Transcriber’s Note
  Italic text displayed as: _italic_

[Illustration: BOMBA BROUGHT THE PADDLE DOWN WITH ALL HIS FORCE.

  “_Bomba the Jungle Boy._”           _Page 71_
]

  BOMBA
  THE JUNGLE BOY
  OR
  The Old Naturalist’s Secret

  BY
  ROY ROCKWOOD

  AUTHOR OF “BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING
  MOUNTAIN,” “LOST ON THE MOON,” “THE CITY
  BEYOND THE CLOUDS,” ETC.

  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

  Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                                         PAGE

     I A NARROW ESCAPE                                               1

    II THE MEN WITH THE IRON STICK                                   9

   III A STEALTHY FOE                                               17

    IV HOW BOMBA SAVED THE CAMP                                     27

     V BEATEN OFF                                                   36

     VI IN THE PUMA’S DEN                                           50

    VII A SIEGE OF TERROR                                           59

   VIII THE JAWS OF DEATH                                           68

     IX FROM OUT THE FLAMES                                         77

      X THE SHOUT OF WARNING                                        87

     XI THE VAMPIRES ATTACK                                         97

    XII KIKI, WOOWOO AND DOTO                                      105

   XIII PLAYING FOR HIS LIFE                                       114

    XIV THE CLOUD OF VULTURES                                      120

     XV THE WRATH OF THE STORM                                     128

    XVI GRIPPED                                                    134

   XVII IN THE FOLDS OF A BOA CONSTRICTOR                          141

  XVIII AT THE WATER HOLE                                          148

    XIX A BATTLE ROYAL                                             153

     XX AN UNEXPECTED RECEPTION                                    161

    XXI BY A HAIR’S BREADTH                                        166

   XXII THE TURN OF THE WHEEL                                      171

  XXIII WORDS OF DOOM                                              180

   XXIV AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS                                       189

    XXV IN THE NICK OF TIME                                        198

BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY

CHAPTER I

A NARROW ESCAPE

Bomba came to a sudden halt in the densest part of the gigantic
jungle.

A moment before he had been making his way with surprising suppleness
and ease through the tangled brushwood, avoiding with equal dexterity
the vines that trailed from the branches of the trees and the roots
that reached out to trip him up. Now he stood as though turned to
stone.

Far overhead the sun beat down fiercely from a brazen sky, though its
rays were caught and held by the heavy foliage, so that beneath the
branches of the trees semi-darkness prevailed. But if the brightness
of the sun was thus excluded, its heat made itself felt, and masses
of steaming vapor rose from the lush vegetation drenched by recent
rains.

From a distance came the screams of parrots and the howling of
monkeys, but otherwise the jungle was silent.

It had not been silent a moment before. From a point toward which
Bomba was facing had come a sound that was new to the jungle and
almost new to Bomba—a sound he had heard but twice. And each of those
times was indelibly graven on his memory.

Once had been when Casson had brought down the savage jaguar with
the iron stick or “rifle,” as Casson had called it. The beast had
been crouching on the limb of a tree beneath which Bomba had sat
down to rest. He had not seen the creature, whose huge body had been
flattened close against the bough.

He had had no intimation of danger until he had seen the startled
look in the eyes of Casson and heard his shout of warning. Then he
had leaped to his feet. At the same instant the jaguar sprang. But
Casson drew the iron stick to his shoulder, and a flame leaped from
the end of it, accompanied by a sharp report.

The beast whirled about in mid-air and fell to the ground, one of its
outstretched claws grazing Bomba’s leg as the latter sprang aside.
The jaguar writhed and twisted about for a moment and then lay still.

When Bomba was sure the creature was dead, he had approached and
examined it curiously. He had seen the natives kill game with arrows,
and he half expected to see some missile protruding from the body.
But there was no sign of this—only a tiny hole through the center of
its forehead, from which blood was oozing.

He had questioned Casson curiously, but the latter was in one of his
silent moods that day and gave no explanation. But the convulsive way
in which he had strained Bomba to his breast told how deeply he had
been stirred by the narrow escape.

The other time and the last that Bomba had witnessed the work of
the iron stick had been when a giant anaconda had reared its horrid
head in front of Bomba and darted forward to enclose him in its
folds. Again Casson had fired, but this time instead of a loud crack
there had been a thunderous roar, and the stick had exploded into a
thousand fragments. Casson had fallen over on his back. The great
snake, frightened by the noise and struck by some of the flying bits
of iron, had hastily retreated. Bomba, who had escaped with some
scratches, had managed to get the unconscious Casson back to the hut
in which they dwelt, and there the old man had lain for many days,
nursed by Bomba and treated with some of the simple remedies he had
learned from the natives.

Casson had finally recovered, but had never again been the same. His
head had been injured by the explosion, and his memory, which had
been failing for some time, now almost wholly disappeared. At times
he had flashes of recollection of his old life, but these were few
and transient. Most of the time he was wrapped in moody silence, and
Bomba felt more alone than ever.

But this had happened years ago, and the sound of the iron stick had
almost passed from Bomba’s memory. Now he heard it again, and his
pulses leaped.

It came from a distance perhaps half a mile away. Who had fired
the stick? He knew that none of the natives had any weapon of the
kind. Could it be some man like Casson, a man with a white skin like
Casson’s and his own?

A white skin! Something tugged at Bomba’s heart. He could not have
told what it was. It might have been memory, intuition, instinct. But
whatever it was, it took instant and entire possession of him.

He must find out who had fired the iron stick!

The primal law of the jungle is to mind one’s own business. Intrusion
on the affairs of another is never welcomed and usually resented.
Bomba had learned to obey that law.

Ordinarily he would have given a wide berth to the locality from
which the sound had come, swerved aside, and plunged deeper into the
jungle. Where the iron stick sounded there was probably danger. It
was associated in his mind with deadly beasts and reptiles. There
was trouble enough in the jungle without looking for it.

Why, then, did he depart from all his usual caution and begin making
his way toward the spot from which the sound had come?

He did not know. A confused tumult of thoughts and longings swept
through his brain. He was conscious of a desperate urge that impelled
him in that direction; and that urge came from the profoundest depths
of his soul.

A white man must have fired that iron stick. The stick itself had
some appeal to his curiosity. He would like to see it again—that
mysterious thing that killed like magic from a distance.

But that desire was not compelling. Had he thought a native had
fired it, he would not have risked intruding on what might be a
hostile hunting party, possibly some of the dreaded head-hunters that
occasionally invaded this region.

No, it was the craving to see a man with a white skin like his own,
like Casson’s, that drew him on, drew him with a power he could no
more resist than a chip could stem the current of Niagara.

To be sure, the white man might prove hostile. The deadly fire stick
might be turned on himself. But he did not believe this. Casson had
always been kind to him. All white men would be. Were they not his
own kind? Was he not their brother? A wild surge of yearning swept
over him.

All the longings he had felt so often, that came to him with
increasing intensity day and night, that he had never been able to
analyze and understand came to a head at the report of the iron
stick. He could not resist them. He did not want to resist them.

He must see the man with the white skin!

Bomba was a striking figure as he worked his way through the jungle
over sprawling roots and through a network of vines, gradually
drawing closer to the spot from which the sound had come.

He was nothing more than a boy, fourteen years at most, of a little
above the ordinary height at that age, compact and muscular. He had
brown eyes and brown wavy hair and the whitest of teeth. His skin was
darkly tanned by exposure to the sun.

On his feet were rude home-made sandals, and around his body was
wrapped a bit of native cloth and a small puma-skin—the skin of
Geluk, the puma, who had tried to eat the friendly parrots, Kiki and
Woowoo. Bomba had caught him in the attempt and killed him with an
arrow.

The skin heightened the resemblance of Bomba to a young panther as,
light and supple, the muscles of arms and legs rippling under the
bronzed skin, he threaded his way deftly through the underbrush.

Bomba lived with an old naturalist, Cody Casson, in the depths of
the Amazonian jungle, so remote from civilization that it was rarely
if ever visited by white men. Of his past he knew nothing, and so
far Casson had told him next to nothing. He had given the boy some
rudiments of education, especially in his own line of botany and
natural history, but even this teaching had ceased years before when
the old naturalist’s mind had been weakened by the exploding rifle.

Bomba knew nothing of the world at large, nothing of the white race
to which he belonged, little even of the life of the natives of the
region. For the pair did not mingle much with the latter and were
themselves shunned by the superstitious natives, who had got the idea
from the old naturalist’s queer actions that he was a Man of Evil.

Two eyes of which he was not aware were watching Bomba as he
approached a narrow part of the rude native trail he was following,
wicked eyes, malignant eyes glowing with lurid fires.

The eyes were set in the swaying head of a cooanaradi, the most
terrible serpent on earth.

It lay in its lair just beside the path that Bomba was following, its
body, fourteen feet in length, thrown into coils, above which the
slender head swayed back and forth. Evilly beautiful, it glowed with
all the colors of the rainbow.

Had it been a rattlesnake or any other poisonous denizen of the
jungle, it would have glided away into the bushes, glad enough to
avoid an encounter with human enemies unless attacked. Even the boa
or the anaconda is apathetic and, except when moved by hunger, seldom
takes the initiative.

But what makes the cooanaradi so dreaded, apart from its deadly
poison, is its ferocity. It does not avoid attack; it seeks to make
it. Nor is it satisfied when its enemy flees; it follows in pursuit.

But there was no need yet for that. All unsuspecting, its prey was
coming toward it. Soon he would be in reach of the lightning stroke.
The evil eyes gloated in anticipation.

Then, when Bomba was barely ten feet away, he saw it!

There was no time to string his arrow. There was no time to draw his
machete. Even while he looked, the snake launched its spring.

Like a flash Bomba turned and ran for his life!

