THE RUSHING RIVER
For a moment the lad stood as though turned into stone, astounded and
appalled. Then he realized what had happened.
The alligator, following a custom of its kind, had buried itself in
the soft mud, on the same principle that a bear hibernates in winter.
Probably a flood some time before had inundated the district and the
alligator had come with it. When the flood receded the alligator had
remained in its self-imposed burial place. The soft mud had caked and
hardened, but still the alligator slept on.
The weight and warmth of the boy’s body had aroused it, and now it was
issuing forth to renew once more its active life.
For a moment the great brute seemed as much surprised as the lad
himself, and looked stupidly at the invader of its retreat.
But only for a moment. Then a hideous bellow issued from its open jaws,
its fiery eyes snapped with malignity, and it made a lunge at the
jungle boy.
But the lunge was an instant too late.
For Bomba had shaken off the paralysis that the sight of the monster
had brought upon him, and with one bound had cleared the doorway,
leaping high over the fire that blazed in front of the hut.
With speed incredible in so clumsy a creature, the alligator pursued
him. But it could not leap like Bomba, and with the torpor of its long
sleep confusing it and the light of the fire blinding it, plunged
headlong into the flames.
There was a tremendous bellowing and thrashing about, a scattering
of the embers in every direction, and then the half-blinded creature
lumbered out and made for the jungle, forgetting in its own pain and
bewilderment all about its human enemy.
Bomba had not the slightest desire to hinder its going. He probably
could have slain it with one of his arrows, but he forbore, glad enough
to be rid so suddenly of an awful problem.
But there was no more sleep for him that night. He had been too
thoroughly shaken. He made up the fire again and sat down beside
it, keeping a careful watch lest the monster, still lurking in the
vicinity, should return to take vengeance on the author of its
misadventure.
But nothing happened during the remainder of the night, and at the
first streak of dawn Bomba made a hasty breakfast and set out once
more on the trail.
The jungle thinned as he went on, and he was able to make such rapid
progress that it was only a little after noon when he reached the banks
of the great river in which somewhere was Jaguar Island.
It was a black, ominous stream, with a current that ran like a
mill-race. At intervals along its length were foaming rapids that made
navigation extremely perilous. Islands dotted its expanse here and
there, but none of these within Bomba’s sight were of any great size.
Where Bomba stood the river was about half a mile in width, but a
little further down it expanded to more than twice that width. Great
trees fringed the banks, the foliage reaching far out over the water.
Bomba hunted the banks for a long distance on the chance that he might
find the canoe of some Indian, either abandoned or hidden in the sedge
grass near the shore. He was an expert in navigating that type of
craft, and would have felt much safer in it than on a raft that would
be wholly at the mercy of the torrent.
But, search as he would, he could find no craft of any sort, and when
he had fully convinced himself that there was no other alternative, he
set to work to build his raft.
There were plenty of fallen trees and broken branches that had been
victims of one of the storms that had swept the jungle, and the boy
had little difficulty in getting enough of the right size and shape of
logs to make the raft he had in mind. It was not to be an elaborate
structure, but it must be strong, for upon its stability his life might
depend.
He had no implements of any kind, except his machete. He had no nails
or hammer with which to fasten a flooring to the logs to hold them
together. But there was an abundance of withes and creepers that,
twisted together, were as strong as any rope, and these he wound about
the logs in such a way that they could not break loose from one another.
It did not add to his peace of mind to note from time to time an
alligator’s body break the water. Sometimes they sank again after a
lazy glance. More often they swam around sluggishly, watching Bomba
with their little eyes as though calculating how long it would be
before he could be depended on to furnish them a meal. It was evident
that the river was fairly swarming with the terrible creatures.
But these were foes that could be reckoned with, foes that were not
immune from arrow and knife. They were different from ghosts and
demons, those vague, shadowy, yet awful things of which Hondura, Neram
and Ashati had spoken.
Were there any such things? Bomba did not believe there were. Still,
he would have given a great deal to have been perfectly sure on that
point. And almost involuntarily at times his eyes would wander to the
surrounding jungle.
After two days’ labor his work was done, and he surveyed it with
satisfaction. It was as nearly square as he could make it and
sufficiently large so that it would not easily overturn. In addition to
the raft, he had shaped a rough paddle for his steering and a long pole
to work the raft loose, if it grounded in a shallow.
He had been working close to the edge of the bank, and when the raft
was completed he pushed it over into the water. Then he jumped on board
and, standing near the front with the paddle in his hand, committed
himself to the mercy of the current.
It was late in the afternoon when he started, so late, in fact, that he
was almost tempted to wait till the following morning. But now that he
was so near the completion of his journey the urge in him to hurry was
too strong to be resisted.
The moon was full and would rise early, and from this he would get all
the light he needed.
The current was stronger than he had thought, and the clumsy raft was
borne along upon the surface at a surprising rate of speed. At times
it was caught in a cross-current and whirled about, and Bomba had all
he could do to keep his balance. And it was extremely desirable that he
should keep his balance. It would not do to be thrown into the water.
For Bomba had not started alone. A grim retinue accompanied him. As he
had conjectured, the river was alive with caymans. Some were swimming
along behind him, their greedy eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the daring
young voyager. Others came to the surface as his raft was carried along
and joined in the procession. Once let Bomba get in the water, and he
would be torn to pieces in a twinkling.
No one knew this better than the lad himself, and every nerve in his
body was at its extreme tension.
Not only from his foes in the water was he in danger. At times the
current swept him in so close to the shore that he passed under the
branches of the overhanging trees. These, too, he had to scan, lest any
innocent looking bough should suddenly come to life and prove to be the
body of an anaconda ready to dart down like lightning upon its prey.
Once he came to a rapids where the churning water made all attempts
to steer impossible, and his raft was tossed about like a chip. One
sudden heave threw Bomba to the floor of the raft, and he all but slid
into the water. But he caught his hands in the crevices of the logs and
held on for dear life.
And now he noted that the alligators were closing in upon him. They
were growing impatient. Hitherto, they had been content to follow the
raft, expecting every moment that the craft would be upset. But as time
passed and this did not happen they became more ugly and aggressive.
One of them swam under the raft and then rose suddenly, lifting it on
its back, almost upsetting it. The raft rose to a perilous angle, but
righted just in time and fell back with a splash into the water.
The ruse had not succeeded, but there was little doubt that it would be
repeated, and Bomba concluded that it was time to teach his enemies a
lesson.
He selected the largest of the alligators, and, reaching for bow and
arrow, took careful aim at one of its eyes. The arrow went straight to
the reptile’s brain. Its dying flurry churned the water into foam, but
before the body could sink half a dozen of its mates were upon it.
In a minute they had torn the body into fragments and the water was red
with blood. The monsters sank to the bottom to regale themselves.
The killing of the cayman helped Bomba in more ways than one. It not
only reduced the number of his enemies, but it kept the others busy
with the feast that its body provided. Moreover, it taught the brutes
that the boy was not as helpless as they had supposed, and they were
likely to be a trifle more wary and cautious in future.
While the caymans were disposing of their booty, the swift current had
carried Bomba a long distance ahead. His eyes strained through the
gathering darkness, but he could see nothing of his former pursuers. He
hoped that he had shaken them off.
Vain hope! For in a little while he could see phosphorescent gleams in
the water behind him that he knew marked the trails of the caymans.
They were coming again. Their appetite for blood had not been satiated.
Rather it had been whetted.
They wanted Bomba! And they were determined to have him!