THE WATER KEPT RISING HIGHER AND HIGHER.
Bomba at the Giant Cataract. Page [184]

BOMBA
THE JUNGLE BOY
AT THE GIANT
CATARACT

OR

Chief Nascanora and His Captives

BY
ROY ROCKWOOD
Author of “Bomba the Jungle Boy,” “Lost on
the Moon,” “Through Space to Mars,” Etc.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

BOOKS FOR BOYS

By ROY ROCKWOOD

THE BOMBA BOOKS

12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.

BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT

GREAT MARVEL SERIES

THROUGH THE AIR TO THE NORTH POLE
UNDER THE OCEAN TO THE SOUTH POLE
FIVE THOUSAND MILES UNDERGROUND
THROUGH SPACE TO MARS
LOST ON THE MOON
ON A TORN-AWAY WORLD
THE CITY BEYOND THE CLOUDS

SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES

THE SPEEDWELL BOYS ON MOTOR CYCLES
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR RACING AUTO
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR POWER LAUNCH
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS IN A SUBMARINE
THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR ICE RACER

DAVE DASHAWAY SERIES

DAVE DASHAWAY, THE YOUNG AVIATOR
DAVE DASHAWAY AND HIS HYDROPLANE
DAVE DASHAWAY AND HIS GIANT AIRSHIP
DAVE DASHAWAY AROUND THE WORLD
DAVE DASHAWAY, AIR CHAMPION

CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, New York

Copyright, 1926, by
Cupples & Leon Company

Bomba the Jungle Boy at the Giant
Cataract
Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

BOMBA THE JUNGLE
BOY AT THE GIANT
CATARACT

CHAPTER I
THE SUDDEN ATTACK

Bomba made his way as silently as a panther through the jungle.

For that jungle abounded in enemies, as the boy had had occasion to know. At any moment a boa constrictor might drop like a flash from a tree above and seek to enfold him in its crushing coils. A turn of the trail might bring him face to face with a crouching jaguar. Or a cooanaradi, deadliest of all venomous snakes, might launch itself from the underbrush and inject its poison into his veins.

There were human foes, too, against whom Bomba had to be on his guard. With the natives who dwelt in that part of the jungle he was on comparatively friendly terms, though he never mingled with them on a footing of intimacy.

But from time to time the dreaded headhunters from the faraway region of the Giant Cataract invaded this district in search of the hideous trophies which their name implied wherewith to adorn their wigwams.

Their coming was a signal for the native inhabitants to flee, carrying along with them their children and scanty household belongings. The headhunters were cruel and ruthless, and death and destruction followed in their wake.

Bomba had seen signs of them that very morning, and he had no desire for a closer acquaintance. On two previous occasions, he and Casson, the aged naturalist with whom he lived, had been sought out by these dreaded savages and had narrowly escaped with their lives. A third time they might not be so fortunate.

“And as I have only one head, I am exceedingly anxious to keep it on my shoulders,” the boy had told Casson.

So it was with extreme caution that Bomba threaded his way through the jungle, his eyes darting from right to left, plumbing the recesses of every thicket, piercing the foliage of every tree. With him eternal vigilance was the price, not only of liberty, but of life itself.

There was a sudden rustling in the leaves of a giant dolado tree. Bomba halted instantly, drew an arrow from his belt and fitted it to the string of his bow.

But his tense attitude relaxed as the leaves were thrust aside and the grinning, friendly face of a monkey framed itself in the opening.

“Doto!” exclaimed Bomba, in accents of relief and pleasure, as he waved his hand to the newcomer.

Welcome was in the tone and gesture, and the monkey dropped from branch to branch, finally landing lightly on the ground. Its eyes gleamed with affection as Bomba caressed its head.

The boy—for he was no more than that, being fourteen years old at the most—presented a striking picture as he stood there with a ray of sunlight falling athwart his face. He was taller than the average boy of his age and far more muscular and more sturdily built.

From constant exposure to sun and storm, his face was as bronzed as that of an Indian, but his features betrayed the fact that he was of the white race. His eyes and hair were brown, his nose strong and aquiline, and his firm jaw denoted courage and resolution.

He wore the mendiyeh, or native tunic, and across his breast was slung a puma skin—that of Geluk, the puma, that he had come across and slain when it was trying to kill the friendly parrots, Kiki and Woowoo. His arms and legs were bare, and showed the powerful muscles rippling under the brown skin at every movement. On his feet were home-made sandals.

In his belt he carried a machete, a two-edged knife fully a foot in length and ground to an almost razor-like sharpness. A pouch at his waist held his arrows and a five-chambered revolver, the only firearm he had ever owned, the gift of two white men whose camp he had saved from a night attack by jaguars.

“So Doto is glad to see Bomba back!” said the boy as he fondled the animal’s furry head. “And Bomba is glad to meet Doto again. Bomba has been away for many days and has seen many things. He has met men whose hearts are black. He has seen mountains break apart and fire come from the top. Snakes and jaguars have tried to kill him.”

