IN THE HANDS OF THE HEADHUNTERS
There was a chorus of frightened exclamations and a wild scattering of
the natives that showed the dread that Nascanora’s name inspired in all
the people of that region.
In a twinkling, Sobrinini and Bomba found themselves alone.
The old woman herself had grown ashen. She grasped Bomba by the hand.
“Come!” she said. “I will hide you. Quick!”
But even as she spoke there was a wild yell from the forest, and a
horde of savages, headed by Nascanora himself, burst into the clearing.
Bomba had drawn his knife, determined to sell his life dearly. Seeing
his threatening attitude, the savages were rushing on him with spears
held high when a command from Nascanora halted them.
“Do not kill him--now,” he commanded. “That would be too easy. His
death, when it comes, must be hard and long. And after that his head
shall stand on the wigwam to show how Nascanora deals with his enemies.”
Sobrinini stepped forward, her eyes glaring.
“Beware what you do, Nascanora,” she warned. “Leave this boy alone
and go your way lest I put my spell upon you. It is not well to make
Sobrinini angry.”
There was a murmur of uneasiness among the savages, for the fame of
Sobrinini as a witch had gone far and wide. That Nascanora himself was
not wholly unmoved was evident from the way he evaded the blazing eyes
of the old woman.
But he was made of sterner stuff than his followers, and he had come
too far to be balked of his prey.
“I would have no quarrel with Sobrinini,” he said placatingly. “I do
not wish to hurt her or her people. But the boy must go with me. Else I
will kill all the people on this island and take their heads along for
the women of my tribe to rejoice over. Nascanora has spoken!”
Before Sobrinini could speak, Bomba intervened. To fight against such
odds was hopeless. Flight was equally impossible. He must submit to
capture, and trust to his quick wit and courage to escape later.
“Listen, Sobrinini!” he said. “They are many, and I do not wish that
your people should die. I will go with Nascanora. But first,” he
added, turning to the chief, whose eyes were glowing with a baleful
glare of triumph, “I would ask Nascanora a question.”
“Speak!” said the chief.
“Nascanora is a great chief,” said Bomba. “He is not afraid of anyone.
Is it not so?”
“It is so,” replied Nascanora, rather astonished at the tribute, but
swelling with pride.
“Then will Nascanora fight Bomba alone?” asked the lad. “Fight him with
knives?”
If a bomb had been thrown into the midst of the savages it would not
have created greater surprise. They looked at each other in amazement.
Was the boy mad?
The most astounded of all was Nascanora himself. He could not believe
his ears. To be bearded thus, he, Nascanora, in the presence of his
braves and by a boy! His eyes glowed with fury and his face grew dark
with menace.
“Such idle words will make your death still harder,” he threatened. “It
is not well to mock Nascanora.”
“I do not mock,” returned Bomba quietly. “I would make a compact with
Nascanora. I will fight him with knives. We can throw the knives or
fight hand to hand, as Nascanora chooses. But Nascanora must swear by
his gods and command his braves that, if he is killed, the captives
shall go free. It is for their freedom that I will fight Nascanora.
Surely he is not afraid.”
Lithe, supple, muscular, his head held high as he flung out the
concluding taunt, Bomba gazed full into the glowering eyes of the
chief. He hoped that Nascanora would be goaded into accepting the
challenge. The boy was a master of the machete, either thrust or
thrown. If he should conquer, as he felt sure he would, his victory at
one stroke would free the captives. If he should lose--well, that was
in the hands of fate.
Nascanora’s face was a study. It was working with rage that did not
hide, however, a shade of apprehension. He had tested the boy’s courage
on one previous occasion, and had learned to respect it. He towered
over his captive in size, but he doubted whether he exceeded him in
strength. And he doubted very much whether he equaled him in skill and
agility.
The chief was in a quandary. He knew that his braves were looking on
and wondering at his hesitation. On the other hand, life was dear to
him.
He glared at Bomba. The lad looked unflinchingly at him. And in the
duel of eyes, Nascanora’s were the first to fall.
“It is not for a great chief like Nascanora to fight with a boy,” he
blustered, seeking to cover his defeat. “He shall learn what happens
to them who speak boastful words to Nascanora. Bind his hands and we
will go.”
The command was quickly obeyed. Sobrinini again attempted to interpose,
but Bomba checked her.
“Sobrinini is good,” he said, “but there is no reason why she and her
people should be killed. Bomba will go, but he will come back again.”
“Yes, yes,” she whispered agitatedly. “You will come back. You are
brave. You made Nascanora’s heart turn to water. Sobrinini can see into
the future. You will come back, and then I will tell you what you want
to know.”
Bomba would have urged her to tell him then, but he was roughly
hurried away, leaving Sobrinini to wring her withered hands and mutter
invocations to her gods.
Despite his dangerous plight, Bomba found himself in a strangely
buoyant frame of mind. He still felt the exaltation that came from his
triumph over Nascanora. He had shamed him in the eyes of his braves.
Perhaps that would weaken his prestige with them and make ultimate
escape easier.
He was not oblivious, of course, to the fact that his defiance had made
Nascanora a more bitter enemy than ever. He watched the angry figure
striding along at the head of his braves. Doubtless at this moment the
chief was thinking of some fiendish mode of torture with which to
slake his thirst for revenge.
Before long they reached the part of the island where Nascanora had
disembarked. Here two great war canoes were drawn up. Bomba was pushed
into one of them, then the natives got in. With a few swift thrusts of
the paddle the canoes were sent into the center of the stream. Then
they headed their course for the mainland.
The savages were familiar with the rapids, and, evading the pitfalls of
the river, rapidly neared the other shore.
As they drew closer, Bomba saw the rest of Nascanora’s band camped
close to the shore. In the ring they formed he could see a group of
dejected figures, evidently the captives.
The canoes touched the bank. Bomba was pulled out by a couple of braves
and thrust into the crowd of prisoners. His eyes flew from face to face.
They rested on the frail, tired visage of an old man who rose and
tottered toward him.
“Casson!” cried Bomba.
“Bomba!” exclaimed Casson pantingly as he threw his arms about the
boy’s shoulders.