WRITHING COILS
Bomba saw the malignant fury that came into the snake’s eyes. He knew
that the reptile had seen him, and over the boy’s face, like a pallid
cloak, spread the calmness of despair.
This then was the end! He might live perhaps ten, fifteen, possibly
twenty minutes after the poison fangs had sunk into his flesh, and they
would be minutes of such intolerable agony that death, when it came,
would be welcomed as a friend.
The snake uncoiled and crawled swiftly toward Bomba until it came
within striking distance. Then it threw itself into a coil and reared
its head.
Bomba saw that head, those open jaws dripping poison, closed his eyes
and waited for death.
But even while he waited, something swished past his head, coming from
the tree above.
It was a castanha nut, one of those huge, heavy nuts that, falling on a
man’s head, may fracture his skull.
The missile, flung with deadly aim, hit the head of the rattlesnake,
crushing it into pulp.
Bomba opened his eyes as the coils of the dead snake writhed and lashed
about his head.
By some miracle the enemy had been vanquished. Was it the storm that
had loosened the great nut which was almost as large as Bomba’s head?
If so, it was perhaps a sign from the gods of the Indians that Bomba
was not to die until his work should be accomplished.
But his first joy at his deliverance was quickly followed by
apprehension and the realization that he might still be in the shadow
of death. He had escaped the fangs of the serpent. But who or what
could rescue him from the greedy clutch of the swamp?
As though in answer to the thought, something dropped from the tree
beside him.
What was this? A new enemy?
Bomba lay very still as the shape came toward him. Whether it was man
or beast he could not tell, for there was no word from the one or growl
from the other.
Then a hairy paw was laid upon his arm, and Bomba thrilled with a new
hope. He knew the touch of that paw, knew that at last he had met a
friend.
“Doto!” he cried. “Good Doto! So you have come to Bomba. And Bomba
never needed you more.”
The friendly monkey, almost the size of Bomba himself, pressed close
to Bomba’s side and chattered delightedly. For he was one of the chief
animal friends that Bomba had made in the jungle. Bomba had once saved
Doto’s life, and more than once since then Doto had been of great
service to Bomba in warning him of enemies.
Bomba was exceedingly fond of the big monkey, and now he stroked the
hairy arm and head affectionately.
“Once more Doto has saved the life of Bomba,” the lad said. “Bomba is
grateful.”
The monkey pressed against him, answering in a language Bomba had come
to understand. But suddenly Doto sprang to his feet, looking about him
excitedly. He began to jabber wildly, and Bomba knew that he scented
danger of some kind.
Perhaps some wild beast was approaching. Perhaps the headhunters were
creeping upon them.
“Doto wants Bomba to be free?” asked Bomba, and the monkey broke into a
chatter of assent. “Then Doto must help Bomba,” and the lad pointed to
the mass of branches that held him prisoner.
“Doto break branches so that Bomba can get knife that is at his belt,”
directed the jungle boy.
The monkey appeared to understand and set to work at once, breaking
off the smaller branches and bending the larger ones so that he could
reach beneath them.
The storm was clearing away. The rain had almost stopped, the wind blew
in fitful gusts. Bomba stared up at the sky while hope once more flowed
like a warm flood into his heart.
“The machete, Doto!” he cried. “Get the big knife of Bomba!”
He had often showed the knife to Doto in their conferences in the
forest and boasted of its power. Doto knew what Bomba meant when he
spoke of the machete, and he knew also that Bomba carried it at his
belt. He reached his furry paw beneath the branches and drew forth the
weapon.
Bomba gave a cry of delight as his hand once more closed on the haft of
his faithful machete.
“Good Doto!” he exclaimed. “Bomba has his big knife. All is well again.”
The task of cutting away the imprisoning branches was a laborious one,
flat upon his back as he was and having only the use of his left hand.
But it was the faithful Doto who lifted the boy’s head from the ooze
and supported his shoulder so that he could do the work more easily.
Gradually the bonds across his chest relaxed their grip. Doto raised
him higher and higher until he had reached a sitting position. Then
the work went on apace.
Bomba tried to move his right arm but found that there was still no
feeling in it. He did not spend any time over it, but went on hacking
away with his left hand.
He grew tired and paused at times to rest, but it was always Doto that
urged him on to fresh effort. That the monkey scented danger, Bomba
knew, and yet, listen as he would, he could hear no sound that had
menace in it.
Still he trusted the instinct of the monkey. The ears of Bomba were
keen, but those of Doto were keener still.
So he forced himself to labor when his muscles were crying out urgently
for rest. Gradually the weight upon his legs lifted. He found that he
could move one of them, then the other.
“Bomba thinks he can get out now, if Doto will help,” said the lad.
He placed the monkey’s paws beneath his shoulders and signified that it
was to pull with all its strength.
This Doto did, and Bomba ground his teeth with pain as he was at last
drawn clear of the branches.
With difficulty he stood upon his feet, leaning heavily against Doto.
He was stiff and sore in every muscle. It was agony even to draw a deep
breath.
Still, the heart of the lad swelled with exultation and a new sense of
power. He stood upright, his machete was at his side; his bow was still
intact, his quiver full of arrows, and in his pouch was his greatly
prized revolver, once again fully loaded.
He felt of his right arm and found that it was unbroken. There was a
numbness in it that gave place to pain as the blood began to pulse
strongly through it, but Bomba knew that in a short time it would be as
well as ever.
“The bones of Bomba bend but they do not break,” the lad exulted.
But Doto’s anxiety was still unabated. His uneasiness increased with
every moment, and he pressed closely against Bomba, urging him to leave
the spot.
Bomba tried a few steps and found that he could walk, though
waveringly. So he motioned to the monkey to go ahead and lead the way.
This Doto did with great alacrity, pausing when his pace became too
swift for Bomba and waiting till the boy caught up with him.
Thus they traveled for a considerable distance through the jungle.
The storm had worn itself out. The treetops were still agitated by
occasional sharp gusts of wind, but where Bomba and Doto sped along
the jungle lay in an almost deathlike hush.
“Where is it that Doto takes Bomba?” asked the lad, easing his bruised
muscles as he paused to rest. “We must not go too far from the trail,
for Bomba must press on to the island of the big cats where lives
Japazy, the half-breed.”
For answer Doto broke into a frantic chattering and pulled the boy
along by the arm.
Suddenly the eyes of Bomba narrowed and he pressed a hand over the
monkey’s mouth.
“Wait!” he commanded sharply. “Bomba has heard something in the jungle.”
The monkey’s chatter ceased, and behind him in the darkness Bomba heard
the faint sound of padding feet.
He listened and heard it again, but not in the same place. Again the
faint pad, pad of feet moving stealthily, but this time more to the
east.
Once more that ominous sound. This time to the north.
Bomba knew that sound. He knew the smell that came to his keen nostrils.
Pumas! Three of them at least. They were stalking him, moving in a
semicircle, closing in upon him!