The monkey uttered sounds that would have been unintelligible to many, but that Bomba knew were meant to express sympathy. The boy had an almost uncanny power over animals, and had many friends among the less savage denizens of the jungle, such as the monkeys and parrots. He talked to them and they chattered back at him, and they had arrived at a point where they could understand each other in simple things. Tone and gesture helped to interpret the words and sounds, and each knew intuitively whether the other were sad or glad and they shared emotions in common.

“Bomba’s heart is heavy,” the lad went on, “for he has not done what he wanted to do. He went to see Jojasta, the medicine man. He thought the man could tell him about his father and mother. But Jojasta was killed before he could tell Bomba what Bomba wanted to know. He told Bomba something, but not enough.”

The lad was speaking more to relieve his own sore heart than anything else, but Doto seemed to understand, and put his hairy paw consolingly on the boy’s arm.

“And now before many moons Bomba must go away again,” the lad resumed, “for Jojasta told Bomba that he must go to Sobrinini of the Pilati tribe, beyond the Giant Cataract, and that she could tell him about his father and mother. It is a long way off, and there are many dangers in the way. Bomba may never come back, may never see Doto again.”

The monkey uttered a wail and snuggled closer to Bomba as though in fear of immediate parting. The boy patted the animal’s head affectionately and roused himself from his musings.

“Bomba must go fast,” he said. “He is on his way home to Casson. He has been away a long time, and he does not know whether Casson is alive or dead. So Bomba must hurry.”

As the lad started on in haste, Doto broke out into excited chatterings and clung to Bomba’s arm as though to hold him back.

Bomba knew at once that the animal was trying to warn him of threatening danger, and he stopped short in his tracks.

“What is it, Doto?” he asked.

There was another outbreak of sounds that would have been meaningless to anyone else, but which Bomba had no trouble in interpreting correctly.

His face grew grave as he listened.

“I know,” he said. “The headhunters, the men with black hearts, are in the jungle. I have seen their signs this morning. I thought that I had got past them. But Doto, from the tops of the trees, can see farther than I can. Where are these men with the bloody hands?”

The monkey pointed in front of them in the very direction Bomba was taking.

The boy hushed the monkey’s chattering and stood silent as a statue, listening.

From his long experience in the jungle he had become preternaturally sharp of hearing. He knew all the sounds of the jungle and could interpret them accurately.

But strain his ears as he might, he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. There was the usual hum of insects, the occasional howl of a monkey or shriek of a parrot. But there was nothing to indicate that, besides himself, there was any human being in that part of the jungle.

He glanced at Doto with a look of inquiry, as though to ask if the animal might not be mistaken. But Doto held to his arm with such a frenzied clutch that Bomba decided to trust in the creature’s instinct or knowledge—or both.

There was no help for it. In spite of his eagerness to reach Casson, about whose condition he was in a ferment of anxiety, he must make a long circuit to avoid the region in which Doto had indicated that danger lay.

So he changed his course, left the faint trail that he had been following, and swung out in a sweeping semicircle, with every nerve at tension and every sense on the alert. With him went his friend, Doto.

On the route he was now pursuing there was no trail, and Bomba had to hack a way through the underbrush. This involved exhausting work and made his progress slow. But most of all he dreaded it for fear that the noise he necessarily made should attract the attention of lurking foes.

At times, when the brush was very thick, Doto would climb to the lowest branch of a tree and swing from one bough to the other of the interlacing trees, and Bomba, who was almost as agile as the monkey himself, followed his companion’s example.

Soon, however, the jungle thinned a little, and they traversed the forest with redoubled speed in order to make up for lost time.

An hour had passed when Doto suddenly grasped the lad’s arm and pulled him to the ground. At the same moment, an arrow whizzed over Bomba’s head. A second later another arrow followed and buried itself in a tree, where it hung quivering.

Bomba’s enemies were upon him!

CHAPTER II
AT GRIPS WITH DEATH

Like a flash, Bomba acted.

He knew that if he rose he would be offering himself as a target. At least two of his foes were near at hand. There might be more.

Not fifty feet away was a fallen tree, a veritable monarch of the jungle, that he and Doto had made their way over with difficulty. Its branches and foliage spread over a large area.

Turning in that direction, keeping on hands and knees and motioning Doto to follow, Bomba made his way through the intervening thickets with as much speed as possible.

Had his enemies followed at once, Bomba would probably have been discovered and overtaken. But they were wary, and from previous experiences of their fellows knew to what deadly effect Bomba could shoot. So, from their places of concealment, they waited for the target once more to present itself.

And when, a few minutes later, they were reinforced by some of their mates and rushed forward in a body to the place where Bomba had last been seen, their expected prey had vanished.

Bomba had utilized those few precious minutes to the utmost. Moving noiselessly and yet rapidly, he had reached the vast mass of branches and ensconced himself in their furthest depths.

His concealment was aided also by the fact that the tree had fallen across a hollow, so that there was a deep hole directly under the trunk. Into this Bomba burrowed, crouching low so that his whole body was hidden even should the branches and foliage be thrust aside by his pursuers.

He had sent Doto off in another direction, as the monkey could be of no help to him if it came to a fight, and might by its chattering betray his hiding place to his enemies.

And now, with his heart beating rapidly but with his courage at the highest pitch, Bomba waited for the coming of his enemies.