CHAPTER II

THE MEN WITH THE IRON STICK

At the moment that Bomba made his first startled leap he heard close
behind him the thud of a body as it struck the earth. The reptile had
missed its spring.

But this brought Bomba small comfort. He knew that the fight had just
begun, that behind him death was coming and traveling fast.

One look was all he cast behind him, but that was sufficient to show
the slithering long body of his implacable foe moving swiftly along
the trail.

Bomba was agile and fleet of foot, and he tore along at an astounding
rate of speed. But he knew too much of his adversary to believe that
he could distance it. In the long run, the endurance of the snake
would outlast that of the fugitive.

But if Bomba’s feet were fast, so was his brain, and it was working
now with lightning rapidity. It was recalling every turn and oddity
of the trail along which he was speeding.

There were plenty of trees, but before he could get a grip and begin
to climb, the fearful thing would be upon him. And even if he had
sufficient start to avoid the first stroke, the snake could climb
much more rapidly than Bomba could dream of doing.

Had there been a stream at hand, he would have plunged into it,
although he might have become the prey of some lurking cayman or been
torn to bits by the fierce piranhas. Either of those fates would have
been a possibility. But he would at least have had a chance of not
being attacked, while, unless he could escape from the cooanaradi,
death was a certainty.

At times, when he came to a little opening, he would dart off to
the right or the left, so as to disconcert the enemy. This had the
desired effect more than once, and enabled him to get some space
ahead before the snake was again at full speed on his trail.

Bomba’s breath was fast failing him, but his courage and mental
alertness still remained. Then he caught sight of something that gave
him a gleam of hope.

It was a thick, matted mass of whiplike streamers hanging from one
of the trees. It spread out like a huge fan with narrow interstices
between the tough withes. Behind this screen he darted like a flash
and stood there panting, facing the enemy.

The cooanaradi was not twenty feet away, coming at tremendous speed,
its eyes red with fury. As it approached, Bomba thrust his face
against the screen and shouted.

What he had hoped came to pass. The snake, infuriated at the
challenge, reared and struck at the face of his foe. Bomba dodged,
and the opened jaws of the snake caught and in turn were held by the
matted mass into which the fangs had sunk.

It writhed wildly and tried to extricate itself. But in an instant
Bomba had leaped to the other side of the screen. His hands worked
like lightning, deftly winding the withes like cords around the
twisting body, until it was securely enmeshed in a net from which
there was no escape.

Only when he had made sure of his victory did Bomba desist and stand
panting a little distance off, watching the unavailing efforts of the
captive to free itself.

Craft and cunning had triumphed over the fiend of the jungle. The boy
had had a narrow escape from one of the most terrible of deaths, and
he owed it solely to his own speedy feet and active brain.

He was drenched with perspiration from head to foot. His lungs were
strained almost to bursting. His breath came in great gasping sobs.
But he had won, and every nerve tingled with exultation.

His hand slid to the handle of his machete, a formidable double-edged
knife ground to almost a razor’s sharpness and fully a foot in length.

But after a moment’s reflection he slipped the partly drawn weapon
back in his belt. A slash at the snake might sever some of the withes
with which it was bound, only wound the reptile and permit it to get
free.

No, the jungle itself could be trusted to finish the work begun by
the boy. The peccaries, or wild pigs, would happen along, and to them
a snake was the daintiest of foods.

Or there were the vultures. Bomba cast his eyes upward through
an opening in the trees and saw one of these rapacious creatures
circling about and slowly descending, already attracted by that
almost miraculous instinct that tells the carrion eaters where death
has come or is imminent.

And even the vulture would have to come soon, or a swarm of ants
would be going over the reptile stripping the flesh from the bones.

In the excitement of the flight and pursuit, Bomba had forgotten for
the moment the object of his quest. Now it came back to him with the
force of a shock.

The white man with the iron stick! Could he find him now? Or was he
too late?

He cast one glance at his captive to make sure that it was securely
held. Then having satisfied himself on this point, hurriedly resumed
his journey.

But he did not follow the same path on which he had found the
cooanaradi. He knew that these reptiles usually traveled in pairs,
and he had no desire to encounter the mate of the one that had so
nearly proved his doom.

So he made a wide detour, although he bitterly resented the necessity
of doing so, for now a fear that was almost panic assailed him that
he might miss meeting the man with the iron stick. It was already
late in the afternoon, and unless he came upon him before darkness
set in, he would probably fail altogether in finding him. And this
possibility had by this time assumed the proportions of a calamity.

Why he should lay such stress on this was more than Bomba could
explain, even to himself. But the fact was there. He must find this
man!

There was no trail in the direction he had been forced to choose, and
often he had to hack his way through the underbrush with his machete.
It was laborious and exhausting work, and it was nearly an hour
before he caught a scent of roasting meat that told him he was in the
vicinity of some human inhabitant of the wilds.

Now he worked with extreme caution, for he was by no means sure of
his reception, and he wanted, from the safe seclusion of the jungle,
to form his own ideas of conditions before venturing into the open.

A few minutes more of stealthy approach, and he heard the sound of
voices. Some of these he recognized at once as those of natives.

But there were other tongues too, and with a thrill he realized that
they were speaking the same language that he and Casson used and that
he had never yet heard from other lips! Some of the words he could
not understand, but the simpler ones were familiar.

He tingled with delight. He was not then too late. The white man was
there. He could look upon him, devour him with his avid eyes, perhaps
speak with him!

A moment later he reached the fringe of the heavier jungle. Beyond,
it widened out into a glade of considerable extent.

He dropped on his knees and wormed his way to a great tree near
the edge. Then, lying flat on the ground, he carefully parted the
underbrush and peered through.

He saw at once that he had come upon a considerable party. A rude
tent had been pitched in the center of the glade, a number of packs
littered the ground, and a dozen natives were engaged at various
tasks. A fire had been built, and some freshly cut steaks of meat,
stuck on spits, were being roasted by native cooks.

Bomba gave these but a cursory glance. His eyes were riveted on two
men, one tall and gaunt, the other stocky and muscular, who sat on
adjoining stumps conversing with each other. One was cleaning and
oiling an iron stick. The other was skinning the body of an animal
the size of a calf that Bomba recognized from its coarse hair and
blackish brown hide as that of a tapir, whose life had evidently been
taken by the shot that Bomba had heard.

The faces of the men were bronzed, but their shirts were open at the
throat, and Bomba could see the white skin like his own and Casson’s.

Again that strange thrill shot through him and he had all he could do
to repress a shout of delight.

He scanned their faces closely. They were keen faces, alight with
intelligence. How different, Bomba thought, from the vacuous faces of
the natives who surrounded them. To him they seemed like visitants
from another sphere.

And they were kindly faces. The men were laughing and joking with
each other, evidently in the best of spirits. There was nothing there
that need arouse fear in any but evil-doers. His heart warmed with a
sense of kinship.

Impulsively he rose to go out into the clearing. Then he sank down
again. Shyness, reticence, caution, the restraint bred of the
jungle! He longed to show himself, yet he shrank back.

His problem was solved for him. His sudden movement had caught the
keen eye of a native. Instantly the fellow shrilled an alarm.

The white men snatched their iron sticks and sprang to their feet.

The die was cast! Bomba leaped out into the open!

A STEALTHY FOE

An exclamation of surprise came from the white men as Bomba advanced
toward them with his upraised palms, extended as a sign of amity, and
they lowered their rifles.

“Just an Indian kid!” remarked the stockier of the two with a laugh.

“Indian nothing!” retorted the other, as his keen eyes swept the lad.
“Look at his hair, his eyes, his features. He’s as white as we are,
or my name isn’t Gillis. Look again, Dorn.”

“Guess you’re right, old man,” conceded Jake Dorn, after a close
scrutiny. “But what in the mischief is he doing here? I didn’t know
there were any other whites within a thousand miles of us.”

“Neither did I,” replied Ralph Gillis. “But we were evidently wrong.
Probably he belongs to some other camp of rubber hunters not far
away.”

“But look at his clothes, if you can call them clothes,” said Dorn,
with a puzzled air. “I never saw a white boy dressed like that.
Nothing but a clout and a puma skin.”

“We’ll soon solve the mystery,” said Gillis. “Come here, boy,” he
added kindly.

Bomba came shyly toward him.

“What is your name?” asked Gillis.

“Bomba,” was the reply.

“Bomba!” repeated Gillis, with a frown of perplexity. “That’s a queer
name for a white boy. For you are white, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Bomba proudly, as he drew aside the puma skin and
exhibited his chest.

“And since you understand what I say to you, you must be either
American or English,” pursued Gillis. “What is your other name?”

“I haven’t any,” was the reply. “I am Bomba.”

The men exchanged puzzled glances.

“Who are your folks?” put in Dorn.

Bomba pondered for a moment.

“I don’t know what that word means,” he replied simply.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Gillis. “I mean your father, your
mother.”

“I guess I never had any,” replied Bomba. “I never saw them or heard
of them.”

“The poor kid!” murmured Dorn.

“But you must have somebody to live with or take care of you,” said
Gillis.

“Yes,” replied Bomba, “I live with Cody Casson.”

“Who is he and where is he?” asked Gillis.

“He is an old man,” answered Bomba. “He lives in a hut a long way
off,” and he pointed toward the south.

“Is he a relation of yours?” asked Dorn.

“I don’t know what that means,” was the answer.

Gillis threw up his hands in despair.

“Well, wouldn’t that get your goat?” he ejaculated.

“I haven’t got any goat,” replied Bomba, who thought the question was
addressed to him.

The men laughed heartily, and Bomba, though a little puzzled, laughed
with them. He was glad that he had said something that pleased them.
They were nice men. His heart warmed to them.

Gillis returned to the attack.

“When did you come into this jungle?” he asked.

