THE TURN OF THE WHEEL
A babble of excited exclamations broke out at this sudden
intervention of the girl in Bomba’s behalf.
“Pirah!” said the chief, in a voice where sternness was mingled with
affection. “Da-rah!”
But Pirah showed no intention of going away. She stamped her foot and
clung the more tightly to Bomba’s hand.
The boy recognized her then as the youngest child of the chief,
Hondura. He had seen her more than once when he had skirted the
village in some of his hunting excursions.
Although the women of the jungle are as a rule even more stolid than
the men, Pirah promised to be an exception to the rule.
She it was who liked to play at hunting, shouldering a bow as big as
herself and learning to shoot at a target when her baby hands could
barely stretch the strings.
Her fire and spirit and playful antics had amused the old chief, who
scarcely checked her in anything, and the little Pirah had gradually
grown into the spoiled and petted darling of the tribe.
But now, when she espoused the cause of Bomba, who had come perhaps
to put the tribe under the spell of Casson, the Man of Evil, the
thing was too serious to be laughed at, even by the doting father.
There were dark looks on the faces of the younger warriors, and hands
were again outstretched to seize Bomba.
But the eyes of the little maiden flashed and she pushed the nearest
Indian away with her tiny hand.
“Kama-rah!” she cried again, appealing to her father.
But Hondura scowled, and his black face so frightened Pirah that she
shrank back against Bomba.
“Da-rah!” again commanded her father, and this time the child obeyed
and went back weeping to the group of women.
With his little defender gone, strong hands gripped Bomba and drew
him within the ring of savages.
Bomba felt that this was the end.
But again there came an interruption. Peto, the shaman, or medicine
man, of the tribe, came up to Bomba in a slow dreamy way, eyes
closed, as though he were walking in his sleep.
The braves fell back before this man of mystery.
Peto took hold of Bomba and began to feel all over him, his face, his
hands, his chest, his legs.
Then Peto went into a violent spasm, twitching and trembling, showing
the whites of his eyes and foaming at the mouth.
Bomba had stood the hauling and mauling without protest, though
without much hope of any good coming from it.
The old medicine man broke out into a babble of words, sometimes
almost beneath his breath, again rising to a shrill scream.
The Indians watched him breathlessly, though they sought to repress
any show of emotion.
Peto continued to open and shut his eyes rapidly, while the muscles
of his face twitched convulsively. At times he would reach out and
pinch Bomba’s legs until the lad winced.
Finally, when Bomba had begun to feel that he could not stand the
strain much longer, the shaman opened his eyes, looked straight at
the lad, and cried at the top of his cracked voice:
“Kari Katu Kama-rah!”
The words had a magical effect upon the Indians. The scowls
disappeared instantly from their faces and they echoed in chorus:
“Kari Katu Kama-rah!”
Bomba was saved. Peto had declared that the jungle boy was a friend,
and Hondura and his braves were willing to accept the medicine man’s
word.
The chief motioned Bomba to him, and the boy squatted beside him on
the ground. The men of the tribe gathered around, as friendly now as
they had been antagonistic before. Gone was their warlike attitude.
The change was kaleidoscopic.
It had been a matter of touch and go. Bomba marveled at his good
fortune in winning Peto’s approval. Apart from saving his life for
the present, it would have other consequences. It was no light
matter to have the Araos on his side, in view of the presence of the
head-hunters on their deadly mission.
While the chief was questioning Bomba, the little maiden Pirah
lingered wistfully on the outside of the group.
After a while Hondura called her to him. The little one came timidly
and sat down beside Bomba and again took his hand in hers.
Bomba smiled down at her and Pirah smiled back. There were so few
smiles ever bestowed on the lonely boy that it warmed his heart.
The chief seemed pleased, and looked at Bomba with a more friendly
expression than before.
To Bomba’s inquiries about Nascanora and his people Hondura replied
that the chief of the head-hunters had visited him and professed
friendship with the Araos. Hondura knew, though, that Nascanora’s
heart was black and that the invaders were only trying to lull him
into security until they were ready to fall on his people and wipe
them out. But he was watchful and his braves were ready.
“Did Nascanora say anything about Casson?” Bomba asked anxiously.