He knew that he was in desperate straits and that, if discovered, he would be doomed. But before the end came he would do his utmost to take some of his foes with him.

It was characteristic of the boy that at this supreme moment he thought more of Casson than of himself. He had so often faced death that it had lost most of its terrors.

But Casson! Poor, sick, half-demented Casson! What would become of him if anything should happen to Bomba, who had so long been his reliance and defender?

In that confined space the lad’s bow and arrows were of no use to him. But he had his revolver fully loaded, and at such short range it could be trusted to do deadly execution. And as a last resort, if it came to a hand to hand fight, there was his machete, in the use of which he was a master.

Before long he could hear his pursuers beating the bushes in the vicinity, giving utterance to grunts of rage as their search continued fruitless.

He held his breath and waited.

Then he heard another sound, faint at first but gradually becoming more definite, a rustling as of some soft, long body slithering through the brush.

At intervals there was a sound like a rattle, as though the creature had encountered some obstacle that had aroused its irritation and was taking this way of showing it.

Bomba knew that sound, and his heart skipped a beat.

A snake was coming toward him, the deadly jaracara, the South American rattlesnake, the slightest puncture of whose fangs meant death!

What should he do? He could not retreat. If he shot the reptile the noise would bring his human enemies surging down upon him. If he attempted to use his machete, the snake’s stroke would be quicker than Bomba’s blow, and the creature’s fangs would be imbedded in his flesh.

While these thoughts were racing through his mind he saw the loathsome body and the triangular head of the jaracara come into view not ten feet away.

At the same moment the reptile caught sight of Bomba. It stopped short in surprise. Then its eyes snapped with malignant fury. Like a flash it threw its body into a coil and upreared its head to strike.

But in that short moment an inspiration had come to Bomba. He grasped a long stick and prodded its coils. Instantly the snake struck at the stick. Before it could recover, Bomba had pounced upon it and his sinewy hands had closed upon its throat.

Then ensued a terrific struggle, with the death of one or perhaps both of the combatants as the only possible outcome—a struggle all the more terrible for Bomba, because it had to be carried on in silence.

And while he holds that slippery throat with the clutch of desperation, as the snake twists and writhes and tries to bite, it may be well, for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series, to tell who Bomba was and what had been his adventures up to the time at which this story opens.

From his earliest childhood, as far as his memory went, Bomba had lived with Cody Casson in the jungle. The latter was a naturalist, who had withdrawn from civilization and settled in a little cabin in the remotest part of the Amazonian region. He was moody and abstracted, and often went for days at a time without speaking except in monosyllables.

But he was kind to Bomba, and a warm attachment existed between them. He had started to give the boy the rudiments of an education. But one day, when Casson fired at an anaconda that was darting at Bomba, the gun burst and laid Casson on his back, while the wounded anaconda retreated. Bomba had dragged his injured companion to their cabin and nursed him back to physical health. But Casson’s head had been injured by the explosion, and from that time on he was half-demented, though harmless. The lessons ceased abruptly, and Bomba became the provider and protector of the little family of two.

Thrown thus early on his own resources, Bomba had developed into a remarkable physical specimen of boyhood, daring, strong, and versed in all the craft of the jungle. He was surrounded by daily perils, to which a weaker nature would have succumbed. Serpents and wild beasts sought his life. But against them he matched his own courage and cunning, and had so far survived.

He knew comparatively nothing of the outside world. The jungle filled his whole horizon. But he knew that he was different from the natives of that region. Tugging at his heart was the knowledge that he was white, and he was possessed with a great desire to come in contact with his own people, to learn of their ways and dwell among them.

He knew that he was out of place where he was. The call of the blood was strong within him. He had a great longing to know of his parentage. He had questioned Casson repeatedly on this point, and the old man had striven in vain to tell him. But his memory had failed at the critical moment, and all that he could do was to mention the names “Bartow” and “Laura,” which Bomba concluded must refer to his parents.

How Bomba met two white rubber hunters, Gillis and Dorn, and won their gratitude by saving their lives when their camp was attacked at night by jaguars; how he trapped the cooanaradi when it pursued him; how he drove off the vultures when they assailed his friends the monkeys; how the latter came to his aid when the cabin was besieged by the headhunters—these adventures are told in the first book of this series, entitled: “Bomba the Jungle Boy; or, The Old Naturalist’s Secret.”

Although Casson could not himself remember the facts about Bomba’s parentage, he told him that he could learn all he wanted to know from Jojasta, the medicine man of the Moving Mountain. It was a long journey that Bomba had in prospect to reach Jojasta, but the urge to go was so strong that the lad determined to attempt it. After beating off another attack of the headhunters, Bomba took Casson down the river and delivered him to the care of Pipina, an old squaw for whom he had done many favors, and set out to find Jojasta.

From the very start his journey was beset with dangers from man and beast, flood and earthquake. He was instrumental in delivering from the power of the savages a Mrs. Parkhurst, whom he always referred to in his mind as “the woman with the golden hair.” Later he found her son, Frank, and in their joint adventures the boys grew strongly attached to each other, and Frank’s stories of the wonders of civilization intensified Bomba’s longings to see those things for himself.

