BOMBA DROPPED FLAT ON THE GROUND
Bomba on Jaguar Island Page [144]

BOMBA
THE JUNGLE BOY
ON JAGUAR ISLAND

OR

Adrift on the River of Mystery

BY
ROY ROCKWOOD
Author of “Bomba the Jungle Boy,” “Through the
Air to the North Pole,” “On a Torn-away
World,” 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
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND
BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY

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, 1927, by
Cupples & Leon Company

Bomba the Jungle Boy on Jaguar Island
Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

BOMBA
THE JUNGLE BOY
ON JAGUAR ISLAND

CHAPTER I
WHAT THE LIGHTNING REVEALED

Bomba crouched beneath the shelter of an overhanging rock, straining his ears for a faint sound not born of the storm.

The rain was coming down in a pitiless torrent. The thunder battered against the surrounding hills and went off grumbling into the distance, to be swallowed up in louder detonations. Trees bent before the fury of the wind like a bow in the hands of an archer. Some of the smaller trunks, wrenched from their roots, fell with a thud to the ground. Castanha nuts, like pebbles from the sling shot of a giant, pelted the jungle in a deadly hail. It was a devastating storm that for the time subdued all other forces of the jungle.

None but the ears of the boy of the jungle could have detected that faint sound through the clamor of the tempest. None but the eyes of Bomba could have seen that something that stood out like a black blot against the vivid background of the lightning.

Bomba crouched lower beneath the jutting rock and one hand slipped to the belt at his waist, firmly gripping the handle of his razor-edged knife. Whether man, beast or reptile threatened, Bomba was not to be caught off his guard.

A crash of thunder that seemed to rip the very heavens asunder, a flash of lightning like a jagged finger of fire searing the sky, and again Bomba saw that blot, but this time more distinctly.

With a smothered exclamation, Bomba slipped into the narrow gully that ran behind the rock, a gully, now half filled with water but thickly fringed with bushes, concealing him from the eyes of his enemies.

For the flash of lightning had revealed no lurking jaguar, hungry for its prey. The foes of Bomba were of a far deadlier kind, deadlier even than the wicked anaconda with its folds of steel. For these were headhunters—bloodthirsty, cruel, cunning—bucks of the tribe of the dreaded chief, Nascanora.

The eyes of Bomba, keen as those of the big cats that stalked the jungle, had counted three of these in the brief space of the lightning flash. They stood like naked statues, each gripping a spear, the eyes of each prodding the deeper shadows beneath the overhanging rock.

Rage was in the heart of the jungle boy, and fear; fear not for himself but for Cody Casson, his one white friend who had reared him from infancy; Cody Casson, now frail and wasted, who lay helpless, perhaps close to death, in the hut of Pipina, the squaw.

Bomba knew with a sure instinct the reason for the presence of the headhunters of Nascanora, now far from their tribal abode in the shadow of the Giant Cataract. They were once more on the trail of Casson; Casson whom Bomba loved. They would try to capture him, take him to their village and torture him, and then, when death had brought an end to his sufferings, place his head on Nascanora’s wigwam.

The hand of Bomba clutched convulsively at the handle of his knife. He vowed to the gods of the thunder and the rain that he would protect his friend to the last gasp; that if Casson were to die, he, Bomba, would die with him, stretched across his body.

But it was too early yet to think of death. Too long had Bomba braved the perils of the jungle not to know the fleetness of his foot, the sureness of his eye, the strength of his muscles. Bomba had fought the braves of Nascanora’s tribe before; had beaten and outwitted them. He would fight them again, matching his strength against their strength, his brain against their brain. And he told himself that Bomba would win.

Stealthily as a shadow, still crouching low behind the bushes, Bomba crept along the gully, his ears strained for any sound that might indicate pursuit.

Had they seen him? Had his form beneath the shadow of the rock been as plain to them as theirs to him?

Bomba doubted this, for the rock was sheltered by the overhanging limbs of trees, while the Indians had stood up straight, clearly outlined against the tangled undergrowth of the jungle.

The advantage so far was Bomba’s. But how long could he hope to retain it?

Bomba pushed against the wind almost as against a solid obstacle. It required all his strength to keep his feet. The lightning, that was now almost incessant, filled the forest with weird light, illuminating the tree branches and swaying vines in a fantastic tracery. Heavy ropes of creepers swung from the branches above the boy’s head and wrapped themselves about him, impeding his progress.

With teeth gritted, Bomba fought the fury of the storm. It was terrible, but not so ruthless and relentless as the enemy he was trying to leave behind.

An unusually vivid flash of lightning illumined a faint trail at Bomba’s right. He would leave the gully here and strike homeward toward the cabin of Pipina, where Casson lay, all unknowing of the danger that threatened him. He had been on his way there when the storm had risen and forced him to seek shelter beneath the lee of the rock.

A tree fell with the sound of rending branches directly in front of him. The outflung boughs caught him, swept him backward; castanha nuts pelted about him, now just grazing him and again leaving painful bruises on his body.

He freed himself and struggled doggedly onward. It was not far to the hut of Pipina now, but, pursued by the demons of the storm and having to hack his way at times through the underbrush, each yard had to be fought for.

