot find his way anywhere,” declared Bomba sadly. “He will be
like a child in the jungle. He will be at the mercy of the big cats, of
the anacondas, of the other creeping things that watch and spring upon
their prey. Casson might as well have stayed in the hut of fire, for
his death in the jungle is as sure.”
Pipina wrung her hands and continued the rocking motion of her body.
“He is mad,” she chanted in a singsong voice. “There is a strange power
about him that will keep off evil. The gods will watch over him. The
serpent will not strike him, the jaguar will not spring upon him. For
they know that he is mad and fear him.”
Though Bomba shook his head, the words of Pipina brought a little
comfort to his heart. He knew that the savage beasts of the jungle,
like the savage men of the jungle, had fear of all that was not sane
and shunned it. Still, poor Cody Casson’s feebleness of mind seemed but
a doubtful protection, and Bomba’s heart misgave him.
“When Pipina found that Casson was gone what did she do then?” he
asked, turning to his companion.
“Pipina wait till fire go out and she think Indians go away,” was the
reply. “Then she creep back toward the cabin. She hope Bomba come back
and help her find Casson. Then the thorns catch Pipina and she stop.
She call. Bomba come.”
“Yes, Bomba came--too late,” said the lad sorrowfully. “My heart is
heavy for Casson. Except Pipina, Bomba has no other friend.”
“There is the good chief, Hondura,” suggested Pipina. “He will help
Bomba.”
“Yes, he will help,” assented Bomba wearily. “Bomba will take Pipina to
him where she may rest in the maloca of the good chief. There she will
be safe from the headhunters of Nascanora. Then Bomba will find Casson.”
But though Bomba spoke with courage, grief possessed him. In his heart
he feared that certain death awaited the ill and feeble Casson in the
jungle.
With a sigh, Bomba turned to Pipina and held out his hand to her.
“Come,” he said. “Bomba and Pipina will go to the camp of Hondura. It
is not safe to stay here longer.”
The old woman shivered and protested.
“It is dark,” she complained. “Wait till the sun rises in the sky and
we shall go more quickly to the camp of the good chief Hondura.”
“In this place there is danger,” returned Bomba, in a low voice,
looking uneasily about him. “Even now the scouts of Nascanora may have
returned to search the ashes of the cabin to make sure that Casson and
Pipina are dead. Besides, they know that Bomba lives, and they will not
sleep well at night until they know that he, too, is dead. Give Bomba
your hand, Pipina. We must go.”
Pipina obeyed without further protest. But she was trembling with
age and the damp chill of the jungle night, and Bomba saw that their
progress to the camp of Hondura and his people must be slow.
“Bomba will carry Pipina when the road is too rough,” promised the lad.
“But by the time the sun rises in the sky we must reach the maloca of
Hondura or we are lost.”
The old woman hobbled on beside him, whimpering.
“Bomba fears nothing, but Pipina is afraid,” she wailed. “There are
evil spirits abroad in the night. They will carry us off and bury us in
the ygapo or feed us to the hungry jaguars.”
“That would be better than to have the hands of Nascanora and his bucks
fall upon us,” replied Bomba grimly. “Besides, Pipina speaks words that
are foolish. There are no evil spirits in the darkness. The night is
kind, for it hides our going from our enemies.”
Bomba spoke in a very low tone, scarcely above a whisper. But Pipina
interrupted him, holding up her hand.
“Listen!” she said. “What was that?”
For answer Bomba seized her by the shoulders and dragged her down
beside him. Surrounded by the thick brush, they were well concealed
from any one who did not pass too close. There was always a chance of
being stumbled upon. But in that event Bomba’s knife would flash with
the quickness of the rattlesnake’s spring, and its sting would be quite
as deadly.
Bomba listened, muscles tensed, every sense alert. Neither he nor
Pipina had been mistaken. They had heard a sound, the sharp crackling
of a twig beneath a stealthy foot.
They heard no more for several seconds. Then, not twenty feet from
them, the brushwood stirred, and from it they saw two figures emerge
and stand faintly outlined against the darker shadows of the jungle.
Bomba’s first thought was that perhaps the sound he heard had been
caused by Casson. His heart leaped with hope and gladness. But that
feeling was quickly dispelled when he recognized two of the headhunters
of Nascanora.