How Bomba was swallowed up in an earthquake and hurled into a subterranean cavern that promised to become a living tomb; by what a marvelous combination of nerve and good fortune he reached the open air and sunlight; how he finally found Jojasta after the latter had been fatally hurt by the fall of his temple; the partial but not sufficient information he received from the dying man regarding his parents; the obstacles he surmounted and the perils he escaped are told in the preceding volume of this series, entitled: “Bomba the Jungle Boy at the Moving Mountain; or, The Mystery of the Caves of Fire.”

And now to return to Bomba, as he fights his life-and-death battle with the snake amid the branches and foliage of the fallen tree, not daring to make a sound lest he betray his hiding place to the savages who were hunting for him only a short distance away.

Beneath the scaly skin of the jaracara there was tremendous muscular power, and this was made more available when the reptile secured a purchase by wrapping its long body about the boy’s leg.

It squirmed and writhed and twisted, seeking to sink its fangs into the hands that held it. Its jaws, slavering with poison, were never more than a few inches from the boy’s flesh. If Bomba’s hands should slip from that slimy throat ever so little, his doom would be sealed.

The snake knew this and redoubled its exertions. But Bomba knew it too, and held on with desperation, sinking his powerful fingers deeper and deeper into the reptile’s throat.

If he could only hold on a little longer!

For time was on his side. The snake, deprived of breath by that choking grasp, must eventually succumb. Its only chance lay in the possibility of Bomba’s hands slipping or his nerve failing.

But his hands did not slip nor did his nerve fail.

Gradually the struggles of the snake grew weaker. A glaze began to steal over the horrid eyes. The grip of its body about the boy’s leg slowly relaxed. Then at last the reptile straightened out and its head hung limp.

Bomba still retained his grip for another minute or two to make assurance doubly sure. Then, when no doubt remained, he threw the reptile to the ground and with one stroke of his machete cut off its head.

Only then did he sink down on the ground, panting and exhausted. The tax had been a tremendous one, not only on his muscles but also on his nerves. He had seldom been brought more closely face to face with death.

But he had conquered, and a tingle of exultation ran through his veins. He cast a glance of disgust at the grinning head of his dead foe, and then turned his attention to the human enemies without.

The struggle had been carried on in such silence that it had not attracted their attention. They were still at some distance, beating the bushes for their prey and uttering exclamations of disappointment and chagrin.

It was too much to hope, however, that sooner or later their attention would not be drawn toward the tree, and Bomba held himself prepared for that eventuality.

He wiped his knife on the foliage and restored it to his belt. Then, with his revolver held ready for action, he crouched low in the hollow and waited.

He could hear the savages coming nearer and nearer. The crackling of the bushes and their guttural conversation became more distinct.

Then the branches of the tree were pushed aside and a ray of light shot through!

CHAPTER III
IN THE NICK OF TIME

Bomba caught a glimpse of half a dozen brawny forms and brutal faces and dropped at once into the hollow so that he was wholly concealed.

A pang stabbed his heart as he noted the number of his enemies. Against so many he could not hope to conquer, if it came to a fight. He might bring down one or two, possibly three, but the others would overcome him.

But his stout heart refused to quail. He had the advantage of position. He could see them outlined against the light more readily than they could discover him in the darkness. He could at least have the satisfaction of selling his life dearly.

Several of the savages crowded in among the foliage, pushing the branches and leaves aside so that light could penetrate.

But the light was dim, though strong enough to show the outline of the giant trunk. To the peering eyes of the savages, it seemed to be lying flat on the ground, and they failed to discern the hollow underneath. As far as they could see there was no one hiding there.

“Not here,” grunted one of them, already weary with previous effort in searching the bushes.

Bomba’s heart leaped at this indication of giving up the search. But it sank again when a voice that had authority in it said:

“Go in farther. Make sure.”

Grumblingly the men obeyed, and Bomba could hear them coming nearer. He tightened his hold on the revolver.

Suddenly there was a shriek of fright, and one of the savages jumped a foot into the air. Then he made a break for the open, shouting:

“Snake! Snake!”

His comrades followed, rushing with frantic, headlong haste into the clearing.

In a flash, Bomba, the jungle boy, comprehended what had happened. The intruder had stepped on the soft, yielding body of the dead serpent and had jumped to the conclusion that it was alive. Naturally, he had not waited to investigate, but had leaped out of the reach of the supposedly deadly fangs.

Now he stood outside the mass of branches and was jabbering excitedly as he told of his narrow escape.

The examination of that particular mass of branches stopped then and there. The men were reasonably certain, anyway, that their hoped-for victim was not there, and they were perfectly content to leave the snake in undisturbed possession.

Bomba could hear them moving farther and farther off until at last the sound of their footsteps and voices died away in the distance.

He could scarcely believe in his good fortune. He had steeled himself for the conflict that seemed almost inevitable and from which he had not expected to emerge alive.

The coming of the snake, which had filled him with horror, had really proved a blessing. Living, it had tried to kill him. Dead, it had helped to save him.

Bomba lay in the hollow perfectly still for some time, fearing that his enemies might return. But when an hour had passed without any sound to alarm him, he ventured cautiously to creep toward the edge of the pile of branches and look about.