Then, suddenly, Bomba stopped.

His hand grasped tightly the hilt of his knife, his eyes narrowed as they searched an especially heavy clump of bushes.

Another flash illumined the thicket and Bomba saw the ugly head of a jararaca, the rattlesnake of the South American jungle, upraised to strike.

As the world was again bathed in blackness the serpent sprang. At the same instant Bomba dodged, his hand darted forward and caught the reptile by the neck. His fingers closed upon that slimy neck like a ring of steel. The snake writhed fearfully and threw its coils about Bomba’s arm.

Had the lad’s fingers relaxed the merest trifle, the fangs would have found their mark. But those fingers kept up their relentless pressure until the thrashing coils gradually grew limp.

To make assurance doubly sure, Bomba beat the reptile’s head against a rock, then flung the hideous thing far from him into the bushes.

“The snake is quick,” said the boy to himself, in justified pride, “but Bomba is quicker.”

He plunged forward again, but in a moment stopped, listening intently. What was that?

Only the threshing of the rain, the roar of the wind?

No, it was different from either of these. It was the sound of one or several bodies pressing through the heavy undergrowth that in places grew higher than a man’s head.

And it was not the body of a jaguar or a puma that was pushing through the thickets. Bomba was familiar enough with the habits of these creatures to know that on a night like this they would remain closely sheltered in their caves. None of them would brave the fury of the elements.

Nor was it the odor of animals that was borne to him. Bomba’s long residence in the jungle had developed his sense of smell so that it was almost as keen as that of the jaguar itself. His nostrils dilated now as he sniffed the air and caught the unmistakable scent of human kind.

He had thought that he had left his enemies behind. Now he knew that they were also in front. It was from that direction that the scent had come.

It was no small party with which he had to deal. Nascanora’s braves were out in force. All Bomba’s subtlety and force would be needed that night, if he were to keep his head on his shoulders. And Bomba valued that head highly.

He went forward now more slowly, more cautiously, pausing to look about him warily when the lightning illumined the jungle.

At one brilliant flash he dropped behind some bushes as though shot.

Not more than a dozen yards away three Indians were creeping toward him, spear points lowered, glinting evilly!

CHAPTER II
AT GRIPS WITH THE ENEMY

Like a flash Bomba leaped to his feet and plunged into the underbrush.

He was not a moment too soon! With a yell, the headhunters sprang toward the spot where he had been but a moment before.

Had Bomba been on a level plain, he could have laughed at his pursuers, for none of them matched him in fleetness of foot. But when it came to forcing his way through the heavy brush, they could move almost as quickly as himself, and the noise he made would be a sure guide to his pursuers.

Realizing this, Bomba adopted new tactics. With the litheness of a deer he rose in the air, and with a series of successive bounds rapidly increased the distance between him and the enemy. He hurdled the bushes in great leaps while his heavier foes were forcing their way through them.

At times he came to places where long creepers depended from the trees, and in order to rest his legs he swung himself along by his arms from one to the other with incredible celerity.

Bomba’s heart sang within him as the sounds of pursuit became fainter. But just as he was beginning to feel that he had escaped the most pressing danger a chorus of yells came from somewhere in front of him. These were answered by savage shouts in the rear.

To go on would be to throw himself into the hands of his foes. To retreat would be equally dangerous.

Turning to the nearest tree, Bomba shinned up it with the agility of a monkey and sought refuge in the thick foliage that hid him from sight, while yet permitting him to see what might be going on below.

What was in that tree he did not know. Perhaps a boa constrictor wound about one of the branches. But he must take his chance between possible death there and the almost certain death that threatened him on the ground beneath.

He had scarcely ensconced himself, panting, in the fork of two great branches before a dozen or more Indians were under his refuge, jabbering with rage and disappointment. They had thought they had their prey encircled and that all they had to do was to close in upon it. Now it had vanished as though into thin air.

With their spears and machetes they viciously beat the brushwood to right and left, thrusting their weapons into every thicket, their anger growing as their efforts remained fruitless.

At last they paused and grouped themselves together for consultation. Bomba’s eyes strained through the darkness, trying to ascertain their number. His ears sought also to get what they were saying. Had it not been for the noise of the tempest, he might have succeeded in this, for he was familiar with most of the dialects of the jungle dwellers. But all he could hear was a low growl that conveyed to him no meaning.

Then the sound of voices died away and the only noise was that of the storm. The black mass of figures had dissolved. Bomba seemed to be alone.

Had the headhunters passed on? Had they been warned perhaps of some danger that menaced them as well as the fugitive?

For a moment the heart of the jungle lad leaped with hope. Then his sensitive ear caught a rustling that he knew was not occasioned by the wind.

No, they had not gone. Some, perhaps, but not all.

A lightning flash more dazzling than any that had gone before rent the darkness of the jungle, flooding it with weird, unearthly light. In that flash Bomba caught sight of several Indians crouched in the vicinity of the tree.

There came a rending, splintering crash that nearly shattered his eardrums, a detonation that seemed to shake the earth.

A giant tree near by, struck to the heart by the bolt, toppled and crashed toward the earth. The Indians yelled and tried to flee. A blood-curdling scream rang through the jungle as the tree trunk thudded to the ground.