They stood there conversing in a dialect which Bomba readily
understood, as he did most other languages of the region.
“They are dead,” said one of them. “The fire has made ashes of their
bones. The white witch doctor will no longer lay his spells on the
people of the Giant Cataract.”
Bomba rejoiced. They had not then found Casson.
“It is good,” returned the other. “The squaws and the old men of the
tribe will be glad when we tell them that the man who made bad magic is
dead.”
“But the boy still lives,” returned the other. “Nascanora will not
sleep well until he has his head upon his wigwam. Already this night
the boy has beaten Toluro in fight. He stamped his head into the mud.
And his arrows have carried death on their points.”
“The demons help him,” the other replied. “They come from the fire and
strike down our men. He has the same magic as the old man with white
hair. He is wiser and stronger than our medicine men.”
A few more words, and the Indians passed on, their going scarcely
disturbing a leaf or a twig.
“They pass like the shadows of all things evil,” murmured Bomba to
himself, as he cautiously rose again to his feet and prepared to resume
his journey. “Come, Pipina.”
They made fairly good progress, considering Pipina’s age and weakness.
There was no pausing to take their bearings, for Bomba was familiar
with the way that led to Hondura’s village.
When the strength of the old squaw failed and she could go no farther,
Bomba picked her up in his strong young arms and carried her with
scarcely a lessening of his stride.
After a while they heard the sound of rushing water.
Bomba lowered Pipina to the ground and stood listening.
“The storm has filled the ygapo,” he murmured. “It will be hard
crossing. Listen, Pipina.”
“I hear,” wailed the squaw. “Bomba cannot ford the ygapo. He must swim,
and that will be hard with an old woman on his back. Pipina cannot
swim.”
“There will be caymans in the ygapo,” muttered Bomba thoughtfully.
“Bomba cannot swim with Pipina and fight at the same time. Yet we must
cross the ygapo if we are to be in the camp of the good chief before
the sun comes up.”
“Pipina cannot cross,” whimpered the old woman. “She will be killed and
Bomba too will be killed. Wait here till the darkness goes, and we will
cross by the light of the sun. Bomba can make a raft and we will go on
that.”
“Our enemies are about us,” returned Bomba, as he bent a frowning look
upon the surrounding forest. “If we wait, they will find us and drag
us to the village of Nascanora. We cannot wait. We must go.”
“The river roars,” wailed the squaw, wringing her hands. “It waits for
Bomba and Pipina like a jaguar hungry for its meat. It is death to
cross.”
“A little way from here there is a log across the water,” said Bomba.
“What better bridge do Bomba and Pipina want?”
“The log is slippery,” moaned Pipina. “Bomba must go on. His feet are
sure. But he cannot carry Pipina. He will fall. Bomba go alone. Leave
Pipina behind.”
Ignoring the woman’s protests, Bomba caught her in his arms and bore
her swiftly along the banks of the stream.
He came to the log that stretched from bank to bank of the ygapo, or
swamp. At this point it had narrowed to the proportions of a moderately
wide gully. Usually there was only a muddy ooze at its bottom.
But now the tropical rains had filled the gully, and a raging torrent
roared between the banks.
Bomba’s bridge would have been but a poor one at the best of times--a
tree trunk cut down close to the bank in such a way as to fall across
the gulch.
Even in the light of day, to cross its moss-grown, treacherous surface
without slipping was no easy matter. Yet Bomba had done it again and
again, for he was as lithe and sure-footed as a mountain goat.
But this was a different matter, and Bomba was well aware of the danger
that he faced. The dashing spray had made the log almost as slippery
as glass. The darkness added to the peril. With Pipina in his arms it
would be difficult to retain his balance. One slip and the two might
go whirling into that seething torrent to a fate that the boy scarcely
dared to think about.
Still the jungle lad did not hesitate. In front was the torrent, behind
him the headhunters. He chose what he regarded as the lesser of the two
evils, relying upon his strength and his sureness of foot to carry him
and his burden to the opposite side.
He shut his ears to the menacing roar of the waters. He had defied the
fury of torrents before. He would defy it again.
Resolutely Bomba set foot upon the log.