His keen eyes scanned the jungle in every direction, but could discern no trace of his enemies. He had known from the sound of their retreating footsteps that they were not between him and his goal. They had gone in the direction that he had already traversed. That special group, at least, would now be in the rear of him instead of in front.

This conclusion was confirmed when Doto dropped down from a tree, where his sharp eyes had noted all that had happened, and rubbed up against Bomba, chattering his delight.

“They have gone then, Doto?” asked Bomba, as he slung his bow over his shoulder. “They are far away?”

The monkey chattered an affirmative and pointed back of them.

“It is well,” said Bomba. “I must go fast now to reach Casson. You saved Bomba’s life, Doto. If you had not pulled him down the arrow would have found him. Doto is good, and Bomba will not forget.”

A gratified look came into the monkey’s eyes. He wanted to go along with Bomba, but the latter did not think it best.

“You stay here, Doto,” he said, as he gently released his arm from the monkey’s hold. “Bomba will soon see you again.”

Then, as the affectionate animal seemed a little crestfallen, the boy added:

“But you can keep watch, and if you see the men with black hearts coming after Bomba, you must come and tell him. You can go faster through the trees than they can through the jungle.”

Doto seemed to understand, and with a last pat of his paw shinned up the nearest tree. Bomba knew that he had left behind him a vigilant and faithful sentinel.

A glance at the sun told the boy that it was already afternoon, and that he must hasten if he were to reach the cabin of Pipina before the shadows of night closed about him.

So he started off at a rapid pace, employing all his woodsmanship to avoid obstacles and steer as straight a course as possible. For a part of the way there were woodland trails, and then he made good time. When he could, which was often, he jumped over the thickets instead of hacking his way through them, leaping into the air as lightly as a deer and landing softly on the other side.

Before long he was on familiar ground, and knew that he was reaching the cabin where he and Casson had lived for so many years. It had been burned during the last foray of the headhunters, and was now uninhabitable. But all that Bomba had ever known of home was bound up in it.

So a certain melancholy pleasure warmed his heart as he came out into the clearing and looked at the part of the smoke-blackened wall that remained standing. Without being conscious of it, tears stood in his eyes, and he vowed that he would rebuild when the headhunters should have removed their dreaded presence from the jungle.

But he had no time now to indulge in reflections. A hasty search of the river bank revealed his canoe in the tree-hung inlet where he had hidden it.

He untied it, sent it with a push into the middle of the stream, and began paddling down the river.

It was a long journey, but his powerful arms sent the canoe whizzing along at a great pace. The current was with him, and he knew that, barring accidents, he would reach the hut of Pipina before dark.

But “accidents,” he had come to learn, were almost daily occurrences in the jungle, and he did not abate a jot of his vigilance, his keen eyes keeping on the lookout everywhere—at the water for snags or alligators, at either shore for animal or human enemies, on the trees that overhung the stream for lurking anacondas.

But though always on the alert, his subconscious mind was busy with thoughts of his recent journey and of that which was to come. Would the latter be more satisfactory than the former? Would Sobrinini complete the story regarding the mystery of his parentage that Jojasta had left so incomplete?

Who was Sobrinini? What did she know? And even if she did know, what would she tell?

Did Casson know her? Would the mention of her name unlock the door of his memory, that door that he had tried so desperately but fruitlessly to open?

But here Bomba’s questioning stopped as the thought came to him that perhaps there would be no Casson to tell him anything. The old naturalist had been so weak and frail when he had left him! His hold on life had been so slender! Perhaps the thread had already snapped.

The thought was an agonizing one to Bomba, and spurred him to such efforts that the paddle swept in a wide semicircle as he propelled his slight craft through the water.

At such a rate of speed did he travel that long before he had expected he found himself in the vicinity of his goal.

When he realized that Pipina’s cabin lay beyond a turn of the river just ahead, Bomba slackened speed. His habitual caution, bred of long years in the jungle, asserted itself. He wanted to inspect the cabin before approaching it.

So, despite his impatience, he rested from his paddling and let the craft drift with the current until he rounded the bend.

What he saw then made him dip his paddle deep and send the canoe in frantic haste toward the shore.

Before the door of the cabin crouched a huge puma, preparing for a spring through the doorway!

CHAPTER IV
A TERRIFIC STRUGGLE

At sight of the crouching brute, Bomba shouted with all his might.

The beast turned at the shout, fangs bared and eyes flashing with rage, to meet the newcomer. Then, with its tail lashing its flanks, it advanced toward the river bank.

At the same moment a roar came from within the cabin. And with the roar was blended the scream of a woman in mortal terror.

As the canoe approached the bank, Bomba fitted an arrow to his string, drew it to the head and let it go.

The haste with which he shot and the motion of the boat disturbed his aim, so that it just grazed the animal’s head, inflicting a slight flesh wound, but no mortal injury.

But the pain inflamed the puma’s rage, and as the canoe had now come within a few feet of the bank, it prepared to spring.

But just as it was about to launch itself into the air a second arrow from Bomba’s bow struck fair to its heart.

With a fearful howl the beast rolled over and over for a moment, then straightened out and lay still.