Bomba sensed what had happened. There was only one meaning to that scream.

“The storm does Bomba’s work better than he can do it himself,” muttered the lad.

If he had had any doubt that death had occurred, another flash showed that he had made no mistake. The great tree in falling had caught one of the Indians beneath it, crushing the life from his body instantly. The other savages were not visible, and Bomba rightly guessed that they would believe the spot to be under a curse and would shun it as they would the plague.

“They will not come back to-night,” reasoned the jungle lad, “and to-morrow will be too late, for Bomba will not be here.”

With Bomba, to think was to act. Reaching out, he clutched a handful of creepers and slid to the ground. He paused a moment to get his direction and then vanished into the underbrush.

There was no sign of his foes, and Bomba blessed that lightning stroke that had sent them in panic flight. Not for the next ten minutes did anything happen to give him alarm.

Then, without warning, he was struck from behind and fell to the ground. The sound of a guttural voice was in his ears and sinewy fingers wound themselves about his throat.

While the jungle boy struggles desperately to loose that strangling hold, 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 this story opens.

Bomba could never remember a time when he had not lived in the jungle. His only companion and guardian was Cody Casson, an aged naturalist, who had withdrawn from civilization and the life of white people to settle in one of the remotest recesses of the Amazonian jungle. Whether he was related to him, Bomba did not know and had never wondered. He would not have known the meaning of relative. He only knew that he loved Casson and that Casson loved him, although the latter seldom demonstrated any affection in words, spending days at a time in moody abstraction.

The old man’s state had grown worse after a certain memorable day when he had fired a gun at an anaconda which was threatening to attack Bomba and the weapon had burst in his hands. The reptile was wounded by the flying missiles and retreated, but Casson had received a serious injury to his head. Bomba nursed him back to some degree of physical health, but Casson from that time on was half-demented, and the care of providing for the two had fallen on the lad’s shoulders.

For such youthful shoulders it was a heavy burden, but it helped to develop the lad into a wonder of strength and daring. Dangers of all kinds surrounded him, wild beasts and reptiles with which the jungle swarmed, and only quick wit and dauntless courage could preserve his life. But necessity is a hard taskmaster, and under its spur Bomba learned all the craft of the jungle. Keen of eye, swift of foot, supple of muscle, and strong of heart, he matched himself against his foes and so far had come out the victor. He was now about fourteen years old, but few grown men had his strength and resources.

Of the outside world he knew nothing. All his life was circumscribed by the jungle. Casson had started to give him a smattering of learning, but the explosion of the rifle had brought this to an abrupt stop.

So Bomba roamed the jungle like a young faun at the beginning of the world. His face was as bronzed as that of an Indian from constant exposure to sun and storm. But there was undeniable proof in his features, in his aquiline nose, his firm jaw, his brown hair and eyes, that he was of white blood. He wore the native tunic, or mendiyeh, and a puma skin was slung across his breast—that of Geluk the puma that he had come across and killed when it was trying to slay the friendly parrots, Kiki and Woowoo. Beneath his bare arms and legs powerful muscles glided and rippled. Homemade sandals encased his feet.

His weapons consisted of a bow and arrows, and he wore at his belt a machete, or two-edged knife, fully a foot in length, a fearful blade when it came to hand-to-hand fighting. In addition he had a five-chambered revolver, the only firearm of which he was possessed, and which had been given to him by two white rubber hunters after he had rendered them a signal service.

Despite its perils, he loved the life of the jungle, and but for one thing would have been reasonably happy. That thing was the consciousness of his white blood. It tugged at his heart, and while it gave him pride, it also tormented him. The call of the blood was strong within him. He knew that, somehow, he was out of place. Something was always calling him to go elsewhere, beckoning him on to new horizons, telling him that he belonged to the white people.

He had a great yearning to know of his parentage. He had not the slightest memory of his father or mother. Again and again he had questioned Casson on this point, but the old man’s memory always failed him at the very moment of revelation. In these efforts to recall the past Casson had frequently muttered the words “Bartow” and “Laura,” and Bomba had inferred that the names were those of his father and mother. But the further knowledge he craved was denied him.

How Bomba saved the camp of Gillis and Dorn, rubber hunters, from a night attack by jaguars—how he trapped the deadly cooanaradi, the most dreaded serpent of the South American wilds, when it pursued him; his adventures with alligators and anacondas; the besieging of his cabin by the headhunters; how his friends of the forest came to his aid when he was fearfully beset; all this is narrated in the first volumes of this series, entitled: “Bomba, the Jungle Boy; or, The Old Naturalist’s Secret.”

Later on, Casson told Bomba that, though he himself could not remember the facts about the lad’s parentage, the latter could get that information from Jojasta, the medicine man of the Moving Mountain. Bomba, therefore, after providing for Casson’s safety while he should be gone, set out to see Jojasta. From the very outset his path was beset with perils. Flood and earthquake, man and beast sought his life. He was instrumental in delivering from the hands of the savages a Mrs. Parkhurst and her son, Frank, and his association with the two deepened his desire to know more of that white civilization with which they were so familiar. He was hurled into a subterranean cavern, escaped by a hair’s breadth and finally reached Jojasta and the Moving Mountain.

