AN UNEXPECTED RECEPTION
The puma and the boy rested for a time, while Polulu licked his
wounds, and when Bomba went on again the puma accompanied him for
some distance through the jungle.
It was getting late, and Bomba began to wonder whether he would be
able to visit the village of the Araos and return on the same day.
He could spend the night in the jungle, of course. He had done it
many times before and had not been afraid. Now, especially with
Polulu to guard him, he would be safe enough.
But Casson! There was always Casson. At any time now he might be made
the victim of an attack by the fierce head-hunters of Nascanora. And
when that time came, if it should come, Bomba wanted to be at the old
man’s side to live or die with him as fate might determine.
He pushed on as fast as he could, the faithful Polulu still beside
him, the jaboty slung over his shoulder. He was getting close to the
maloca now, and if there was any chance of accomplishing his errand
and getting back before midnight, he meant to take advantage of it.
Still faster he went, Polulu padding beside him and keeping away by
his presence not only jungle enemies but Bomba’s friends, the monkeys
and the parrots, who gave him a wide berth when they saw the grim
guardian that kept pace with him.
When they drew near to the place where Bomba expected to find the
tribe he was searching for, the boy said good-bye to Polulu, telling
him that if the Indians saw him coming accompanied by a puma they
would consider his visit an unfriendly one.
Whether Polulu clearly understood this or not, he knew that he had
received his dismissal, and with a last friendly rub of his tawny
head he disappeared into the jungle. But Bomba had a feeling that
he was hovering somewhere near, ready at the slightest need to come
again to his help.
Bomba began to be troubled now because he had no more to take as a
present to the Araos than the jaboty. He had had so much to do in
preserving his life through the course of the momentous day that he
had had but little time to look for game.
Once he thought that fortune was going to favor him. It was when he
caught sight of a tapir close to the edge of a small stream. But the
tapir had seen him first and disappeared like a shadow in the depths
of the jungle before Bomba could bring his weapon into play.
He was greatly disappointed at this. Some tapir meat would have been
a succulent present to bring to the Araos. Laden with such a gift, he
could hardly have failed to be received with gratitude and friendship.
However, he had no more time to hunt. He at least had the jaboty, and
he could promise to bring the natives more game at some future time
if they would let him have the hammocks he needed.
The sound of a drum rang through the jungle. Bomba halted, head up,
every sense alert.
He was hard upon some Indian maloca, that was certain. The medicine
man of the tribe was beating the drum to propitiate the particular
god worshipped by his people.
Was it the village of the Araos he was approaching? It should be, by
his reckoning of time and distance. Yet it was by no means certain,
for these tribes shifted their locations frequently as they followed
the game trails or searched for better fishing places.
Even if it were some other tribe, however, Bomba had no reason, he
thought, to fear their active unfriendliness. The head-hunters were
the only real enemies that he was conscious of having in the jungle.
He went on, therefore, trying to stifle some vague premonition
that was stirring within him. He had a feeling, an instinct, that
something unpropitious was in the air.
Soon the increasing signs of human habitation warned him that he was
in close proximity to a village.
In accordance with Indian etiquette, which resents a sudden
intrusion, he clapped his hands and shouted.
The echo of the shout died away in the forest. There was no answering
call.
Bomba waited stoically, betraying no outward sign of uneasiness.
After a few moments he shouted more loudly than before.
Still there was no answer, and he began to be seriously perturbed.
If the Indians had been in a friendly mood, they would already have
sent out a scout to see who the visitor was, what he wanted, and
welcome him to the maloca.
A third time Bomba shouted. Still no answer. All the previous
sounds of life and activity he had noted had been hushed, and above
everything hung the silence of the grave.
And now Bomba had the impression that the jungle was filled with
shadowy, furtive forms. He felt that each tree and thicket might be
hiding an enemy, ready the next instant to make the intruder a target
for his arrow.
Still the lad remained quietly where he was, not moving a muscle and
showing no signs of alarm.
There was a slight rustle immediately behind him, and Bomba turned
quickly.
There, where the instant before had been nothing, stood a
dark-skinned Indian, magnificent in his six-feet-two of brawn and
muscle.
The face of the Indian bore no welcoming smile. On it was a scowl so
black that Bomba’s heart sank within him!