With scarcely a second glance at his dead adversary, Bomba leaped on the bank and started to run toward the cabin.

The hut consisted of two rooms, a larger one in the front and a much smaller one in the rear. A flimsy door with one rope hinge broken connected the two.

In the swift glance he sent inside as he reached the outer doorway, Bomba saw no trace of human occupants.

What he did see was a puma, larger than the one he had slain outside, clawing at the inner door between the two rooms and at times hurling its huge body against the door. It was a dilapidated door at the best, and would long since have yielded to the beast’s attack had it not been for some barriers placed against it on the other side.

Bomba took in the situation in an instant. Pipina had seen the beasts approaching and, taking Casson with her, had retreated to the inner room, shut the door, and piled against it whatever furniture she could gather in her frantic haste.

But that it was pitifully inadequate was apparent at a glance. Already there were breaks in the door that the puma was trying to enlarge with its claws so that it could push its body through. From the other side of the door came the frantic screams of Pipina, seeing death so near at hand.

In a flash Bomba fitted an arrow to his bow and let it go. It struck the puma in the shoulder, inflicting a serious wound but not enough to cripple it.

With a roar of rage the brute turned to meet its new enemy. With one spring it was at the door.

The movement had been so lightning fast that Bomba had no time to shoot again. His only salvation lay in flight.

Turning, he ran like a deer toward the river bank, hoping to regain his canoe and push out into the stream. But even as he did so he felt that it was hopeless. He was fleet, but the puma was fleeter. Before he could reach the water it would be upon him.

Just then he saw out of the corner of his eye a third puma coming with giant bounds into the clearing. Then indeed he gave himself up for lost.

He drew his knife, determined to die fighting. That he was about to die he had no doubt.

But just as he felt the hot breath of his pursuer on his neck there was a terrific snarling behind him and the impact of huge bodies.

He glanced behind him and his flight suddenly halted.

The two great pumas were locked in deadly combat, clawing and biting, rolling over and over as each sought to get a grip on the other’s throat.

It was a battle of Titans, and Bomba looked on with amazement that was transformed into an expression of delight as he recognized the last comer.

“Polulu!” he exclaimed. “Good Polulu! He has come to Bomba’s help.”

He circled about the combatants, seeking to get in a thrust with his knife that might decide the battle in favor of the friendly puma. But the fight was so fast and furious that he was as likely to wound one as the other.

But Polulu needed no help. His weight and courage finally told. Before long he succeeded in getting the throat hold he was seeking, and then the end was only a matter of a few moments.

But it had been a terrible fight, and after Polulu had risen from the body of his dead adversary he was hardly able to move. He staggered away a few paces, and then lay down panting and exhausted.

Bomba let him rest awhile, and then went up to him and caressed the great, shaggy head.

“Polulu is a good friend,” he said gratefully. “It is not the first time he has saved Bomba’s life. There is no one in the jungle as big and strong as Polulu.”

The puma tried to purr, and licked the hand that fondled him.

Their strange friendship was of long standing. It dated from the time when Bomba had come across the puma trapped by a tree in the jungle, that had fallen upon the animal and broken its leg. The boy of the jungle had been stirred to pity at the creature’s distress. He had released him from the weight that held him, bound up the broken leg, and brought him food and drink.

By the time Polulu, as Bomba named the puma, had fully recovered, a strong attachment had grown up between the oddly assorted pair. Their paths often crossed in the forest, and more than once the great beast had saved Bomba from serious danger. Now, once more, he had come to the rescue when the lad was at the last extremity.

Leaving the animal to lick its wounds, Bomba hastened to the hut. Its inmates had no inkling of what had happened except that for some mysterious reason the attacks upon the door had ceased. The screams of the woman had given place to moaning.

“Pipina! Casson!” shouted Bomba. “It is Bomba calling. The pumas are dead. Open the door.”

Again there came a scream, but this time it was one of delight. There was a hurried removal of the barriers on the other side of the door, and then the old squaw came rushing out and threw her arms about Bomba’s neck, crying and laughing in the same breath.

Behind her came Cody Casson, his steps slow and uncertain, looking so frail that it seemed as though a zephyr would have blown him away, but with an affectionate welcome in his faded eyes.

But he was still alive, and at that moment nothing else mattered. Dear Casson! Good old Casson! There were tears in Bomba’s eyes as he rushed forward and folded the old man in his embrace.

The two were roused by a shriek from Pipina, who had gone to the doorway and now came rushing back in terror.

“There is another puma there!” she cried. “He is bigger that the others! Quick! Let us get behind the door again.”

Bomba spoke to her soothingly and with a smile.

“He is not like the others,” he said. “He is Bomba’s friend. I killed one puma but he killed the other. I will bring him here, and you will see.”

But Pipina, despite Bomba’s assurances, had no desire for an introduction to the giant puma, and shook her head decidedly, the while she muttered prayers to her gods.

So Bomba had to be content with bringing out a haunch of meat and sitting beside Polulu and talking to him, while the latter munched away contentedly. Then the great beast rose, stretched himself, rubbed his head against Bomba’s hand, and departed again for his haunts in the jungle.

