THE SAVAGE RAIDERS
The news fell with stunning effect upon the assembled bucks already
wrought up to a high pitch of fury because of the capture of their
chief. There was a hubbub of exclamations of grief and rage.
“Pirah gone, too,” declared the woman, with a sweeping gesture of her
hands.
“Pirah!” This was Bomba’s voice, harsh and unlike his own, as he pushed
through the group of scowling Indians. “You say Pirah taken too? Who
were the bucks?”
“No know.” The squaw shook her head. She had recovered her breath now,
and, with the other women, was regaining her habitual stolid look.
“They come--many come.” She extended her ten fingers, closing and
opening her hands several times to indicate an indefinite number. “Take
women. Take children. We run away. Hide in bushes till they go. Then we
come here.”
Her story roused the Indians even more than the loss of their chief.
That their native village, or maloca, should have been invaded, their
women and children carried off, was a crime that by their code merited
only one punishment, and that torture and death.
The powwow broke up at once and the braves hurried away to their
maloca, taking their women with them.
Bomba accompanied them for some distance, and then took leave of them,
promising to pick up the trail at once and coöperate with them in every
way possible in the rescue of their chief and kidnapped families, as
well as of Casson and Pipina.
Then he left them to return with heavy and angry hearts to their
despoiled maloca while he again sought out the path he had been
pursuing when the onrush of Hondura’s enraged braves had put such an
abrupt stop to his journey.
His heart was sorer now than ever, for it was torture to him to think
of the pretty little Pirah, the daughter of Hondura, who had once
succored him, in the clutches of the evil Nascanora. For in his own
mind Bomba did not doubt that the same hand that had directed the
capture of Hondura had also ordered the despoiling and burning of the
chief village of the Araos.
Bomba could but remember that on his onetime visit to the Araos tribe,
when his life had been in danger from the suspicion of Hondura and
his braves, it had been little Pirah who had stood between him and a
horrible fate, and by her innocent friendship had changed enmity to
confidence and trust.
Another fact stood out from the story brought by the Araos squaws. It
was that the headhunters must be present in large force, or they would
not have dared thus to challenge the wrath of the most powerful native
tribe of the district.
Probably the opinion he had voiced to Lodo and Grico had been the
correct one. Nascanora was probably at the head of one band and
Tocarora of another. The scrawl on the wall had told him that it was
Nascanora in person who had raided the cabin of Pipina. While he was
thus engaged, Tocarora had probably assailed the maloca. Later on, the
two bands would have met to form a formidable combination.
If this were true, it would make Bomba’s task all the harder. But he
cared little for this. His heart was on fire with rage. In his present
mood no danger could daunt him.
Then again he must rescue poor Cody Casson, no matter how difficult
the undertaking. First, there was the love and gratitude the boy felt
for his benefactor, but if the enemy should kill the old naturalist,
Bomba was afraid that the last hope of clearing up his own identity--of
finding out about his father and maybe other relatives--would be gone
forever.
So, having once more picked up his trail, he went on at a swifter and
ever swifter pace, tormented at every step by fears of what might be
happening at that very moment to his friends at the hands of the evil
chief of the headhunters.
One thought, however, brought him a little comfort. He knew the
boastful nature of the savages. Nascanora would want to exhibit his
captives to the women of his tribe who had been left at home. He would
be eager to impress them with his power. They, too, must have their
share in the horrid festival that would end in the torture and death of
most of his victims and the reduction to slavery of the others.
So the lives of the captives were probably safe until the headhunters
had reached their dwelling-place above the Giant Cataract. Bomba would
be in time to save them, avenge them, or, at the worst, to die with
them.
Several hours passed and Bomba had made remarkable progress before he
stopped for a few minutes to rest and eat.
As he felt in his pouch to draw out a portion of cured meat, he made a
startling discovery.
His revolver and harmonica were missing!
Bomba could scarcely believe this at first, nor accept it as a fact
until he had searched every recess of his pouch and quiver. He even
retraced his steps for some distance through the jungle, in the hope
that his treasures might have slipped out and that he could recover
them.
But he could find no trace of the magic music or the precious “fire
stick,” and at last he came back to the clearing to ponder and mourn
his loss.
That loss to him was very great. He had so few treasures that he
cherished them fondly. The harmonica had brought him soothing and
comfort in many lonely hours. The revolver had been the white men’s
gift, and therefore doubly precious. Moreover, it was a very important
part of his equipment. On occasion it might mean all the difference
between life and death. His offensive power was sensibly weakened. Now
he had only his knife and his bow and arrows.
But his treasures were gone, in all likelihood irrecoverably gone.
Where and how had he lost them?
A thought that crossed his mind swiftly changed his mood from mourning
to anger.
He remembered that Grico, he of the one eye and the split nose, had
come close to him and jostled him several times, as though by accident,
during his journey through the jungle. At the time, Bomba had thought
it chance. Now he saw in it design. Perhaps it was Grico who had robbed
him of his treasures.
Grico, to be sure, had saved his life, and for that Bomba was grateful.
The fact modified the anger that assailed him. Still he vowed that, if
his suspicions were correct, he would get that revolver and harmonica
back. He would pay the debt he owed Grico in some other way.
He was meditating gloomily upon his loss when his attention was
attracted by a slight rustling in the underbrush.
Swift as thought, he fitted an arrow to his bow and stood on the alert.
He could dimly see the form of some animal, and not knowing but what it
might be a jaguar, he shot. The law of the jungle, he had learned, was
to shoot first and investigate afterward.
