A MAD STAMPEDE
Bomba was on his feet instantly, his mind working with precision and
rapidity.
He sensed in a moment the full meaning of the calamity and the
advantages that he and the other captives might reap from it.
The enormous bulk of water that had swelled the volume of the cataract
from the rain had broken the rocks that formed its brink. These had
given way so that the course of the cataract had changed, and part of
the water that had previously fallen into the gorge was now sweeping
down on the doomed village.
In accordance with his promise, Hondura had severed the boy’s bonds so
that only a single strand was left. This he snapped like thread.
The guards had gone, forgetting all about the prisoners in the wild
instinct of self-preservation. They had joined the rabble that were
now rushing from their huts and through the passageways between, only
intent for the moment on getting away from the waters that threatened
to overwhelm them.
Bomba called Hondura and Pipina to his side.
“The gods have been good to us,” he cried. “We must go now and go
quickly. They will not think of us until their fright is over. Hondura,
get your people and lead them out. Pipina, take care of Casson. I will
take Pirah--carry her if necessary--and go in front. Keep close to me.”
In a twinkling his orders were carried out. The prisoners, stirred to
new life by this unexpected chance of escape after all hope had been
lost, responded to the call of their chief, hurried out of the stockade
and mingled with the frantic, fleeing headhunters.
Not the slightest notice was taken of them by their captors. The night
was very dark, and in their excitement it was impossible for the
headhunters to distinguish friend from foe. All thought was lost save
that of getting away from the doom that threatened them.
Bomba’s marvelous sense of direction stood him in good stead. Dark as
it was, he knew exactly the way he meant to go.
Luckily it was not the way in which the majority of the panic-stricken
people had chosen. They were pressing toward the north. Bomba’s plan
was to go toward the south, retracing the path they had followed that
afternoon.
This had a double advantage. With every step he would be widening the
distance between the prisoners and their captors. If he could once win
clear of the crowd, he and his companions would have a whole night’s
start in case of pursuit.
Then, too, he felt sure that by this time the people of Hondura’s
tribe, with what auxiliaries they could have mustered, had set out
to rescue their chief. At any time now they might be met coming, and
coming in such force that they would have a good chance for victory, if
it came to a fight with the headhunters.
Bomba hurried on in the lead, protecting and shielding little Pirah in
every way he could. Pipina and Casson were close behind, and the rest
of the prisoners, led by Hondura, followed at their heels.
The party of captives had almost reached the end of the straggling
village when a huge figure loomed up before them. He was hastening in a
direction opposite to them, but not at such a headlong pace, as though
he had a certain dignity to maintain which forbade too much yielding to
fright.
Bomba could not see his face, but he knew that there was but one such
towering figure in the tribe. It was Nascanora!
Bomba handed over Pirah to Hondura. Then he felt for his knife.
He still kept up his pace, hoping to pass the chief without being
noticed. But there was something in his stride or form that aroused the
chief’s suspicions.
“Stop!” he commanded, barring the way and stooping down to peer into
the boy’s face.
Bomba had pulled out his knife from its hiding place by the blade. He
had no time to grasp the hilt, but with all the power in his muscular
arm he swung the heavy weapon, and the iron haft struck Nascanora right
between the eyes. The giant chief went down as though he had been hit
by an axe.
Like a flash, Bomba dragged him out of the road and threw him into the
bushes at the side.
“Better make sure with the point of the knife,” suggested Hondura.
“No,” said Bomba, “I will not kill a man who cannot fight. He will not
wake till morning, and then we shall be far from here.”
His hopes were higher now as he pressed on. His one fear had been that
Nascanora might rally his people and pursue his former prisoners. That
fear now had vanished. Without their chief the headhunters would be
confused and bewildered, and, not knowing what to do, would probably do
nothing.
But now another enemy threatened. The waters of the cataract that had
already wiped out most of the village were expanding into the open
country. Already it was lapping at the fugitives’ heels, as though
determined to draw them back and overwhelm them. It retarded their
progress. Their feet stuck in the clammy ooze. The water kept rising
higher and higher. It reached their ankles. It reached their knees. It
seemed as though it were destined to conquer.
Then, just when it seemed that hope must be abandoned, an inspiriting
cry came from Bomba.
“The road is leading upward!” he shouted. “We are coming to a hill! The
waters shall not have us!”
There was a jubilant chorus of shouts as the party struck the incline,
and in a few minutes they were on ground above the swirling waters of
the mighty river. The Giant Cataract had reached out for them, but they
had eluded its grasp!
It was an exhausted but happy throng of refugees that sank down upon
the slope as soon as they had reached a safe distance.
Their situation had changed as though by the waving of a magician’s
wand. Two hours before they had been helpless victims in the hands of
the headhunters, doomed to torture and to death. Now their enemies
were scattered, demoralized, fleeing for their lives from an enemy as
pitiless as themselves.
The rain had ceased now, and the traveling promised to be easier.
Bomba gave them a little time to rest, and then the journey was resumed.
The lake that now extended between them and their enemies was another
element in their favor. It would be some time before the waters would
subside so as to make pursuit possible.
All through the night the little party pressed on, and not until the
first glimmer of dawn appeared in the eastern sky did they stop to make
camp and obtain a much needed rest on the banks of the River of Death.
While the Indians scurried around in the forest to find jaboty eggs,
nuts, and fruit for the morning meal, Bomba climbed a great tree on the
bank of the river to look back on the trail they had traversed.
From the top he could see for many miles. His keen eyes scanned the
horizon, but could detect no traces of pursuers.
With his heart temporarily at rest, he was about to descend when he
became conscious of a swaying, rocking motion of the tree. At the same
moment a shout came from below:
“The tree is falling! Come down! Quick!”