“I have always been here,” answered Bomba.

“But don’t you remember ever living anywhere else?” persisted Gillis.
“Don’t you remember coming over the ocean?”

“What is the ocean?” asked Bomba.

“It is like a river, but a thousand times as big,” explained his
questioner.

Bomba shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I never saw any water I could not swim across.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of England or America?” put in Dorn.

“No,” was the reply. “There are no animals here that have those
names.”

A glance of pity passed between the two men.

“An untutored child of nature, if there ever was one!” exclaimed
Gillis. “How in heaven’s name do you explain it?”

“Search me!” replied Dorn. “Seems to me the only thing to do is to
hunt up this fellow Casson and get it out of him. The boy ought to be
taken out to civilization and have his chance.”

“He ought,” assented Gillis. “Though I don’t see how we can do
anything just now, for our road lies in the opposite direction and
we’re behind our schedule now. We’ve _got_ to get to the coast in
time to get that steamer. But later on we’ll take the matter up
ourselves or have some of the authorities look into it. But those
steaks are done now, and I’m as hungry as a wolf. This young visitor
of ours shall fill up too, if he cares to stop and eat with us.”

Bomba gladly accepted the invitation, not only because he was hungry
but because it gave him a chance to stay in the company of the white
men. He would have liked to stay with them forever. The thought of
parting filled him with dread.

They brought knives and forks from their kit and offered one of each
to Bomba. But he did not know their use, had never seen them, and
ate his meat by plucking it apart with his teeth and fingers, as was
his custom, the while he watched with wonder the deft way in which
the table utensils were used by his new acquaintances.

He felt that it must be a better way than his. The white men did it,
and he himself was white and ought to do it too. Before he was half
way through the meal, he shyly reached out for the knife and fork and
tried to imitate them. The effort was not very successful, but they
sensed his feeling, and be it said to their credit they did not laugh.

The meal was interspersed with questionings, in the course of which
the men learned much and gained marked respect for Bomba’s courage
and self-reliance. They were aghast at his story of the way he had
trapped the cooanaradi, and would not have believed it had not the
simple way that Bomba told it carried conviction. He did not boast,
merely narrated the incident as though it were not of any particular
importance and simply a part of the day’s work in the jungle.

“Why not take the boy along with us, if he’s willing?” suggested
Gillis, thoughtfully, to his companion. “It would bring him out to
civilization, and at the same time he’d be a mighty valuable addition
to our party. We’d be killing two birds with one stone.”

“Right enough,” agreed Dorn. “How would you like to go along with
us?” he asked, addressing himself to Bomba.

The boy’s heart leaped and delight shone in his eyes. Oh, how he
wanted to go! But the next moment the light faded and his heart sank.

“I could not leave Casson,” he said. “He would die if I left him
alone.”

“The boy’s true blue,” said Gillis, “and we mustn’t tempt him. But
soon or late we’ll see this Casson and perhaps get them both out
of the jungle. The whole thing is the queerest affair I ever came
across.”

He struck a match to light his pipe, and Bomba jumped at the sudden
spurt of flame.

“Never see one of those before?” asked Dorn, in surprise.

“No,” replied Bomba. “I make fire like this.”

He took a stick and a tiny wooden bowl from his belt, twirled the
stick dexterously, and in a few moments produced a spark.

“Well done!” cried Dorn admiringly.

Bomba was pleased at the note of approbation, but in his heart he
knew that the white men’s way was quicker and better. He looked
longingly at the matches, and Gillis, with a smile, handed him a box
of them, which Bomba grasped eagerly and thrust into the small pouch
at his belt. Now he could make fire as the white men did. He felt
that he was growing closer to them.

Gillis showed him his rifle. It was a far finer iron stick than
Casson’s had been, and Bomba examined it with the greatest curiosity.

He did not in the least understand the principle of it, but he knew
its power. The dead tapir was evidence of it, as well as his memory
of the way a similar stick had slain the jaguar.

“I’ll show you how it works,” volunteered Gillis, noting the boy’s
eager interest in the weapon.

Bomba nodded delightedly. This was what he had been wishing for ever
since he had reached the camp, but had been too shy to ask of his own
accord.

Ralph Gillis took a card and tacked it up against a tree about fifty
feet away, Bomba watching him intently.

Then Gillis took up his position and raised the rifle to his
shoulder. Bomba, with a lively recollection of what had happened when
Casson had fired at the anaconda, edged some distance away.

There was a sharp crack, and Bomba’s keen eyes noticed a slight
quivering of the card.

“Come along,” said Gillis, beckoning to the boy, and Bomba followed
him to the tree, where he saw a small hole in the card that had not
been there before. But he looked in vain for any sign of scorching.

“Why didn’t the fire burn it?” he asked.

Gillis looked at him perplexedly, and then laughed as he grasped his
meaning.

“Bless you,” he said, “it wasn’t the fire you saw coming from the
muzzle that struck the card. It was a cartridge just like this,” and
he drew one of the pellets from his belt.

Bomba examined it curiously.

“Why didn’t I see this when you fired the iron stick?” he asked.

“It went too fast for you to see,” explained Gillis patiently.

“You could see my arrow if I shot it,” said Bomba.

“That’s different,” said Gillis. “The arrow is bigger, and it doesn’t
go as fast. And it doesn’t go as straight, either.”

“It goes straight,” declared Bomba.

“Do you mean to say that you could hit that card?” asked Dorn
incredulously.

“Yes,” said Bomba.

“I’m from Missouri,” remarked Gillis.

“Where is that?” asked Bomba.

The men laughed.

“Never mind,” said Gillis. “Let’s see you hit the card.”

Bomba drew an arrow from his belt, fitted it to the string, and,
scarcely appearing to take aim, let it go.

A cry of surprise broke from his new acquaintances as they saw the
arrow standing out straight from the center of the card.

“The boy’s a wonder!” cried Gillis.

“Robin Hood had nothing on him!” declared Dorn.

“Who was he?” asked Bomba. “And why did he have nothing on him?” as
he glanced at the well-clothed forms of the white men.

“I can see that we’ll have to cut out slang,” laughed Dorn. “Robin
Hood was a great shot with the bow and arrow, and what I meant to say
was that you could shoot as straight as he could.”

Bomba’s heart swelled with pride at the approbation of the white men.
It seemed to him the sweetest music he had ever heard.

Dusk was drawing on now, and the forest began to waken. From the
lairs in which they had lain during the heat of the day wild beasts
rose, yawned, stretched themselves, and then stalked out on their
nocturnal search for prey. Death was abroad.

Two or three times, as Bomba sat by the tent of his new-made friends,
he raised his head and sniffed the air.

“What is it?” asked Gillis curiously, after the third repetition.

“Jaguars,” answered Bomba.

The men grasped their rifles and peered into the darkening forest
surrounding them.

“I don’t see any,” remarked Gillis, after a moment.

“They see you,” replied Bomba.

The calm matter-of-fact statement sent a little chill down their
spines.

“How do you know there are any about?” asked Dorn.

“I smell them,” was the reply.

“On what side of the camp are they?” queried Gillis.

“All sides,” said Bomba.

CHAPTER IV

HOW BOMBA SAVED THE CAMP

The men sprang to their feet at this ominous declaration and their
eyes swept the forest in every direction.

“And the boy speaks of this as calmly as though it meant nothing to
him or us!” exclaimed Jake Dorn.

“I wonder if he really knows what he is talking about,” cried Gillis.
“Tell me,” he demanded turning to Bomba, “what makes you think there
are jaguars all about us?”

“I smell them and I hear them,” returned Bomba. “First I heard them
a long way off. They were screaming. Then they came nearer, and they
were snarling. Now they are nearer still, and they are purring. I
hear them.”

“More than I do, then,” said Gillis, after a few moments, when he and
his comrade had listened with all their ears. “But I’ve heard some
wonderful stories of the smell and hearing of those who have lived
long in the jungle, and perhaps the boy is right. If he is, we’ve got
a fight on our hands all right. When is this little shindig going
to take place?” he asked Bomba grimly, as his hand tightened on the
stock of his rifle.

“I do not know shindig,” answered Bomba.

“When will the jaguars try to kill us?” asked Dorn.

“Not for a long while,” replied Bomba. “Not till it gets very dark
and many more come.”

“That’s cheerful,” muttered Gillis.

“They smell the blood of the tapir,” Bomba went on. “Then they come
and see many men here. Much meat for the jaguars.”

“We’ll leave out those pleasant little details,” said Dorn,
repressing a shudder. “It seems likely that we’re in for the fight of
our lives, and you and I will have to do the most of the fighting,
Gillis. These natives aren’t good for anything.”

“I will help,” said Bomba.

“By ginger, I believe the boy will!” exclaimed Gillis. “He’s as
plucky as a wildcat. Though I’m afraid that bow and arrow won’t do
much against such beasts.”

“I have my machete,” Bomba reminded them, half drawing the gleaming
weapon from its leather sheath.

“I’m blest if the little rascal isn’t thinking of fighting them hand
to hand!” ejaculated Gillis in admiration.

“I do not want to, but I will if I have to,” said Bomba. “It is
better to kill than be killed. But wait, I think of something.”

While he had been talking, his eyes had been roving among the trees
that edged the clearing, and they lighted as they fell on a tree with
triangular pointed leaves.

He pointed to a pail that was lying near one of the packs.

“Let me have that,” he said, pointing to it.

“What do you want of it?” asked Dorn.

“Don’t bother with questions,” suggested Gillis. “The boy has
something in mind, and after what I’ve seen of him I’m willing to
give him a free hand. Here it is,” handing the pail to him.

“Now,” said Bomba, “make the fire big. The jaguars will go back from
the light. I have to go into the woods. I do not want them so near.”