“Yes. Nascanora wanted one of my Araos to go with him as guide to
point out the location of Casson’s hut. But I, Hondura, professed
ignorance and Nascanora frowned. But finally he went away with words
of friendship.”
Hondura admitted that he, too, had thought that Casson might be a Man
of Evil, as Nascanora had said. But now that Peto had spoken, he knew
that Casson and Bomba were good. So he, Hondura, would do nothing to
aid Nascanora in his designs against the whites.
This was balm to Bomba’s anxious soul. The chief object of his
mission had been accomplished. Casson would be glad.
The matter of the hammocks was simple. Hondura would have given him
half a dozen if Bomba had wanted them. But the boy accepted only the
two, and these were brought at the command of the chief and tied up
in a light bundle.
It required considerable diplomacy for Bomba to terminate his visit
quickly without offense. They were for having him stay with them for
that night, several nights if he would. But Bomba managed to impress
them with the necessity of his getting back to Casson at once, and
they reluctantly yielded.
The chief had noticed that Bomba’s arrows were all gone, and as a
parting proof of friendship insisted on supplying him with a dozen
choice ones from his own stock.
Thanking him warmly and promising to return again within a short time
bringing gifts, Bomba took leave of Hondura and little Pirah, who
clung to him up to the last moment.
Several of the younger warriors, as a mark of courtesy, accompanied
him some distance into the jungle, and when they finally left him
repeated the words of Peto, “Kari Katu Kama-rah!”
Bomba responded earnestly and with a grateful heart, and when they
disappeared like ghosts in the shadows he was conscious of a still
deeper sense of the loneliness that of late had become his constant
companion.
The jungle seemed to him unnaturally still. The screaming of the
parrots was less strident than usual and the chattering of the
monkeys sounded muffled and far away.
His eyes fell on the track of a tapir, and this roused him from his
musings. He followed it for a short distance, and came upon his
quarry so suddenly that he almost betrayed his presence. But the wind
was blowing toward him, and he had made no sound.
The tapir was standing with his side toward him, offering as good a
target as any hunter could wish.
Bomba fitted one of Hondura’s arrows to his bow and let fly.
The missile sped swift and true. It struck the tapir at the base
of the skull, and the animal toppled over and died with scarcely a
struggle.
Bomba covered the distance between him and his prey in a few leaps.
Good luck, thought Bomba. He would have something good to take back
to the hut. It would be good to have meat again, after living so long
on the eggs of the jaboty.
He cut choice steaks from the carcass with his machete. These he
wrapped in leaves, bound with bush cord and slung with the hammocks
over his shoulder.
Bomba was jubilant. The day was ending in accordance with his fondest
hopes. He had gained the friendship of the Araos and put an obstacle
in the way of Nascanora. He had with him hammocks, the comfort of
which he and Casson had sadly missed. He had replenished his stock of
arrows. And there was the tapir meat, which would make a fine meal
for them both, roasted on a stout stick held over a blazing fire.
Yes, it had been a good day!
The thought of food moved Bomba to still greater speed. He had eaten
nothing since morning except a handful of roasted Brazil nuts that
Pirah had thrust into his hand at parting, and he was ravenous.
For another hour he pressed rapidly through the jungle, his eyes
sharply scanning every tree and covert, for dusk was coming on and
the beasts of prey would soon be starting on their nightly mission of
death.
Suddenly his steps slackened, for that instinct of his that he had
learned to trust warned him of danger. It was in the air. He did not
know just what form it was taking, but he knew that, whatever it was,
it was near at hand.
As silently now as a panther he glided on, not a twig snapping
beneath his sandaled feet.
Soon a smell of a campfire warned him of human proximity. He crept
cautiously nearer and, peering through the undergrowth, saw dark
forms squatting about a fire. He edged a little nearer until he
could hear fragments of their guttural speech.
Bomba dropped on his stomach and wormed his way through the brush
until he reached the outermost edge of the zone of light cast by the
fire. Then from his screen he slowly raised his head and looked.
There were thirty or more savages seated in council. One of them he
recognized as the man he had met in the forest at the crossing of the
trails.
These, then, were the head-hunters, the men who were seeking Casson’s
death and his own!