There disappointment awaited him; but he was told that if he could find Sobrinini, the witch who dwelt near the Giant Cataract, she might give him the knowledge for which his soul longed.

Baffled for a time but not disheartened, Bomba resolved to search out Sobrinini, though warned that great peril would attend the attempt. How true that warning was he soon had reason to learn. He fell into the power of Nascanora and was doomed by him to torture and death. How his quick wit saved him; the terrible dangers to which his indomitable spirit refused to yield, and which he finally surmounted; how he found Sobrinini at last on her island of snakes and brought her back with him, only to be tantalized with imperfect revelations that made it still necessary to hunt out Japazy on Jaguar Island is told in the preceding volume of this series, entitled, “Bomba, the Jungle Boy, at the Giant Cataract; or, Chief Nascanora and His Captives.”

And now to return to Bomba as he writhed and struggled to shake himself free from that terrible grip on his throat!

He knew that he was fighting for his life.

What was it that had waited for him with the stealth of the panther to leap upon him as he passed?

That one of the headhunters of the tribe of Nascanora had him in his grip, Bomba knew at the first touch of those fingers of steel about his throat.

Few could break the grip of the jungle Indian. Only those bred as Bomba had been among the very wild beasts of that tangled region could have hoped to free himself of that strangle hold.

With a tremendous heave of his powerful young shoulders Bomba flung himself upon his back, the Indian half over him. With frantic fingers the lad tore at that clutch about his throat.

Above, the thunder rumbled dourly. Dim flashes of sheet lightning served to deepen by contrast the darkness that enveloped the antagonists.

Strain as he would the lad could not force that hold to break. His head was reeling, his brain confused and black spots danced before his glazing eyes.

A flash of lightning brighter than the rest showed him the Indian, on whose face was an expression of fiendish gloating.

That look was a spur to Bomba’s failing senses. He thought of Casson, left defenseless with Bomba dead, and by a mighty effort raised himself and drove his knee with all his strength into the flesh beneath the ribs of his antagonist.

The blow was a surprise to the Indian, who counted his adversary as already beaten. He grunted with dismay and pain. For the fraction of an instant his grip relaxed, and in that instant Bomba had burst the iron ring about his throat and was on his feet.

With a bellow of rage the savage also sprang upright, whipping out a short knife from his belt.

But quick as he was, Bomba was quicker. He saw the gleam of the Indian’s steel, drew his own machete and with one stroke sent his enemy’s weapon whizzing off into the underbrush.

Like a panther, the Indian sprang upon the white boy, and before Bomba could strike home with the machete had seized upon the lad’s hand, striving to bend it backward and possess himself of the machete.

But if the Indian was strong, so was Bomba. He was fighting for two lives, his own and Casson’s, and, moreover, one of his fierce rages was upon him; one of those wild bursts of fury that for the moment gave him the strength of the jaguar, the wile of the fox, the quickness of the snake.

Bomba was all these in one now, as he fought with the Indian, straining backward and forward, resisting the pressure upon his knife arm, striving with all the power in him to drive downward the shining point of his machete, to sink it to the hilt in his enemy’s flesh.

For some minutes the fierce struggle went on. Then, with a sudden twist, Bomba broke the Indian’s hold, leaped backward several feet, and threw his machete.

It would have found its mark had not the savage fallen forward with the sudden releasing of Bomba’s pressure. The knife grazed his head. Thrown off his balance, the savage tried to recover himself. But the slime of mud and leaves made treacherous footing and the Indian plunged headlong.

Bomba was upon him with the swiftness of a jaguar!

CHAPTER III
THE BLAZING CABIN

At such close quarters Bomba could not use his bow, and he dared not fire the revolver lest it attract the attention of lurking foes.

Rising into the air, he came down with both feet on his enemy’s head. Then he stamped the head into the mud and ooze till the savage lay still.

Whether the man breathed or not, Bomba did not stop to inquire. It was enough that he had been put out of action. The noise of the struggle, muffled as it had been, might already be drawing others to the scene. Bomba must act swiftly, if he were to leave the spot alive.

One of his precious minutes he gave to the search for his machete. With its aid he might still win through to Casson at the hut of Pipina. By a stroke of good fortune he found the weapon where it had stuck in the trunk of a tree.

With a smothered cry of elation, Bomba leaped upon it and wrenched it from its hold. Again and again that knife had saved his life, and it might do it again before the night was over.

Bomba’s body was bruised, he was dead tired, but his spirit was unhurt. The thirst of battle was still in him. His blood was hot with it.

Twice to-night he had outwitted his enemies. Nascanora and his half-brother Tocarora would again realize that he, Bomba, was as slippery as the cooanaradi and as deadly.

He wasted no time. He set his feet in the direction of the cabin of Pipina, the squaw, and went stealthily yet swiftly through the jungle.

The storm had felled great trees across his path. Some of these he climbed over, while he took the smaller ones with a leap. Where the ground was impassable he swung himself along from creeper to creeper and branch to branch. No inhabitant of the jungle save the monkeys were as skilled in this method of progress as Bomba, and he made his way with amazing celerity. Never had that accomplishment stood him in better stead.