There was a startled grunt, a floundering about in the bushes, and then
silence.
Bomba crept forward cautiously, prepared for a second shot, but relaxed
when he saw lying dead before him a peccary, the wild pig of the jungle.
He was not especially pleased at this, for the peccaries usually
traveled in droves and companions of the dead one might be near at
hand. As a rule, he gave the animals a wide berth, for nothing is more
ferocious than the peccaries, whose murderous tusks, if they get to
work, can tear a man into ribbons.
So he waited for a while, close to a tree up which he could climb if
the drove bore down upon him.
But none appeared, and Bomba came to the conclusion that this was a
young pig that had wandered from the drove and lost its way in the
jungle.
The roast pig makes delicious eating, and Bomba did not neglect the
unexpected gift that had come his way. It offered an agreeable change
from the dried meat on which he had expected to dine. So he cut a steak
from the choicest part, roasted it over a fire of twigs, and soon was
feasting on a dish that kings might envy.
How he wished that Frank Parkhurst was with him to share the feast!
Before he had met with the white people he had been lonely, but he had
not so keenly sensed his loneliness. Now it was ever present with him.
The friendship he had formed with Frank was the most precious thing
that had so far come into Bomba’s starved life--except, perhaps, the
meeting with the woman of the golden hair, Frank’s mother.
It had made still more deep and strong the urge that was on him to hold
fellowship with his kind. For he was white--as white as Frank himself.
Yet fate had thrown the two boys into environments that were as widely
separated as the poles.
Chicago, Frank had called the city in which he lived. Bomba wondered
whether he would ever see that strange and wonderful city or others
like it, wondered if he would always have to spend his life in the
jungle, with none save Casson and a few natives for his friends, to
none of whom he could speak of the longings that obsessed him, of the
aspirations that seemed doomed forever to be thwarted.
He spoke to himself half aloud:
“I am not as well off as the beasts and reptiles of the jungle. They
live together and have plenty of their own kind. They do not hunt and
live alone as I do. The monkeys gather in flocks, the wild peccaries
hunt in droves. Even the big cats, the hungry jaguars, have their
companions. Why am I, Bomba, always alone? I do not belong here in
the jungle, which is the only place I know. And I cannot go to the
wonderful world where Frank and other boys and many people live and
laugh and slap each other on the back. Where do I belong? Where is
there a place for me?”
But nothing answered that desolate cry that came from the very depths
of the boy’s heart.
However, Bomba soon aroused himself from these unhappy musings. A
certain oppression and unusual stillness in the jungle warned him
that a storm was imminent. In the distance he could hear faintly the
rumbling of thunder.
He girded himself and resumed his journey, his heart heavy, but his
body refreshed and strengthened by the hearty meal he had eaten. For
some time he had failed to pick up any direct clues of those he was
pursuing. But he was now reasonably sure of the direction they had
taken and pressed confidently forward.
His footsteps had been directed toward the river, since that offered
the shortest route to the region of the Giant Cataract. Now, however,
he struck deeper into the jungle, not caring to be caught in a raging
torrent if the river should overflow its banks. He remembered how
nearly he and Mrs. Parkhurst had been overwhelmed by the waters while
they were escaping from the Indians, and he had no wish to repeat the
experience.
He quickened his pace, leaping over many of the obstacles in his
path instead of cutting his way through them. He did not want to be
caught in the open during the storm that seemed to be gathering. If a
wind accompanied it, there would be a rain of castanha nuts from the
branches, and many of these were big and heavy enough to kill anyone
they struck.
He must find shelter of some kind. He knew of the existence of a cave
not far away. If he could reach this, he would be safe until the storm
abated. Fortunately the tropical tempests, though fierce while they
last, are not of long duration, and Bomba knew that he would not be
delayed long on his journey.
The storm was gathering with frightful rapidity. Now it was a race
between the boy of the jungle and the elements. The roar of the thunder
came closer. Jagged sheets of lightning shot athwart the sky. The
wind tore through the jungle, shattering the ominous silence that had
prevailed into jangled discords of sound.
The trees bent before that furious onslaught. Parrots, monkeys and
other denizens of the jungle scurried to shelter.
The castanha nuts were ripped from their fastenings, and their thuds
blended into a menacing chorus as they struck the ground.
One of these heavy missiles in falling grazed Bomba’s shoulder, sending
a thrill of pain through his arm.
The cave was now not far away, but the wind was pressing with terrible
force against Bomba’s straining muscles. Flailing, sharp-thorned vines
whipped about his head, stinging, half-blinding him. His breath seemed
torn from his gasping lungs, to be borne off mockingly on the wings of
the terrible blasts.
Still Bomba’s muscles were iron and he forged forward doggedly,
ignoring the thorns that tore at him, the roots that tried to trip him
up, the vines that sought to strangle him.
He was closer--closer--only a short distance now, and he would be able
to drag himself into the welcome shelter of the cave.
Then, suddenly, as the tidal wave tops all other waves, came a gigantic
burst of wind that bore great trees before it as though they had been
toys, bending them, breaking them, uprooting them, whirling them about
as in a fantastic dance.
The force of that blast bore Bomba backward, pinning him against a
great tree, with all the breath knocked out of his body. At the same
time there came a ripping, tearing sound, a rumble and a roar that vied
with the crash of the thunder.
Something struck Bomba--he had no time to see what--swept him from the
ground as though he had been a feather, and dropped him many feet away
with a force that drove all consciousness from him.