Gillis gave a few sharp orders to the natives and they heaped brush
on the fire, which had been allowed to die down, and soon it was
crackling fiercely, sending a broader zone of light through the
surrounding forest.

This made the immediate proximity safe for the time, and Bomba took
the pail and started out for the tree he had discerned.

“Wouldn’t one or both of us better go with you?” asked Dorn
anxiously. “It isn’t right to let you go in there alone.”

“No,” said Bomba. “I must do my work myself. You can keep the iron
sticks ready. But you will not need them yet.”

He took the pail and went unhesitatingly into the woods. The heavy
underbrush closed behind him and swallowed him up, though the lurid
glare of the fire gave those in the camp occasional glimpses of his
progress.

Bomba made his way toward the tree he sought, and, reaching it, set
down the pail and drew his machete.

He drove the knife through the bark and into the body of the tree as
far as his strength permitted. Then he drew the knife down in a long
vertical slash.

He pulled the blade out, lifted the pail, held it under the cut and
waited.

In a few moments a sticky sap began to exude from the tree, at first
slowly, and then more rapidly. Soon it was trickling in a thin stream
into the pail.

It was eerie work waiting there, where he knew that greenish-yellow
eyes were watching him from the jungle, only deterred for the moment
from coming nearer by the light that came from the fire. But Bomba
had learned patience in the hard school of the jungle, and he stood
like a statue, the pail in one hand, his machete in the other ready
for instant use, until the receptacle was nearly full.

Then he took it and, tilting it slightly so that a thin but steady
stream fell on the leaves that carpeted the jungle, he made the
circuit of the camp.

The white rubber hunters caught sight of him at intervals during his
course, and watched his progress with bated breath.

“What on earth do you suppose the boy is doing?” asked Dorn.

“Looks as though he were weaving some magic charm out there,”
muttered Gillis. “Something perhaps that he has learned from the
witch doctors of the region. It’s making me creepy! It’s uncanny!”

The men were immensely relieved when Bomba at last emerged from the
shadows, put down his empty pail, and seated himself on a stump near
them.

“What have you been doing?” asked Gillis.

Bomba picked up the pail.

“Feel,” he said, pointing to the interior.

Gillis put his finger on the bottom of the pail, and when he withdrew
it, it was covered with a pale, yellow, sticky substance. It felt
uncomfortable, and he tried to rub it off with a bit of cloth. But
this he found was almost impossible.

“Sticks closer than a brother,” he muttered. “What is it and where
did you get it?”

“From the tree,” replied Bomba. “I stuck my knife in the tree and
hurt it. The tree wept. These are the tears of the tree.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dorn, “the boy’s a poet.”

“Right enough,” agreed Gillis. “What he means, of course, is that he
tapped the tree and got this gum-like sap from it. But why did you do
it and what have you done with most of the sap?” he asked, addressing
himself to Bomba.

“I spilled it on the leaves all around the camp,” said Bomba. “It is
good for us and bad for the jaguars.”

The men looked at each other in perplexity.

“Can you make out what he’s getting at?” asked Dorn of his companion.

“Not in the least,” replied Gillis. “It’s all Greek to me. How is it
bad for the jaguars?” he asked Bomba.

“The jaguars step on it,” explained Bomba. “The leaves stick to their
feet. They try to shake them off. But the leaves stick. Then they try
to rub them off with their heads. The leaves stick to their heads.
The gum gets in their eyes. It is bitter. It makes them blind. They
get frightened. They cannot see where they are going. They forget all
about the white man and the meat. They cry. They run. That is all.”

The men looked at each other, struck dumb with amazement.

“That is all!” exclaimed Gillis, when he had recovered his breath.
“By ginger, it’s enough!”

“I should say it was,” agreed Dorn. “Boy, I take off my hat to you.”

As he was bareheaded at the moment, Bomba was a little puzzled at
this, but he sensed the warm approval of the white men, and his heart
rejoiced. He, too, was white, and he had made his brothers happy.

He thought it well, however, to add a word of warning.

“You must keep the iron sticks ready,” he said. “Most of the jaguars
will be stopped by the gum. But some of them, maybe one, two, three,
will miss the leaves that stick and they will get into the camp.”

“We can probably handle them,” said Gillis. “At any rate we’ll do
our best. I only wish we had more brushwood to keep the fire going
strong. But we hadn’t counted on this wholesale raid, and now it
would be as much as one’s life was worth to go into the forest for
more. We’ll have to worry along as best we can.”

Having to husband their resources, they could only maintain a
moderate fire, and as the hours wore on they had to be still more
economical in feeding it.

As the zone of light narrowed they knew that their enemies were
creeping closer, waiting only for the most opportune moment of
attack.

They had put the camp into the best position for defense that
circumstances permitted. The natives had been warned of the danger
and had spears and arrows ready, though the white men knew that they
would be far more ready to run than fight when the pinch came.

Toward midnight a sudden spitting and snarling rose on one side
of the camp, to be taken up shortly on the other. There came the
sound of heavy bodies rolling about in the underbrush and crashing
through thickets. All the natural caution of the cat tribe seemed to
have been abandoned in a rush of panic terror. The snarls and roars
swelled into a hideous din that made the natives quake with fear, but
that the white men understood.

Bomba’s spell was working!

But though they exulted, they did not abate one jot of their
vigilance.

It was fortunate for them that they did not, for a few minutes later
a huge, tawny body came hurtling through the air, landed within
twenty feet of Gillis, and crouched for a second spring.

Two rifles spoke simultaneously with the twang of Bomba’s bow. The
jaguar quivered, rolled over on its side, and lay still.

While their eyes were still fastened on it there came a roar from
another direction, and a second jaguar landed behind Gillis and
Dorn. They turned and fired, but so hurriedly that they either
missed or only slightly wounded the animal. Before they could fire
again it would be upon them! They dodged and clubbed their rifles,
horror-stricken, awaiting the attack.

Like a flash Bomba drew his machete.

The beast launched itself in the air.

CHAPTER V

BEATEN OFF

Through the air whizzed a gleaming, long, razor-edged knife that
buried itself in the jaguar’s throat!

The stricken jaguar landed on the spot where but a moment before,
Gillis and Dorn had stood, and sprawled out in a heap. It made
one or two frantic digs at its throat in the attempt to dislodge
the machete. But it had gone deep and the beast’s efforts were
unavailing. A few convulsive struggles, and it was dead.

Amazed at this sudden end of their foe, the men approached it
cautiously and prodded it with the butts of their guns. But there was
no movement. The knife had done its work effectively.

Dorn’s eyes caught sight of the handle of the weapon, and he stooped
down and drew it out, though he had to tug hard to get it. He held it
up before his astonished companion.

“How did this get there?” asked Gillis.

“It is mine,” said Bomba, coming up and reaching out his hand to
reclaim it.

“Yours?” demanded Dorn. “Why, you weren’t near enough to stab the
beast!”

“I threw it,” said Bomba, wiping the knife on the grass and slipping
it back into his belt.

“G—great Scott!” stuttered Dorn. “He—he threw it!”

“And threw it as straight as he shot the arrow!” ejaculated Gillis.
“And with so much force that you had all that you could do to draw it
out. Boy, you’re a wonder! You saved the life of one or both of us!”

“I was glad to help you,” said Bomba, showing all his white teeth in
a happy smile. “But now we must put the jaguars near the edge of the
woods where the others will see them.”

“What’s the idea?” queried Gillis. “So that they can’t feast on them
and not be so hungry after us?”

“No,” said Bomba. “The others will not eat them. They fight and kill
each other when they are angry, but they do not eat one another. But
when the live ones see these dead ones, they will know that this
place is not good for jaguars, and they will go away.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Gillis. “But whether the plan works or
not, what this boy says goes. I’m frank to confess that he’s got me
buffaloed. If he hadn’t been here to-night, you and I would have been
dead men, Dorn.”

“He’s saved the camp all right,” assented Dorn, as he directed some
of the natives to drag the heavy bodies to the places that Bomba
indicated.

That the sight of their dead kindred daunted whatever other jaguars
might have intended to make an onslaught on the camp, seemed clear as
time went on. The jungle was vocal, as it always is at night, with
the strident notes of insects, the howling of monkeys, and now and
then the distant bellow of an anaconda.

But the jaguars seemed to have taken themselves off. Bomba’s keen
ears could no longer detect the subdued growling and purring of the
four-footed raiders, the soft thud of their padding feet. Nor were
his nostrils conscious of their presence.

After a full hour had passed, he relaxed his tense attitude,
stretched, and yawned.

“They have gone,” he announced.

“Are you sure?” asked Gillis, eagerly.

“They have gone,” repeated Bomba. “And they will tell the others.
They will not come back. I will sleep.”

“Go to it, my boy,” said Dorn. “You’ve earned it, if ever anyone did.
I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

“Our name would have been Dennis,” declared Gillis.

“I thought your name was Gillis,” said Bomba wonderingly.

“It is,” was the laughing reply. “I keep forgetting that you don’t
know our slang. I mean our name would have been mud—there I go again.
What I mean to say is that we would have been killed if you had not
been here.”

Bomba made up his mind that he would remember these new words so
that he could talk like the white men. He already had a precious
collection, “goat,” “mud,” “Dennis,” “shindig.” And there had been
others, too, that he would try to recall. He would tell them to
Casson and show him how much he had learned. But just now he was very
sleepy.

“I’ll get you some blankets to lie on,” said Gillis.

“No,” said Bomba, “I will sleep this way.”

He threw himself down on the ground near the fire, and in a moment
was fast asleep.

But there was no sleep just then for Gillis or Dorn. They were too
wrought up by the dreadful experiences through which they had gone to
close their eyes. So they sat with their rifles on their knees until
the first faint tinge of dawn showed in the east. Then they knew that
the danger was past, for that night at least, and after summoning a
couple of natives and placing them on watch, they threw themselves
wearily on their blankets in a sleep of utter exhaustion.