His eyes and ears were alert for the slightest sight or sound that might forebode danger. But this did not prevent his mind from being in a tumult of varied emotions.

His most anxious thought was of Casson, Casson alone in the jungle hut save for Pipina. Again the headhunters sought the life of Casson. Again was Bomba hunted like the veriest wild beast.

Bitterness welled up in the heart of the lad against these savages, whom he had never injured except in self-defense. Why was he doomed to spend his life among these people so alien to him?

Bomba was white. All his yearnings were toward those of his own race.

Who were his parents? He thought of the picture of the beautiful woman that had hung in the little back room of Sobrinini’s hut on the island of snakes. That face had stirred his heart as no other had ever done. Was the beautiful woman his mother?

Who was he? What had happened to his parents and why had he become at so early an age the sole companion of old Cody Casson?

He reviewed the strange behavior of the half-mad old woman, Sobrinini, she who had once been the operatic idol of Europe, she who had had kings at her feet. Why had she not finished the story of the man named Bartow, his wife, Laura, and the child they called Bonny?

Sobrinini had called him, Bomba, by the name of Bartow. She had thought in her poor twisted mind that Bomba was Bartow. Was it possible that Bomba was the boy who had once been called Bonny?

Bomba heaved a heavy sigh. Questions, questions always, and no answers. Cody Casson had the key to the mystery. But poor Casson must first find the key to that closed door in his mind beyond which he could not go.

His mind in a whirl of unrest and longing, Bomba at last reached the river which he must cross to reach the hut of Pipina.

The storm had now entirely died away. Only the heavy dripping of moisture from the foliage betrayed its recent passage. The jungle was still again with an unearthly stillness. The slight swish made by Bomba as he swung himself from branch to branch was the only sound that broke the silence.

Suddenly he paused and hung motionless, arms and legs entwined about a bunch of creepers. His quick ear had caught a sound other than the dripping of water on the sodden earth.

It was a slight sound, but Bomba knew at once what had caused it. It was the faint dip of paddles in the water. The Indians were traveling upstream. The headhunters of Nascanora were on their way to the hut of Pipina to spread terror and death. Fortunate if death were all! Far worse would be the tortures of any captives who might be carried off alive to make a holiday for the savages who had been left at home and who would revel in the screams of their victims.

Bomba had been carrying his machete between his teeth. Now he dropped lightly to the ground, and, with the double-edged knife held firmly in his grasp, ran swiftly toward the river.

Upon the banks of the stream he paused, listening. Still the dip, dip of paddles coming upstream. So faint and stealthy was the sound that it would have been inaudible to most ears other than those of Bomba.

The lad wasted not an instant, but slipped from the steep bank until he was waist deep in the sluggish water. The dense foliage of the jungle trees grew down to the very edge of the stream, flinging its rank growth out over the water.

Bomba had a canoe of his own concealed in the bushes some distance up the stream. Had there been time, he would have made for that, for he well knew the danger of making the river crossing by fording or swimming. The deadly alligator, or cayman, infested all the waters of the jungle, and any daring person that ventured to cross knew that he might pay for the venture with his life.

But time was everything to Bomba now. The headhunters were more to be feared than the cayman. The former were awake. The latter might be asleep. At all costs, he must make the venture. He must make haste, if he were to save the life of Casson and that of Pipina.

Bomba had let himself go so gently into the water as scarcely to make a ripple, and he moved on noiselessly, wading where he could, but soon reaching the deeper channel where he had to swim. Then most of the time he swam under water lest his presence be declared to prying eyes. He was almost as much at home in the water as on land, and only at long intervals had to come to the surface for air.

But swiftly as he swam, the Indians could paddle more swiftly. And a terrible fear gripped the lad’s heart as the sound of the paddles grew ever fainter in the distance.

They would reach the hut first. They would find it undefended and might attack at once. The worst might have happened before Bomba could reach the only place he called home.

What he would do when he got there he had not figured out. He would act as the occasion suggested. He would be but one against many; but he had been in that position more than once and yet won the victory.

He swam on swiftly until he was arrested by a sight that brought a growl of fury to his lips.

Turning a bend in the river, a light assailed Bomba’s eyes, a fearful light, a light such as the native of the jungle dreads above all others. It was a dull glow, brightening now and then to a vivid red as the flames swept skyward.

Bomba groaned and his teeth gritted against each other as he plunged madly forward. For he knew all too well what had caused the glare. The hut of Pipina was ablaze!

This was the work of Nascanora’s bucks, their revenge upon a broken, demented old man who had never harmed any one in his life!

Was Casson in that blazing hut? Was poor Pipina, faithful friend, caught in that flaming inferno?

Scarcely daring to put these questions to himself, Bomba swam madly upstream, his one thought now of revenge. He was consumed by rage. His one desire was to feel the throat of Nascanora beneath his fingers.

The light was brighter now. The whole jungle was bathed in the fiendish glow.

Bomba turned toward the bank, but paused abruptly and trod water.

Between him and the shore, blocking his path, was a monster alligator!