They had a great feast that night, for Pipina displayed all her skill in making a fitting celebration of the wanderer’s return.

Bomba was almost famished, and ate greedily while Pipina beamed with smiles at his tribute to her cooking. The lad was glad to see also that Casson had a better appetite than he had had when Bomba had left him. It was evident that Pipina had taken good care of him.

But though the old naturalist had improved physically, there was no change for the better in his mental condition. Bomba studied him during the meal and grieved to see that his mind was still weak and wandering. Would that closed door in his mind never open?

When the meal was finished and Pipina was busy with clearing away the food that was left and performing her simple household tasks, Bomba sat down beside Casson and told the story of his journey.

Casson listened, holding Bomba’s brown hand affectionately in his weak, worn one, happy beyond words to have the boy back again with him. But it was with difficulty that the old man kept the thread of the story. At times he would interpose vague, irrelevant questions that showed how hard it was for him to understand.

“I saw Jojasta,” said Bomba, “but it was too late. He was dying. A pillar of the temple fell on him. And then the earth opened and swallowed him.”

“Jojasta? Jojasta?” repeated Casson, in a puzzled way. “Oh, yes, he was the medicine man of the Moving Mountain. But why did you want to see Jojasta?”

“Don’t you remember?” asked Bomba. “You told me that if I saw him he could tell me about my father and mother.”

“Father and mother,” murmured Casson, and lapsed into silence, during which he seemed to be cudgeling his poor, disordered brain to make it yield up its secrets.

“He thought I was Bartow when he saw me,” went on Bomba.

At the name the old man brightened.

“Bartow!” he exclaimed. “I have heard that name.”

“Is he my father?” asked Bomba eagerly.

Casson tried desperately to remember.

“I—I don’t know,” he said at last piteously.

Bomba’s heart sank, but he tried again.

“I asked him about Laura, too,” he went on, watching Casson narrowly.

“Laura, dear sweet Laura,” murmured the old man with emotion, tears coming to his eyes.

“Who is she? Where is she? Oh, tell me, Casson!” Bomba begged, with all his heart in his voice.

“She is—she is—oh, why is it that I cannot remember?” exclaimed Casson in desperation.

“Jojasta knew. Jojasta could have told you,” the old man went on after a pause. “But you say that he is dead.”

“He is dead,” replied Bomba. “But before he died he told me that Sobrinini——”

Then came a startling interruption.

CHAPTER V
TERRIBLE JAWS

At the mention of Sobrinini’s name Cody Casson sprang to his feet, his weakness temporarily banished, and began to dance around the room, singing in a cracked, treble voice “la, la, la!” over and over again. Not until he was exhausted did he cease his gyrations and sink quivering into his chair.

Bomba watched the sudden transformation with consternation and alarm. What did this strange outbreak mean?

But he forebore to question until Casson ceased trembling and became once more like his customary self. Then the boy leaned toward the old man and said gently:

“I was talking about Sobrinini.” Again the old man started, but did not rise. Bomba went on:

“Jojasta told me to go to Sobrinini, she of the Pilati tribe beyond the Giant Cataract, to find out about my father and mother.”

“Yes, Nini ought to know,” muttered Casson. “She ought to know.”

“Who is Sobrinini and why should she know?” asked Bomba.

But Casson did not answer. He sat, muttering incoherently, and seemed so tired from his recent excitement that Bomba was afraid to press the matter further.

So he tried to calm the old man’s agitation and a little while later assisted him into his hammock where he almost immediately fell asleep.

Bomba himself got into his own hammock and tried to sleep. But although he was dead tired, he found himself for a long time unable to close his eyes.

He tossed restlessly about, his mind in a tumult of unanswered questions. Why was it that Casson had betrayed such intense excitement at the mention of Sobrinini’s name? Why had he referred to her as Nini? That sounded to Bomba like a pet name, implying long acquaintance and familiarity. Why did he indulge in that wild fantastic dance and singing?

One thing was reasonably certain. It was hopeless to count much on Casson. The disjointed words that his questioning had brought from the old man could not be pieced together so as to give him any reliable information.

So he must go to Sobrinini, must face all the dangers that would inevitably await him in that long journey to the Giant Cataract. The thought of abandoning his quest did not even occur to him. The urge to find out about his parentage was, if possible, stronger than it had been before. No difficulties could daunt or deter him.

With his determination firmly fixed in his mind, he fell at last into an uneasy slumber.

He found plenty of work awaiting him when he woke in the morning. In the first place, he had to replace the door that had been so nearly shattered by the puma, so that Casson and Pipina could have better protection, if exposed to similar dangers in the future.

He spent much time and labor on this, and when a stout door was at last completed, together with a heavy bar that could be dropped into place, he felt much easier in his mind.

Then there was the problem of provisioning the cabin during his coming absence. Though Casson and Pipina had had plenty while he was gone, their stock was now greatly depleted and needed replenishing. So he planned to spend several days in the jungle in order to bring them home plenty of meat. This would be cured by Pipina and would keep indefinitely.

It was bright and early one morning that he bade Casson and the woman farewell and set out for his hunting trip in the jungle.

So far as he could learn, the headhunters had left that district. He hoped they would stay away a long time, preferably forever.