Bomba was the first to awake, and for a moment found it hard to
realize where he was. He sat up, looked around, and caught sight of
the bodies of the jaguars. Then all the events of the stirring night
came back to him.

He had borne himself well in circumstances that might have made grown
men quail. He had met death face to face, and it had been a matter
of touch and go whether he would escape unscathed. But the fortune
that favors the brave had been with him, and he had not a scratch. He
had trapped the cooanaradi. He had slain one jaguar and foiled the
others. It was natural that he should be filled with a feeling of
exultation.

But far above the satisfaction at his own safety was that which came
from the thought that he had saved the white men. Without him, they
would surely have been doomed! He had established his right to be
regarded as a brother. He had vindicated his white skin.

In twenty-four hours he had gone far. A new world had opened before
him. He had crossed a chasm that separated him from his own race.
He had realized some of the dreams, answered some of the questions,
solved some of the mysteries that for a long time past had been
tormenting him.

But he realized that he still had far to go. How much these white men
knew! In what a different world they moved! How far superior they
seemed to him! How ignorant he was, compared to them!

But he would learn. He would ask Casson. Casson must know all the
things the other white men knew. And then his heart sank, as he
realized that Casson seemed to have forgotten all or almost all that
he had ever known. There was little help to be expected from the man
with whom Bomba lived.

He was engrossed in these meditations when Gillis opened his eyes.
They fell on Bomba, and recollection came into them.

“How does our hero feel this morning?” asked Gillis, with a genial
smile.

“What is a hero?” asked Bomba, with his usual directness.

“Why, you fill the bill as well as anyone I ever saw,” returned
Gillis. “A hero is a man or boy who isn’t afraid.”

“But I was afraid last night,” said Bomba.

“I guess we all were,” remarked Gillis. “Well then, a hero is one
who, even if he is afraid, doesn’t let fear get the best of him, but
fights on and makes up his mind to keep on fighting till he dies. And
that’s what you’d have done last night if it had come to that. But
it’s getting pretty late, and we’ll have to get a move on.”

He shook Dorn awake, gave some orders to the natives, and soon the
camp was alive with preparations for breakfast.

This time Bomba took his knife and fork at the outset, and was
gratified to note that he could already handle them much better than
he had on the night before.

“Well, now, my boy,” said Gillis, after they had enjoyed a hearty
meal, “we’ll have to be packing and getting on our way. As we told
you last night, we’d like nothing better than to have you go along
with us. Still think you can’t, eh?”

“I should like to go,” replied Bomba, and the look in his eyes was
much more eloquent than words. “But Casson is old and sick. He has
been good to me. I have to get his food for him. He would die if I
should go.”

“That settles it then, of course,” said Gillis regretfully. “But
don’t you think, my boy, that we’re going to forget you. We owe you
too much for that. Either we’ll come back, or we’ll send someone
else to get you and Casson out of this jungle and bring you where
you belong. In the meantime, we want to do something to show you how
grateful we are. You saved our lives, and we want to do something for
you.”

“You do not have to give me anything,” said Bomba, simply. “I was
glad to help you.”

“All the same, you’ll have to take something,” put in Dorn. “The
question is, what shall it be? The boy can get all the food he wants,
and I don’t suppose he has any use for money.”

“What is money?” asked Bomba.

The men laughed.

“About the most important thing in the world outside this jungle,”
said Gillis. “This is money,” and he took a gold piece from his pouch
and spun it on the rude board that served as a table.

“It is pretty,” said Bomba.

“A good many people think so,” remarked Gillis, dryly. “Some would
sell their soul for it.”

“What is a soul?” asked Bomba.

“You’re getting in deep, Gillis,” laughed Dorn.

“I sure am with this animated interrogation mark,” returned his
comrade. “The soul is the best part of us, the part that makes men
good and wise and brave, that makes them different from the animals.”

“Have I got a soul then?” asked Bomba.

“You sure have,” replied Gillis. “And one of the best, if you ask me.
But we’re getting off the subject. We want to give you something that
you would like to have. I wonder what it would be.”

His eyes roved about and caught sight of a harmonica that lay in one
of the packs they had brought along for trading with the natives.

“How would you like this?” he asked of Bomba, as he picked it up and
handed it to him.

Bomba examined it curiously. He liked its smoothness and its glitter.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Let me show you,” said Gillis, as he took it from him, put it to his
mouth, and played a few bars of a popular air.

Bomba was amazed and delighted.

“It is like a bird!” he exclaimed. “It sings!”

“Try it yourself,” said Gillis, handing it over. “Blow your breath
into it and draw your breath back.”

Bomba did so, and although the notes he brought from it were
meaningless and discordant, they thrilled him with rapture. He could
make music like the white men.

“Keep it,” said Gillis, highly pleased at the lad’s delight. “It’s
yours.”

“It is good to give me this,” said Bomba gratefully, as he fondled
his treasure. It was the first present he had ever had in his life.

“We’d feel cheap enough if we let it go at that,” said Dorn. “How
about giving the boy a revolver? You saw how curious he was about
firearms.”

“Right enough,” assented Gillis, as he went into the tent and
returned with a shining new five-chambered revolver. “Here, Bomba,
you liked the big iron stick. This is a little iron stick, but it
does very much the same thing as the big one.”

“Oh, are you going to give me that?” exclaimed Bomba, scarcely able
to believe his eyes.

“Sure thing,” said Gillis. “Here, let me show you how it works.”

He broke the revolver, and Bomba gave a gasp of dismay.

“You broke it!” he exclaimed in grief.

“That’s all right,” replied Gillis. “I have to do that to load it.
See, this is the way it is done.”

He put cartridges in the five chambers, while Bomba watched him
breathlessly. Then he snapped the stock back and looked around for a
mark.

One of the dead jaguars caught his eye, and he emptied the revolver
into the carcass, firing so rapidly that it seemed almost one
continuous explosion.

“Now go take a look at the jaguar,” said Gillis. “You’ll find five
holes that weren’t in it before.”

Bomba confirmed this with his eyes. It still seemed to him like
magic, and there was awe mingled with delight in his ownership of the
weapon.

“Let me put five more holes in the jaguar,” he begged.

Gillis loaded it for him and gave him directions how to hold, aim,
and fire the weapon, though he and Dorn took care to take their stand
behind him.

In the tyro’s hands only one more perforation marked the jaguar’s
hide, the rest missing the mark through Bomba’s unfamiliarity with
the weapon and his failure to allow for its kick.

“All right for a beginner,” commented Gillis. “With your natural
keenness of eye you’ll be a crack shot as soon as you get used to the
gun and have a little more practice. I only wish we had more time to
teach you. But Casson will give you lessons, and in a little while
you can shoot as straight with this as you can with your bow.”

Many boxes of cartridges accompanied the gift, and Bomba tucked them
away carefully in his pouch, feeling as rich as Croesus. It had
certainly been a lucky day for him when he had come across the white
men!

But his delight in his treasure was dimmed when, a little while
later, all preparations were completed and the party got ready to
move.

The rubber hunters themselves, steeled adventurers as they were, were
deeply stirred as they shook hands with Bomba and bade him good-bye.
They had become strongly attached to this lad, who had come upon
them so strangely, and to whom, no doubt, they owed their lives.
There was tragic pathos in his loneliness in these vast wilds with
only a half-demented old man to bear him company.

“You’ll hear from us again, remember that,” promised Gillis. “We’re
not going to let this thing drop. We will come back or send back for
you.”

“I hope so,” said Bomba. “If you do not come, my name will be mud.”

The men could not help smiling, and Bomba was proud. He was showing
them that he could talk like the white men.

They waved a final farewell and took up their journey through the
jungle. Bomba watched them until the underbrush hid them from view.

The world suddenly became very empty. His eyes were filled with tears.

He stood there for a long time, trying to still the ache in his
heart. Then he turned his face toward the south. He must get back to
Casson.

Dear old Casson! Kind old Casson! His heart thrilled with affection.
He, at least, was left to him.

It was not the first time that Bomba had been away over night from
the hut that sheltered him and the old naturalist. He was the
provider of food, and his hunting trips had often carried him far
afield. But he was always uneasy when that occurred and anxious to
get back as soon as possible, for Casson was in no condition to be
left alone any more than was necessary.

Having made sure that the revolver, the harmonica, and the matches
were safely bestowed in his pouch, Bomba started on his homeward
journey.

Refreshed by his night’s sleep and good breakfast, he made good
progress for the first two hours. Then his exertions began to tell
and his pace slackened, though he was still making remarkably good
time, considering that for part of the way he had to hack a path
through the underbrush with his machete.

On his way he passed the place of his encounter with the cooanaradi.
Only the skeleton of the snake remained. And from the cleanness with
which the frame had been stripped, Bomba conjectured that the ants
had been at work.

Some distance further on, he came upon the ashes of a fire. Some of
the embers were still smouldering and scraps of meat lay scattered
about. Some natives out on a hunt had evidently stopped there for a
meal.

This was a common enough occurrence and gave the lad no special
concern. The Indians of the vicinity, though not especially friendly,
were not hostile. They were uneasy at the presence of the whites,
whom they looked upon as intruders, but up to the present they had
been content to leave them alone, and Casson and Bomba on their part
had held aloof from the natives as much as possible.

So Bomba was not alarmed when he caught sight of an Indian a little
to one side but moving along on a forest trail that crossed the one
that he was pursuing. They reached the junction of the trails at
about the same time. The Indian turned and looked at the lad.

Bomba’s heart gave a sudden leap. He saw a symbol painted in ochre
on the Indian’s chest. It was the symbol of the head-hunters, the
ferocious tribe from the Giant Cataract!

