A PERILOUS CROSSING
Beneath him the waters roared and thundered. Pipina whimpered and
besought her gods, but the ears of Bomba were deaf to her cries.
Underfoot the trunk was like glass. The slightest misstep might mean
disaster. But Bomba advanced steadily, scarcely troubled by the light
weight of the squaw. He was so accustomed to the dark that he hardly
needed the faint rays of moonlight that filtered through the trees to
tell him where to place his feet.
He was half-way across. Now he was more than half. Before him loomed
the dense undergrowth of the farther bank. Suddenly his foot slipped!
For one horrible moment Bomba teetered over eternity.
Pipina sent up a shrill cry, for she expected that moment to be her
last.
By a marvelous exercise of muscular control, Bomba balanced himself and
retained his foothold upon the log with one foot while he drew up the
other and gradually regained his equilibrium.
But Pipina, in panic, was now squirming about in his arms and
disarranging his calculations. He measured the distance still to be
traversed, staked his all on one swift run, sped across the treacherous
log, and with one last leap reached the farther shore in safety.
A great joy was singing in his heart as he set Pipina on her feet.
“The gods are with us, Pipina!” he exulted. “Where are your bad spirits
now? Tell Bomba that!”
“We have not yet reached the maloca of Hondura,” the old squaw reminded
him, holding tenaciously to her superstition. “It is not well to
rejoice too soon. We may yet find evil spirits hiding, waiting for us
behind the trees.”
But Bomba laughed such fears to scorn. He was buoyant with confidence.
Fate had been kind to him thus far that night, fate and his own quick
brain and strong arms.
His knowledge of the savages and their ways told him that he and Pipina
had passed through the ring of the headhunters. Moreover, the maloca of
Hondura was now only two hours’ journey away and through a less tangled
part of the jungle.
True, there was not a moment that did not hold possible peril for
them. A boa constrictor might dart from a tree branch and seek to
encircle them in its folds. The roar of a jaguar might prelude its
spring. Every thicket might harbor a bringer of death.
But evil as they were, they were better understood and more easily
dealt with than those human enemies, the men who carried at their belts
the heads of their victims.
Pipina declared now that she was strong enough to walk, and they made
rapid progress through the jungle, and as the first faint heralds of
the dawn appeared in the eastern sky they came within sight of the
maloca, or village, of Hondura, chief of the Araos tribe, the strongest
in that section of the jungle.
When Bomba and his companion reached the outskirts of the native
village they found the inhabitants already astir. The wanderers were
challenged by scouts, for since the advent of the headhunters a strict
watch was kept day and night. But the jungle lad was well known and
liked by the members of the tribe. His popularity with them was only
second to that of the chief himself, for only a few months before,
Bomba had rendered the tribe a service that made him forever secure in
their affections.
So Bomba and Pipina were greeted with every manifestation of delight by
the sentries and brought in triumph into the presence of the chief.
The little Pirah, the greatly loved daughter of the chief, was with her
father, coaxing and cajoling him as usual for some childish privilege.
She gave a squeal of rapture as she saw Bomba and ran to him, flinging
her arms about his neck.
“Bomba has come back to us!” she cried, in delight. “Bomba will stay.
That make Pirah glad. Pirah very happy.”
Hondura had been watching the meeting with a smile upon his
wizened face. Now he came forward, and his greeting, though not so
demonstrative, was quite as cordial.
“It is good that Bomba is here,” he said. “Bomba has not come for many
moons. Hondura is glad. He will make a feast for Bomba and all the
tribe will rejoice.”
“Hondura has a good heart,” returned the lad. “He speaks good words and
his tongue is not forked. Bomba has come to ask Hondura to help him. He
wants to leave Pipina with him where she will be safe while he goes on
a journey that may take him many moons.”
“Pipina is welcome in the maloca of Hondura,” replied the chief, as he
turned a kindly look on the old woman, who bowed her head and stood in
meek humility before him. “Pipina can stay with the women because she
is a friend of Bomba, who is a good friend to the tribe of Hondura.”