CHAPTER IV
TERRIBLE JAWS

At sight of the cayman, Bomba’s heart for a moment seemed to stop beating.

A wild hope that perhaps the brute was asleep and would not perceive his presence was quickly dispelled as the lad caught sight of two fiery eyes fixed upon him. Then the huge mouth opened, displaying the horrible array of teeth that, if they once closed on the lad, would bite him in half as easily as a pair of shears would snip a thread.

Despairingly, Bomba felt for his machete. He knew that it would avail little except perhaps to wound. It would simply help him to die fighting.

Then his heart leaped. His feet felt the river bed beneath them! He had reached the shallower part of the stream! Now he would have a footing, something that would give him a purchase and enable him to use his bow and arrows.

Quick as lightning, he unslung the bow from his shoulder and drew an arrow from its quiver. With one motion he fitted the arrow to the string and let fly.

The light from the fire gave him what he needed for his aim, and the arrow entered the eye of the monster and penetrated to the brain.

With a fearful bellow of rage and pain, the great brute leaped half out of the water and fell back, only to churn the water into a seething whirlpool. In its wild flounderings the end of its serrated tail caught Bomba on one of his legs and threw him farther out into the stream.

Bomba did not mind the blow, so full of exultation was he at the mortal wound he had inflicted on his enemy. But his elation changed to fear when he saw the scaly back of another alligator breaking the water. The brute had been attracted by the uproar created by its stricken comrade and was coming swiftly.

Luckily, the bank was not far away, and, putting all his power into his strokes, the boy swam as he had never swum before. He reached the shore not a moment too soon, for the hideous jaws snapped close behind him as he pulled himself up the bank.

The impulse was strong on Bomba to shoot another arrow at the reptile and send it to join its companion. But arrows were precious now, and all he had would perhaps be needed for human foes.

So he repressed the impulse and hurried along the bank until he had come near the fringe of trees that bordered the clearing in which stood the hut. He could not yet see the hut itself. But to reach it he would have to make a dash across the clearing.

In the dark he could have eluded the eyes of his enemies, for no snake could move more silently. But now the open space was flooded with light. No figures were visible, but he knew that many eyes were watching from the surrounding woods.

Still he must chance it. He had faced death too often to let it daunt him now.

Summoning all his strength, he darted out into the open. His first few bounds carried him fifty feet. Then he dropped to the ground as a dozen arrows whizzed over his head.

It was upon this that Bomba had counted. He had timed his drop for just the instant that would allow the startled savages to aim and let fly.

He was up again on his feet, and before arrows could again be fitted to strings had gained another fifty feet. Again he repeated his stratagem, but this time not without scathe, for an arrow grazed his ankle.

“The arrow may be poisoned,” he thought to himself, as he felt the twinge of pain. “If it is, this is the end of Bomba.”

He reached the shelter of a tree and whirled behind it. On the side of the clearing he had just left, one of the headhunters, keen after his prey, had come from behind his shelter.

Like lightning, Bomba fitted an arrow to his string. There was a twang, a hideous yell, and the savage threw up his hands and fell headlong.

“There will be one less to fight Bomba,” muttered the lad. “They will find that Bomba can shoot.”

If any had been inclined to follow the fallen Indian, they had hesitated when they had seen him drop, and Bomba had a moment’s breathing space. He flew from behind the tree and, availing himself of what shelter he could find in his flight, came in sight of what had been his home.

His heart sank within him. The cabin was a mass of flames. It was impossible for life to be sustained in that furnace for a minute. If Casson and Pipina had been trapped there, they were already far beyond human help. They must be just what the hut itself would be in a few minutes more, a heap of smoldering ashes.

For a moment Bomba forgot everything save the agony that clutched at his heart. Then a sound brought him back to the danger that menaced him personally.

Out from the shelter of the trees, crouched almost double, their horrible faces illumined by the lurid light of the flames, came a number of the headhunters.

They approached in a semicircle, cutting off Bomba’s retreat toward the front and on either side. Back of him was the blazing hut, the heat from which was already scorching his face and hands.

Bomba felt that he was trapped. His doom seemed sealed. He felt for the handle of the machete at his belt. He grasped his bow. He would not allow himself to be taken alive. Better instant death than the tortures of Nascanora. And he vowed that he would take more than one of his enemies with him.

He bent his bow, took quick aim and fired. A bronze-skinned buck clapped a hand to his breast, gave a frightful howl, and fell writhing in the dust.

But before Bomba could fit another arrow to his string there was a concerted rush and a dozen hands reached out to seize him.

Bomba leaped back quickly and drew his machete. His eyes blazed, his muscles tensed.

The Indians yelled and leaped forward.

Bang!

A sharp detonation clashed against their eardrums like a crash of thunder. The force of the explosion shook the earth and flung the natives to the ground.

Bomba found himself on his face, half-stunned, bewildered. Mysterious missiles hurtled over his head, exploding in mid-air.

He raised himself cautiously to his knees and saw a sight that brought hope to his heart.

The Indians were in full retreat, and as they fled they looked over their shoulders at him fearfully, as though they blamed him for their discomfiture.