He had not gone far before Kiki and Woowoo, the friendly parrots, fluttered from the trees and dropped one on each shoulder. A little later Doto joined him together with other monkeys, so that he was soon the center of a group of birds and animals, all competing for a word or a pat of the hand.

He talked to them, and they chattered back. Then he took out his harmonica and played for them, to their great delight. So much did the lonely boy enjoy converse with those who loved him that it was with reluctance he finally sent them away, so that he could go on with his hunting.

Two hours passed without anything coming in range of his weapons save small creatures that he disdained to notice. He was after larger game, preferably a tapir, a creature as large as a calf, whose meat was succulent and nourishing. A single one of these would furnish meat enough for a month.

So he turned his steps toward a large river where he knew these animals were likely to be found.

For a long time he had no luck. The sun reached its zenith and dropped down toward the western sky. There were plenty of tracks, but it was mid-afternoon before he caught a glimpse of what he sought.

Then, coming out from a fringe of trees not far from the river’s edge, he saw a large tapir browsing on the bank.

It offered an easy target, and Bomba fitted an arrow to his bow. But unfortunately the wind was blowing toward the tapir and carried Bomba’s scent with it.

The animal looked up, saw Bomba, and without an instant’s hesitation plunged into the river.

Ordinarily that would have ended Bomba’s chances, for the tapir can swim for a long distance under water. His game, therefore, could easily have got beyond bowshot before it would have been compelled to come to the surface for air.

The boy gave an exclamation of vexation, which was checked, however, as his eyes, ranging up and down the river bank, caught sight of a canoe drawn up among some sedge grass near the shore. No doubt it belonged to a native who had left it there while he made a trip into the jungle.

Bomba ran to it, untied it, seized the paddle, and pushed out into the stream, following as nearly as he could guess the direction that the tapir had taken.

But a stern chase is a long chase, as Bomba soon found. When the tapir did come to the surface, it was a long way from where Bomba imagined it would be, and before he had come within range of it the beast had gone under again.

But Bomba’s second guess proved a better one, and the next time the tapir came to the surface the boy was within ten feet of it.

Bomba dropped his paddle and seized his weapon. The bow twanged.

The arrow penetrated to the heart of the animal, and it died almost without a struggle.

Seizing a rope that lay in the bottom of the canoe, Bomba made a noose and threw it around the head and shoulders of the tapir, securing it before it could sink. Then he tied the other end of the rope to the canoe, and set out for the shore, towing his quarry behind him.

It was an arduous task, for the tapir weighed several hundred pounds, and Bomba made slow progress through the water. But his heart was exultant, for he had bagged his game. His day had not been fruitless.

His progress was checked suddenly, so suddenly that he was thrown on his back on the bottom of the canoe.

He scrambled to his feet and looked back, thinking that the body of the tapir might have caught on a snag. At what he saw his heart almost stopped beating.

It was no snag that had checked the progress of the canoe.

A monster alligator, the cayman of the Amazon region, was tugging at the tapir, from which it had already torn a piece of the flank.

Then, as Bomba looked, the water was broken in several places by the horrid snouts and hideous jaws of other caymen, that had smelled the blood of the tapir and were hastening to have their share of the feast.

Bomba’s first feeling was that of chagrin at losing his prey. But this gave way at once to an overpowering sense of his own danger.

Those great jaws tearing at the tapir were sure to upset the canoe. He must cut the rope.

He drew his machete, sprang to the stern, and commenced to hack madly at the rope. Before he could cut through a single strand, there was a terrific jerk, the canoe turned over, and Bomba was thrown into the river.

By this time the river was swarming with alligators!

CHAPTER VI
PURSUED BY AN ALLIGATOR

Bomba was hurled headlong into the green depths of the river. This in itself would not have bothered him. He could swim like a fish and was almost as much at home in the water as on land.

But a thrill of terror passed through him as he realized that not far away was a group of monsters that could swim faster than he could, and whose terrible jaws, once clamped on him, could bite him in half.

His mind worked with lightning swiftness. He must remain under water as long as possible. His instinct for direction told him where the land lay.

So instead of permitting himself to shoot up to the surface, he remained under and struck out toward the shore.

For more than a minute he shot ahead at a rapid pace. And only when it seemed as though his lungs would burst did he at last rise to the surface.

He shook the water from his eyes and looked behind him. He could see at least half a dozen caymen tearing at the body of the tapir and others swimming about greedy for their share.

His only hope lay in the possibility that the brutes would be so busy fighting each other for a portion of the spoils that they would not notice him at the distance that he had already attained.

But his chase for the tapir had carried him far out into the stream and the shore seemed still a terrible distance away.

He summoned up all his resolution and struck out for land, keeping himself as low in the water as possible and moving with scarcely a ripple.

For a time it looked as though his hope might be realized. Twice he looked behind him, and each time the brutes still seemed to be fighting about the body of the tapir.

But the third time he looked back he saw something that filled him with consternation.

A huge alligator had detached itself from the group and was making toward him at full speed. He could see the long, scaly body, the fiery, red eyes and the hideous jaws with their rows of glistening teeth.

Bomba turned and swam for his life.