CHAPTER VI

IN THE PUMA’S DEN

Bomba had never before come face to face with a member of the tribe
of head-hunters. Only at rare intervals had any of these men of evil
omen invaded that section of the jungle where he and Casson lived.

But when they had come they had left behind them a wake of death and
destruction. They were cruel and ruthless. They sought for heads as
the North American Indians used to seek for scalps with which to
adorn their wigwams and testify to their valor.

One of these dreadful trophies hung at the belt of the Indian who now
stood regarding Bomba with a scowl that sent a chill to the boy’s
heart.

But Bomba let no sign of apprehension show itself on his face, which
had been schooled to repression and self-control by his jungle
experiences.

On the contrary he smiled amicably and put up his hands, palms
outward, as a sign of peace and good will.

“Good hunting, brother?” he asked, in the language that with certain
variations was common to all the tribes of the region and with which
he was perfectly familiar.

“Ugh!” the Indian grunted noncommittally, as he scanned Bomba with
glowering eyes that had in them nothing of friendliness. “You white
boy?”

“Yes,” replied Bomba.

“You live with white man that has long hair and walks with a stick?”
pursued the Indian.

Bomba nodded.

“The white man bad medicine,” said the Indian, his scowl deepening
and his hand tightening on his spear.

“He is good medicine,” declared Bomba.

“He is a Man of Evil,” was the reply. “He bring trouble on my people.
Much sickness. Many die. Chief Nascanora very angry. He make talk
with big medicine man, and medicine man say there will always be
sickness as long as white man stay alive.”

A thrill of apprehension ran through Bomba.

“Old white man is good man,” he protested energetically. “He hurts
nobody. He would like to cure people, not make them sick. He has been
here many years. He is a brother. He has a good heart.”

“He is a Man of Evil,” repeated the other doggedly. “Medicine man say
so. Medicine man know. Tribe will have trouble, much trouble, unless
old white man die.”

Bomba tried to collect his thoughts, which had been thrown into a
tumult by these ominous words. It came to him that perhaps this
man was an emissary of death chosen by the tribe to accomplish its
purpose. If this were so, Bomba, boy though he was, would have been
ready to do battle with him for the life of Casson.

But if the man were not alone, if companions were near at hand, that
would put another aspect on the matter. Then craft and strategy would
have to make up for the disparity of numbers.

“My brother has come a long way,” Bomba said, changing the subject.
“The home of his people is near the Giant Cataract. Why has my
brother come so far from his own people to do his hunting alone?”

“I am not alone,” was the answer. “Many of my people are near me. If
I call, they will come.”

Bomba had learned what he wanted to know. This was but a straying
member of a large party. The news was not reassuring, but it showed
him where he stood. At all costs he must avoid a combat at this
moment.

His revolver, fully loaded, was at his belt and, despite his
unfamiliarity with the weapon, he could not have missed at such close
range. But the report would have summoned the man’s companions, who
were probably not far away.

So he restrained his impulse to draw it, and without any betrayal
of fear smiled into the man’s face, waved his hand carelessly in
farewell, and passed on. In a moment the jungle had swallowed him up.

The Indian had made an instinctive movement with his spear, and then
checked himself and stood undecided. The dauntless bearing of the boy
disconcerted him.

Bomba, the instant he felt sure that his movements were hidden from
the native, dropped his careless attitude and made his way with all
the haste of which he was capable through the jungle. He must reach
their hut as soon as possible and warn Casson—poor, helpless, old
Casson—who would be an easy prey if the enemy came upon him unawares.

He had not gone far before he heard a loud shout behind him. This was
followed a moment later by answering shouts from many directions.

He knew at once what they meant. The Indian had summoned those of
his companions who happened to be within earshot. There would be a
hurried gathering, a hubbub of exclamations, and then, like a pack of
wild animals, they would be upon his trail.

Bomba was as lithe and strong as a young panther, and if the going
had been reasonably clear, he could probably have distanced the
head-hunters. But he had the disadvantage of having to make a path in
many places as he went along. He had to hack his way often through
tangled thickets, and this took up precious time. His enemies, on the
contrary, could follow without stopping the very path that he had
made with infinite labor. It was one of the ironies of his situation
that he was making the way easier for his pursuers. He was actually
helping them to overtake him.

Under such conditions, it was only a matter of time before they would
catch up with him. Already he could tell by the crashing of the
underbrush that they were nearer.

But he kept on, spurred by desperation. His lungs were laboring, his
breath coming in shorter and ever shorter gasps. He was reaching the
limit of his endurance. The end could not be long delayed.

As his eyes roved frantically from right to left, he caught sight of
an opening in the side of a small knoll a little way off from the
direction in which he was headed.

His pursuers were close behind him now. At any moment the foremost of
them might appear in sight.

Like a flash, Bomba turned in the direction of the cave and bolted
into it headlong, pitching at full length on the ground within.

He lay there in the semi-darkness panting heavily, trying to regain
his breath, the little that he had left having been knocked out of
him by the fall.

He could hear the rush of the pursuers as they passed by in the
direction he had been heading, and he breathed a sigh of heartfelt
relief as he heard their steps receding in the distance. For the
moment he was saved.

But he knew this was only a reprieve. It would not be long before his
enemies would realize that they were on a false trail. They would
miss the sound of his steps, the marks of his machete on the bushes.
Then they would retrace their steps and search every nook or cranny
in which he might be hiding. And they could hardly fail to discover
the cave!

As soon as he could breathe again, he rose to his feet and
reconnoitered the hiding place that had, temporarily at least, proved
his salvation. What his eyes could not see his touch supplied.

There was no apparent exit from the cave except the opening through
which he had come. But at the back, partly hidden by a shelf of rock,
was a small crevice only a few inches wide. It seemed impossible at
first that it could permit the passage of his body. But by placing
himself sidewise and drawing in his breath he finally managed to
worm his way through and found footing on the other side.

Now he could breathe more freely. He could crouch down in the narrow
passage behind the crevice and be concealed from the sight of anyone
at the entrance of the cave. To a casual observer the cave would seem
empty.

And even if a careful search were made and his hiding place
discovered, he would be in a natural fortress. No arrow or spear
could reach him. An Indian would be too big to wriggle through that
crevice, and if he tried to do so, he would be at the mercy of the
lad’s knife or pistol while he was making the attempt.

The first glow of exultation had barely subsided when Bomba could
tell by the sounds outside that his enemies were returning. He could
hear a babble of voices and grunts of rage and disappointment at the
escape of their prey.

He crouched low behind his barricade, scarcely daring to breathe.

The steps came nearer and nearer.

Then suddenly there was a guttural exclamation of surprise mingled
with triumph, and he knew that they had discovered the entrance to
his hiding place.

The shout was followed by dead silence, which Bomba was at no loss to
interpret.

His enemies knew that if he were there he would be desperate,
fighting with his back against the wall. None of them was eager to
be the first to enter and face him. There was no need for impetuous
action. If he were there, he could not escape.

So they were drawing stealthily nearer, probably from the side, so as
to escape a possible whizzing arrow, the only weapon with which they
thought he would be equipped.

For some minutes the deathlike silence continued. Bomba could feel,
though he could not see, that fierce, keen eyes were peering in,
trying to pierce the darkness that at the back of the cave was almost
absolute.

Then came a hissing sound, and a flaming torch was thrown into the
cave, its flaring light illuminating every crevice of the interior.

Apparently it was empty. If the fugitive had entered there, it seemed
evident that he must have escaped by some other exit.

To discover that other exit, if there were one, several of the
Indians crowded into the cave, and one of them picked up the torch to
make a more thorough search.

He had scarcely done so before a terrific hubbub arose from his
companions on the outside of the cave. Something had frightened them.

The men within rushed out, and there was a snapping and crashing as
the whole party forced its way through the underbrush, evidently in
panic flight.

What had happened? Bomba asked himself. Was one terror to be
succeeded by another?

He listened with all his ears. There was no sound except that caused
by the stampede of the Indians, now steadily growing fainter.

Minutes passed and still no sound. The strain became unendurable.

Slowly, very slowly, Bomba raised his head and peered over his
barricade.

All he saw was a shadow.

But that was enough to chill his blood.

For the shadow that lay on the ground before the cave was that of a
giant puma, one of the fiercest inhabitants of the Amazonian wilds!

The owner of the cave had returned!

CHAPTER VII

A SIEGE OF TERROR

For a few moments Bomba’s heart seemed to cease beating.

Down he went again behind his barrier, while he tried to collect his
thoughts in the presence of this new peril.

The thought that this might be the den of a wild beast had occurred
to him when he first saw the mouth of the cave, but it had been
crowded out by his desperate need of escaping from his human enemies.

Now he realized that he was trapped. There was not one chance in a
hundred that the beast would stay outside for long. Sooner or later
it would enter the cave to rest in readiness for its nocturnal
hunting. And when it did come in, discovery would be certain.

In Bomba’s crouching position the animal could not see him. But it
would smell him and follow the scent to the crevice in the rock.

To be sure, it could not get at him. Its huge body could not squeeze
through the narrow opening. But when it once became convinced of
this it would settle down to a long siege that would doom its captive
to certain starvation.

Once more Bomba ventured a peep at the shadow. It had changed its
shape. At first the beast had been standing. Now the shadow showed
that it was stretched out on the ground, but with its head uplifted,
watching perhaps for the possible return of the Indians that its
coming had frightened off.

That shadow had a dreadful fascination for Bomba. He watched it as
though under a spell, waiting for the moment when it would change in
shape, when the great tawny beast would rise, shake itself, yawn, and
at last enter the cave.

In the position in which Bomba found himself, he could use what
weapons he had only with great difficulty. The passage was so narrow
that he had no room to draw his bow. That rendered his arrows useless.