Bomba well knew the mind of the Indian. The cause of the explosion and the trembling of the earth were unknown to them. So they reasoned that it must be a spell thrown over them by Bomba, friend of the old witch doctor, Casson, to destroy them and save himself.

The Indians stopped in their mad flight at the edge of the jungle and looked back. One of them, more daring than the rest, raised his bow and took aim.

But before he could release the string one of the flying missiles struck the would-be slayer, hurling him to the ground.

This was too much. The savages turned terror-stricken and fled from that scene of mysterious death.

By this time Bomba had realized what must have caused the explosion. Their little store of powder, so carefully guarded by Casson and himself, had gone off when reached by the hot breath of the fire. The flying missiles were the last of the cartridges belonging to his revolver, that wonderful gift of Gillis and Dorn, the white rubber hunters.

Bruised and shaken, Bomba staggered to his feet, hardly able to believe his good fortune.

But as he turned back toward the cabin a great wave of desolation flooded his heart.

There lay the cabin, now a heap of ashes. Were the ashes of Casson and Pipina also there? Had those faithful ones come there to their death?

With a sob Bomba threw himself on the ground and abandoned himself to uncontrolled grief.

This, however, was of short duration. A wild rage welled up in his heart, rage against the wicked Nascanora and his cruel tribe.

“They shall pay!” the lad cried, leaping to his feet. “For every drop of Casson’s blood they shall pay! There will yet be wailing in the huts of Nascanora. It is I, Bomba, who swear it!”

He paused, head upflung, listening.

What was that sound?

CHAPTER V
HOW THE INDIANS CAME

Bomba strained his ears and again heard the thing that had startled him. It was a faint cry, rising and falling like a wail somewhere in the bushes.

“Help!” came the voice, eerie as that of a banshee in the darkness. “Help, Bomba! Help!”

Into Bomba’s heart sprang a great joy. This was the voice of Pipina, the squaw—the voice that he had never expected to hear again. And where Pipina was, must be Casson!

He was off like a deer in the direction from which the cry had come.

“Bomba hears you,” he called softly. “Bomba is coming.”

“Help!” came the feeble voice again. “Pipina is caught and cannot get loose. Come quickly.”

Bomba wondered why he did not hear Casson’s voice, if Casson still lived. But he said nothing and hurried on, hacking a passage through the undergrowth.

He came nearer and nearer to the wailing woman until, pushing aside a tangle of vines, he saw her. The moon, following close on the heels of the tropical storm, was now riding high in the heavens and shedding a soft luster over the jungle. By its light, Bomba caught sight of Pipina as she stood holding out helpless hands to him.

She had been caught in a thorn thicket that had cruelly scratched her hands and arms as she had struggled to free herself. Her wrinkled face was drawn with pain.

By the deft use of his machete Bomba cleared away the clutching branches and released her. The old squaw staggered dizzily, and the lad put this arms about her shoulders to support her.

“Casson!” muttered Bomba hoarsely. “Tell me, Pipina! Tell me quick! Where is Casson?”

The old woman drooped her head and stood there like a bowed statue of grief, but said nothing until Bomba, mad with anxiety, shook her gently by the shoulders.

“Do you hear, Pipina? Where is the good white man, Cody Casson, my friend?”

Then the old woman raised her hands above her head and gave vent to a wailing, desolate cry.

“Pipina no can tell. Casson her friend, too, good friend. He is gone.”

Bomba’s face darkened and again his heart contracted under the cold hand of anguish.

“Tell me, Pipina,” he commanded. “Where has he gone? What has become of him?”

“We sit down and I will tell you,” returned the squaw. “Pipina weak, sick—”

For answer, Bomba cleared a space and, taking the old woman, placed her as comfortably as he could with her back resting against a giant tree.

He sat down opposite her, his arms folded, his glance full upon her face.

“Now, Pipina, tell Bomba all,” he urged.

The old woman looked about her and shuddered. She wrapped her skinny arms about her as though they were a garment and had power to ward off the chill of the night.

“Headhunters—they gone?” she asked fearfully.

“Gone,” said Bomba tersely. “Where is Casson?”

“Bomba make them go away all by himself,” continued the squaw admiringly. “Bomba great man some day—”

Bomba bent toward her.

“Do not talk foolishly, Pipina. Bomba not care about himself. Pipina tell about Casson.”

The old woman gave her wailing cry and rocked herself back and forth drearily.

“We have bad time, Casson, Pipina,” she said. “We all alone in hut, wishing Bomba come. Storm come, but not Bomba. Thunder like roar of pumas, many pumas.”

“Bomba caught in storm,” explained the lad. “No could come till storm stopped.”

“Pipina listen for sound of Bomba’s feet,” went on the squaw. “Pipina afraid. She think danger near. Wish Bomba would come quick.”

She said this, leaning forward, in a quick, hissing whisper. Now she relaxed against the tree and stared gloomily into the heavy shadows of the jungle.

“Casson not too good,” she muttered. “Pipina worry about Casson. Worry hard.”

“What was wrong with Casson?” cried Bomba, exasperated beyond measure by the slowness with which Pipina got on with her story.