The chief motioned them to seat themselves upon the cushions of rushes
within his tepee, and presently food was brought to them which they
devoured eagerly, for they had not eaten since noon of the day before.
While they ate, Hondura questioned them further, while Pirah sat close
to the jungle lad, every now and then reaching out a timid little hand
to touch him.
“Where is the good white man, Casson?” asked Hondura.
Bomba shook his head sorrowfully.
“Casson has gone away,” he replied. “He has wandered into the jungle.
The headhunters came last night and burned the cabin of Pipina. Bomba
was not there. But when he came he found Pipina hiding. She did not
know where Casson had gone.”
Fire flashed in Hondura’s eyes.
“May the curse of the gods rest on Nascanora,” he cried. “Bomba should
have killed him the night he had him at his mercy.”
The reference was to a happening that had taken place near the Giant
Cataract on a night that Bomba had met Nascanora in the midst of a
perilous and horrifying scene. As the chief had blocked his path Bomba
had sunk the iron hilt of his machete into Nascanora’s face, knocking
him senseless. Hondura had urged then that Bomba slay Nascanora, but
the boy had refused to kill an enemy who could not fight.
“The point of your knife should have bit into his heart,” went on
Hondura. “Then he would have troubled you no more. Now he hates you
more than before and has sworn to have vengeance. His nose is crushed,
and the squaws laugh at him behind his back, though they do not dare to
smile where he can see them. He would die happy if he could make Bomba
die first.”
Bomba laughed.
“He has yet to catch Bomba,” he replied. “And if he does catch him, he
may wish that he had rather laid his hand upon a cooanaradi. I do not
fear Nascanora. But I fear for Casson.”
“Hondura is sorry that the good old white man has gone,” said the chief
gravely. “Hondura like Casson. All the Araos like him. Wish him good.”
“The good spirits will be with him in the jungle,” put in little Pirah.
“They will bring him safely to Bomba again or to one of the bucks of my
father.”
Hondura smiled indulgently upon the child and put a hand upon the dark
hair.
“Pirah speaks well,” he remarked. “May the good spirits be with Casson
during his journeyings in the jungle.”
Bomba thanked them both from his heart and addressed himself to the
chief.
“If the good chief meets the white man, Casson, will he bring him to
his maloca and keep him safe until Bomba comes back?” he asked.
“That Hondura will do,” promised the chief gravely.
For a few moments there was silence, while each stared thoughtfully
into the jungle. Then Hondura asked:
“Where does Bomba go now that he speaks of leaving the maloca of
Hondura?”
“I shall not leave yet, Hondura,” he replied. “First, I shall search
for Casson. I will beat every thicket of the jungle until I find him or
feel sure that the gods have taken him. Only after that is done will
Bomba set out on a long journey.”
“The words are dark yet,” replied the chief. “Where is Bomba going?”
“Bomba still seeks his parents,” returned the lad. “He wants to know
about his father and his mother. Even the jaguar’s cubs know their
father and mother. Bomba does not know. His heart will be heavy till
he does know. He has tried to learn the truth for many moons. He
has gone to the land of the Giant Cataract. He has traveled to the
Moving Mountain. He has gone to the snake island of Sobrinini. He has
journeyed many miles and met many dangers, and he does not yet know
the truth.”
“Where does Bomba go now to find the truth?” asked the chief, his eyes
dwelling thoughtfully on the lad.
“I go to seek Japazy, the half-breed,” replied Bomba. “Japazy may tell
Bomba what he wishes to know. Jojasta is gone. Sobrinini is gone.
Casson is gone. Japazy is the one hope of Bomba. If Japazy is dead--”
He did not finish the sentence, but with a shrug of his shoulder stared
gloomily before him.
There was an interval of silence, and when the chief spoke again it was
in a low and solemn tone.
“Where is it,” he asked, “that Bomba would seek for Japazy, the
half-breed?”
Bomba hesitated for a moment, then spoke:
“I go to a spot where it is said I may find Japazy. I go to Jaguar
Island.”
The stoic calm of the Indian vanished. A look of horror sprang into his
eyes.