And the crevice was so located with reference to his body that he
could only use his knife or revolver with his left hand.

As to hurling his knife, as he had in the case of the jaguar, he
could not draw his arm back to get sufficient force for the throw.
And he was so little used to the revolver, even with his right hand,
that the chance of his being able to aim accurately with the left was
almost negligible.

His heart sank as he realized his helplessness. He seemed doomed to
die like a rat in a trap.

While he was bitterly pondering his situation, the shadow moved. Like
a shot Bomba’s face disappeared from the crevice through which he had
been peering, and he crouched down low, fearful lest the beast should
even hear the sound of his heart thumping against his ribs.

He could hear the padding feet of the puma as it leisurely entered
the cave. Then there came a sudden pause, a sniff, an ominous growl.

The beast had scented the proximity of a human being. Bomba knew
that its hair was bristling, its eyes glowing, as they roamed about
seeking to discover the whereabouts of the intruder.

Then the padding was resumed, and the steps drew nearer his hiding
place.

There was a thunderous roar and the beast dashed violently against
the wall, as though it would batter it down by the sheer force of its
impact.

Three times this was repeated. Then, as though recognizing the
futility of this form of attack, the animal desisted. The roars were
replaced with snarls, as the puma tried to force its body through the
narrow opening.

It struggled viciously to get through, but its huge bulk prevented.
Foiled in this, it reached one of its great paws through the opening
and swung it about, trying to get a grip with its claws on whatever
was in that passage and drag it out within reach of its jaws.

Bomba shrank as far away as possible, being just able to escape the
sweep of the powerful claw that would have torn into ribbons whatever
it clutched.

Again and again the baffled beast sought to reach its prey, but
without success.

At last it desisted and paced the floor of the cave with growls
and roars that in that narrow space were almost deafening. Then it
settled down to a siege. Its instinct told it that sooner or later
the trapped enemy must die of starvation, or come out to meet a fate
quicker but more terrible.

Bomba felt sick and weak under the strain. He had escaped that
terrible paw only by inches.

His only chance seemed to be that the beast at last might sleep. Then
Bomba might creep through the narrow opening and either steal from
the cave or at least have elbow room to battle for his life with
knife and revolver.

But he dismissed this forlorn hope even as it came to him. If the
beast should doze, it would be so lightly that even the slightest
sound, the fall of a leaf, would awaken him. He would be on Bomba
before the latter had squeezed through the opening. There was no
hope from that quarter.

And with dread for his own safety was mingled the agonizing thought
of what might happen to Casson, unwarned and helpless before the
storm that was brewing. Even at this moment the head-hunters might be
on their way to the lonely cabin.

An hour passed by. The snarls had ceased, but Bomba could hear
the stertorous breathing that told him the beast was still there,
watchful and relentless as fate.

At last he ventured a look. With infinite caution he applied his eye
to the crevice in the wall. There lay the beast, a monster of its
kind, its unblinking eyes turned in his direction.

But those fierce eyes had no terrors for Bomba!

Astonishment, relief, delight chased themselves over the lad’s
features.

His mouth opened and a low crooning sound issued from his lips,
rising and falling in a weird jungle melody.

The effect on the puma was magical. It started to its feet. The
fierce light faded from its eyes, and was replaced with a look of
pleasure and benevolence. Then it commenced to purr.

“Polulu!” murmured Bomba. “Polulu! It is Bomba speaking—Bomba, your
friend.”

The purring grew louder, and the great beast came and rubbed itself
against the wall.

Bomba hesitated no longer. He forced his body through the crevice
without the slightest trepidation, though with some difficulty, for
already the puma was rubbing his head against him, fawning upon him
like a cat, and trying to lick his hand.

“Polulu. Polulu,” murmured Bomba, as he caressed the great head
fondly. “Why did I not know it was you? I would not have hidden from
you. You have given Bomba a great fright.”

Polulu purred still more loudly and rubbed his head so hard against
Bomba as to almost knock him over. Then the beast lay down and rolled
over and over to testify his joy at the meeting.

For the last two years a warm affection had existed between the two.
It had taken birth at the time the big puma had been caught by a
falling tree that had imprisoned and broken one of its hind legs.

Bomba had come upon the tortured animal at a time when it was
suffering terribly and biting savagely at the injured leg. The boy
was stirred with compassion. He had a strange power over animals, and
the puma had sensed his sympathy.

Bomba had brought the animal food and water. Then he had set to work
to free the trapped leg. This accomplished, he had set and bound up
the injured member, the puma submitting to the treatment because it
knew instinctively the kindness that prompted it.

Many days had passed before it was able to stand and get about, and
during all this time Bomba had supplied its needs and nursed it back
to health. By the time this was accomplished, the puma had all the
affection for Bomba that a pet cat has for its master.

Repeatedly since then the paths of the two had crossed in the jungle,
each time to the joy of both. At times, Polulu had been accompanied
by its savage mates that would have attacked the boy had not Polulu
taken him under his guard and warned the others that the boy must be
immune.

For some minutes Bomba fondled and caressed the great beast, which
responded with equal affection and manifestations of delight.

Then the pressing need for haste forced itself on the boy, and with a
parting pat on the tawny head he rose and issued from the cave.

Polulu was disappointed at the briefness of the lad’s stay, and made
as though he would go with him. But Bomba gently waved him back and
the puma obeyed meekly. And in the lambent yellow eyes that stared
after him Bomba could read regret and desolation.

Immeasurably relieved in mind as the boy was at his unexpected escape
at the moment that death had seemed to be closing in on him, he was
tormented by the thought of the precious time that had been lost by
his enforced stay in the cave. Now he must redouble his speed, at the
same time keeping a sharp lookout for the marauding Indians.

He came to the banks of a wide stream that wound in a sweeping curve
through the jungle. To swim across it would save him a long detour on
land and at least an hour of time.

Ordinarily he would have taken the land route, with whose dangers he
was more familiar and better able to cope. He had a deep fear of the
caymans, the great South American alligators, that infested many of
the streams.

He could swim like a fish. But the alligators could also make amazing
speed, considering their clumsiness. And in the water the only weapon
the boy could use effectively would be his knife, and that would be
but of slender use against such a formidable foe.

He knew, however, that at this time in the day the alligators would
be apt to be sunning themselves on some of the islands that studded
the stream at intervals. One of these islands he could see at a
little distance, with dark forms like so many logs fast asleep on the
sands.

His resolve was made on the instant. He would take the chance.

Silently as a shadow he slipped into the water, and, swimming so
smoothly that he scarcely left a ripple behind him, he moved toward
the point he had in view.

He had traversed more than half the distance and was already
beginning to congratulate himself on the successful outcome of his
venture when he heard a splash behind him.

Something had broken the surface of the water.

He looked behind him and his heart skipped a beat.

He saw the dripping head and great open jaws of a huge cayman coming
toward him!

CHAPTER VIII

THE JAWS OF DEATH

At sight of the cayman, Bomba, for one awful instant, felt as though
he were paralyzed. Strength seemed suddenly to have left his arms and
legs.

But only for a moment. The next instant the instinct of
self-preservation asserted itself, and he shot forward like an arrow.

He knew he could not reach the shore before the dreadful thing would
be upon him. But he would struggle till the last. As a final resource
he had his knife.

But what would that knife avail against murderous jaws armed with a
score of knives? One nip from those jaws could sever his leg from his
body, or, if they caught him at the waist, could bite him in half.

His arms and legs were working like piston-rods. He was fairly
leaping through the water. But behind him was coming a fearsome thing
that could swim still faster.

Still Bomba sped on, his eyes fixed on the land steadily drawing
nearer, even though the lad had the conviction that his feet would
never press that land again.

The muscles in his strong arms were strained until it seemed as
though they would burst. He breathed with difficulty. His head,
surcharged with blood, felt as though it were encircled by an iron
band that was eating its way into it.

One hurried glance over his shoulder showed him that the cayman was
gaining. The distance between them had sensibly diminished.

As a whole world of thoughts is said to pass through the brain of a
drowning man, so Bomba reviewed in those terrible moments the things
that had come into his life.

One thought tore a sob from his aching throat. It was of Casson,
poor, gentle, bewildered Casson, left alone to face the perils of
the jungle, the jaguar, the sucurujus, the dreaded boa constrictor,
and those human foes, perhaps more terrible still, bent on his
destruction.

There was another grief, a longing bitterly poignant though but
vaguely understood, that stirred his soul to the depths with agony.

The white men! He would never know now about that mysterious
world from which they had come, to which at this moment they were
returning. He would not know. He would not know!

The words beat themselves over and over in his brain, while his
straining muscles labored to snatch a few more moments from eternity.

He cast one more look behind him. The hideous brute was nearer now,
the fangs in its frightful jaws gleaming as the cayman clove the
water.

Now it was close upon him! Bomba’s legs were instinctively drawn up
to his body to escape the slash of those dreadful jaws. His hand
reached for his knife.

What was that his dimming eyes saw directly ahead of him? Bomba’s
heart leaped with renewed hope as he saw that the flat object
floating almost within his reach was a rude raft—four hollow logs
strapped together with bush cord. The work of caboclos, probably, who
had later discarded it for a more convenient mode of river travel—the
regatao or river canoe.

Could he reach it? The splashing of the alligator was close behind
him. The brute was preparing for its spring. Every moment Bomba
expected to feel the clamp of those iron jaws, to be dragged beneath
the swirling surface to the slime and ooze of the river bed, to be
feasted on at leisure.

The boy summoned all his expiring strength in one last effort. A
mighty spurt carried him a few feet ahead. He must get hold of that
raft. It spelled safety, deliverance from a horrible fate. Extinction
threatened him, and like any other creature of the wild he fought
madly for his life.

Another moment and those hungry jaws would fasten on him, tear his
straining soul from his mangled body.