“He very sick,” returned the squaw. “He not right.” She touched her forehead significantly. “He walk back and forth, back and forth, and talk to himself. He say: ‘Laura, Laura, dear sweet Laura. Must tell Bomba. Bartow and Laura and little boy—’”

Bomba caught the arm of the old woman in an eager grip.

“Go on,” he commended. “What else did Casson say? Tell Bomba.”

But Pipina shook her head.

“He not say more,” she said. “Only those words he say again and again. Then he stop, listen at door of hut, listen and then walk up and down, up and down.”

“Go on,” cried Bomba.

“Then we hear things. We think you come. We happy. We sing. We dance. But no, Bomba not come. It is the headhunters that come to try to kill Casson and Pipina—”

Bomba gave a low growl like that of an animal and ground his teeth together.

“They come.” The voice of the old woman rose again in eerie wailing. “Casson, Pipina, we close door, push bolt, as Bomba tell us. We heap things against door. Casson he take down old gun, but it not work. He put fire stick through hole in hut. He think frighten bucks of Nascanora.”

Bomba groaned as he saw the picture of old Cody Casson, brave to the last, defying death, his only weapon a “fire stick” that would not work.

“It happen quick,” went on Pipina with a helpless shake of her head. “One, two, three—like that,” with a snap of her bony fingers. “The headhunters come. They have heads, fresh heads, women, children heads, on string at waists. They want more heads, Casson’s head, Pipina’s head. They beat on door. They say: ‘Open. No hurt. Nascanora friend of Casson.’”

Again came that growl as of an angry jaguar from the clenched teeth of Bomba.

“Forked tongues! Black hearts!” he snarled. The woman nodded.

“Casson no open door,” she resumed. “He know Nascanora. He say things. Make big chief mad. He beat more hard on door. He shout: ‘Casson witch doctor. He put a spell on sick people of our tribe. Nascanora burn Casson and hut of Casson with him.’”

A smoldering fire was in Bomba’s eyes that boded no good to the chief of the headhunters.

“Then Nascanora bring fire to the hut of Pipina,” went on the squaw. “His bucks come with heaps of vines and leaves. They wet and not burn at first. But after they burn, burn hot, and the hut of Pipina begin to burn too.”

“But you got away, Pipina!” burst in Bomba eagerly. “You got away from the headhunters and the fire. That was good. But how did you do it? Tell Bomba. Do not make much words.”

The old woman shrugged her shoulders and there was a touch of pride in her tone as she replied:

“Beneath the hut of Pipina there is a hole, and this hole it lead under the ground out into the jungle.”

Bomba stared at her.

“A hole!” he exclaimed. “A passage! Why you not tell Bomba?”

The squaw smiled inscrutably.

“None know but Pipina.”

Bomba was listening with the most intense interest and wonder.

“Go on,” he cried, as Pipina paused.

“Pipina take up board in floor of hut,” went on the old woman. “Then get down and crawl through hole. Casson come too. Long time to creep through hole. Then come to end. Out into jungle where wet and cool.”

“Then Casson got out safely?” cried Bomba.

The squaw nodded, and Bomba gratefully took her old wrinkled hand in his.

“Pipina has saved the life of Casson,” the lad said gravely. “For this Bomba thanks Pipina. He will never forget.”

The old woman threw her hands above her head, rocking herself back and forth.

“Ayah, ayah!” she wailed. “Pipina save the life of Casson, but she lose him after. For when Pipina look around Casson is gone!”

CHAPTER VI
THROUGH THE JUNGLE

A pang like the stab of a knife went through Bomba.

“What mean you, Pipina?” he cried. “Speak. Speak fast.”

“We stand up from hole,” the squaw explained. “We find us far in the jungle away from the headhunters of Nascanora. Yet Casson and Pipina still afraid.”

“You hide?” asked Bomba.

The old woman nodded, looking about her fearfully.

“We go far, very far, into the jungle,” she said. “We hide behind big rock. From there we see light from fire. Nascanora he think we are in hut. He think Casson and Pipina burn like tapir meat on the end of spit. But Pipina too smart for him. Pipina she fool the great chief Nascanora.”

Her words ended in a chuckle. There was something so ghastly in mirth at a scene that had so many elements of tragedy that Bomba felt the hair rise on his scalp, and he spoke sharply to Pipina.

“You have not told Bomba what happened to Casson. Do not laugh and say foolish words. Speak wise words and few words. Tell Bomba of Casson.”

“Ayah!” wailed the squaw. “I look to see the clearing, the cabin. I look hard. I look long. Pipina’s eyes were turned from Casson. Then I turn and see him. Then Pipina look again at cabin only as long as for a monkey to swing from tree to tree. Yet when Pipina turn again—Casson is gone.”

“Gone!”

Bomba sprang wildly to his feet and looked about him.

“You do not know what way he went?” he asked.

“No, Pipina does not know,” came sadly. “He was gone, and Pipina did not dare go from behind the rock for fear she be caught by the bucks of Nascanora.”

“But why should Casson wander off?” asked Bomba, in bewilderment. “He was safer behind the rock in the company of Pipina.”

The old woman sighed and touched her forehead again with her scrawny finger.

“He not right here,” she reminded him. “He not know what he do. Maybe he go to find Bomba.”