Now the raft was only an inch from his frantic fingers—half an inch!
He touched it! He grasped it, lifted himself, slipped back, made one
last effort, pulled himself out and sprawled at full length upon the
raft!

He was not a second too soon. Even as he fell prone, two vicious jaws
snapped savagely. The cayman lurched against the raft, tipping it to
such an angle that Bomba was almost thrown into the water.

But the boy held on desperately, and the raft righted itself.

Again the brute returned to the attack. This time it flung its body
half upon the raft and its jaws snapped within an inch of the lad’s
legs.

There was a heavy paddle lying on the raft. Bomba snatched it up and
brought it down with all his force on the cayman’s snout.

The brute winced, but still continued its efforts to climb up on the
frail structure. Then Bomba jammed the stick through the gaping jaws
deep into the brute’s throat.

There was a grunt of pain and rage, and the cayman fell back into
the water that was speedily dyed with the blood that came from the
wound. There was no more fight left in the creature. It swam around
for a moment, glaring with its malignant eyes at the human banquet it
had counted on, and then sank slowly from sight.

Bomba had won. But it had been a terrific experience. He sat down on
the raft, too utterly worn out for the moment to move a finger.

But if his body was exhausted, his mind was still active. The same
subjects that had tormented him a few minutes ago in his dreadful
extremity now appeared in a roseate glow.

The white men! He would see them again. Or if not Gillis and Dorn,
others of their kind. His kind, too, he thought with a thrill of
exultation.

As he lay there, his brown body glistening with river water might
have belonged to any native Amazonian. His sturdy body and rippling
muscles, too, might have been those of a caboclo, a native waterman.

But not his eyes. The dreaming look that now clouded their bright
watchfulness was a heritage of white men—the striving of a soul for
ascendency over mere physical things, the yearning for something
higher than an animal existence.

And he was white! He knew it! And those men, those beings from
another world, had acknowledged that he was white. They knew. They
must know everything. And he had not had with them the alien feeling
that had always been his when he had come in contact with the
Indians. He had felt at home with these white men. He liked them.
They had liked him.

But now they were gone. When would he see them again?

They had been his friends. They had given him presents. He touched
the gifts with reverent fingers. But the men had gone. Where? To some
mysterious place utterly beyond his comprehension, where white men
talked and laughed a great deal and slapped each other on the back.

It must be a friendly country, thought Bomba wistfully, as he looked
about on the stream and jungle where so few things were friendly. He,
too, would like to talk and laugh a great deal and slap people—white
people—on the back.

He had never talked much. Cody Casson was reticent. He had never
laughed much. Casson was somber.

He would like to bring about a change in the quiet little hut, to
talk and laugh with Casson. But if he could not have done that
before, how could he do it now? Casson was no longer wise. He had
forgotten all that could be talked about. He was like a little child
again, to be watched over and guarded from evil.

The thought of Casson put an end to his musings. Once more he was
Bomba, the jungle-trained and bred, with all the wily cunning of the
jungle in his eyes. No longer were those eyes dreaming, but bright
and watchful as had been those of old Geluk, the puma, whose skin
Bomba now wore as covering.

With the paddle which had done him such good service in warding off
the attack of the alligator he rapidly propelled the rude raft toward
the jutting point where he intended to make his landing.

He soon touched and leaped upon the shore. Before him stretched a
ygapo, a huge swamp many miles in width. This must be crossed before
he could reach the hut. The only alternative was a roundabout route.
But the feeling that Casson might at any minute be in danger urged
the boy to take the shorter cut.

Nevertheless, he hated the swamp. Vaguely he imagined it peopled with
evil spirits. The tall crabwood trees standing in clusters threw deep
shadows over the blackish-brown water, giving it an indescribably
dreary and sinister appearance. Here and there, out of the slimy ooze
sprang huge tree ferns. No shrieking of parrots or howling of monkeys
in this cheerless spot. Nothing but dead leaves and treacherous mud,
without the stir of a leaf or the twitter of a bird to break the
brooding silence. It might have been a lost fragment flung off from a
vanished world.

Bomba made his way rapidly through the ygapo, heavily oppressed by
the premonition that danger lurked about the hut of Casson. In one
hand he firmly grasped his faithful machete, while in the other he
held the revolver, the cherished gift of the white man.

His eyes scanned the coverts for the first sign of danger. There was
little peril from wild beasts, who preferred the dry woodland, but he
knew that reptiles might start from the slime or drop down upon him
from the trees.

He found no use, however, for either weapon while traversing the
swamp. It was not until he was nearly across the ygapo that an acrid
scent assailed his nostrils.

Fire!

He was not alarmed at first. It was probably only Casson’s campfire
built outside the hut.

But in a moment he knew that the volume of smoke wafted to him by a
vagrant breeze could come from no ordinary bonfire, and his steps
quickened.

He reached the farther end of the ygapo. He drew himself up to the
higher level, and with relief felt solid ground beneath his feet once
more.

Bomba plunged onward, the increasing density of the smoke lending
wings to his feet. No thought of Gillis and Dorn in the jungle lad’s
mind now! Only room there for thought of Cody Casson! Would he reach
the hut and the old man in time?

It took Bomba only a short time to reach the trees that fringed the
clearing he and Casson had made.

A glance as he burst into the open told him that his worst fears were
realized.

The hut was in flames!

CHAPTER IX

FROM OUT THE FLAMES

In a few bounds Bomba was close beside the blazing hut.

As he rushed forward he shouted hoarsely:

“Casson! Casson! Where are you?”

A groan was his only answer. But it was enough, for it told him that
his only friend and comrade was entrapped within. Already he might
have been burned beyond any possibility of rescue.

Bomba acted quickly. The cloth about his body had been saturated
during his progress through the swamp. This he tore from him and
swiftly bound it about his nose and mouth. For this much he knew—that
to inhale that writhing, forked-tongue demon men called fire meant
certain death.

To adjust the cloth took but a few seconds. Gathering his wiry
muscles beneath him, he sprang for the flame-filled doorway of the
hut.

For a moment it seemed to him that the whole world was an inferno of
flame. His flesh was seared by the terrific heat.

Then he was through it! The interior of the hut was filled with
smoke, the heat almost unbearable. Bomba’s eyes were smarting,
blinded. He could only grope about, stumbling, calling to Casson in a
strange, cracked voice.

He almost gave up hope. He decided that Casson and he must perish
there together. Then his groping fingers touched something that moved
and groaned.

Could he get Casson outside the hut before the flimsy walls of it
collapsed, burying both of them in the burning debris?

Even as Bomba asked himself the question, he gathered the wasted form
of Casson in his strong young arms.

Choking, blinded, staggering, he stumbled with his burden in the
direction he thought the doorway would be. He came in violent contact
with a wall, and was almost flung down with his helpless burden.

His lungs fairly begging for a breath of air, eyes smarting
agonizingly with smoke, he regained his balance and struggled on.

He pressed Casson’s nose and mouth close against the cloth that
covered his own and groped forward until at last he found the doorway
of the hut. A moment’s pause, a gathering of forces, then a mad
plunge through the devouring flame into the open air beyond.

Bomba laid Casson on the ground at a safe distance from the blazing
structure, and with a swift motion tore the cloth from his own nose
and mouth. This, which had begun to scorch from the frightful heat,
he flung to the ground and trampled upon with his sandaled feet.

Then he passed a hand over his smarting, tear-filled eyes, and bent
to examine Casson.

The old naturalist was conscious, and looked up at the boy with a
pleading look.

“I’m all right,” he panted, his breath coming painfully. “Never mind
me. Save the hut.”

Weak as he was, he half-raised himself on his elbow and stared wildly
at the hut, the only home he knew.

Bomba with one hand pushed the old man back not ungently on the
ground.

“Bomba will put out fire,” he said, in the soothing tones one would
use to a frightened child. “You sit quiet, Casson. Watch.”

Without further delay, Bomba, set to work to save the threatened
habitation that had sheltered him and his companion for so many years.

Luckily, the bulk of the fire was thus far confined to one part of
the hut. Bomba picked up a bucket, used by Casson and himself to
boil the game that the boy’s hunting expeditions brought back to the
cabin.

With this he worked like a madman, carrying water from a stream
that ran a few yards in the rear and dashing it over the untouched
portions of the hut.

When this was thoroughly saturated, he began work with his machete
tearing down one flaming wall and then beating out the fire with a
huge palm-leaf broom that Casson had used to keep the interior neat.

It was hard and discouraging work. More than once Bomba felt that he
was fighting a losing battle. Not only was the hut in danger of being
destroyed, but the jungle to the rear of it was threatened.

Many of the trees near by were rubber trees, and this thought helped
to spur Bomba to renewed activity. Those were the kind of trees
that Gillis and Dorn had been seeking—seeking for the Apex Rubber
Corporation, whatever that might mean.

Bomba had no idea of the millions of rubber trees there must be in
the length and breadth of the Amazonian jungle. All he knew was that
the white men regarded them as precious. Very well then, he would
guard these from fire until Gillis and Dorn should come to claim
them. It was good to be able to do something for these white men who
had been so good to him.

So to save the trees as well as his home, he toiled on with dogged
persistence, while Casson watched him with feverish, half-wild eyes.

It was a long time coming, but victory came at last. Half of the hut
had been torn or burned away and the last smoldering spark had been
extinguished.

Tired, his brown skin scorched in a dozen places, the boy flung
himself down beside Casson, panting.

“You see,” he said, his bright eyes full of triumph, “Bomba did not
let the fire touch the rubber trees.”

Casson looked puzzled.

“Rubber trees?” he repeated vaguely.

“Back there,” said Bomba, with a wave of his hand. “White men want
rubber trees. They hunt them with the caboclos. I save some for them.”

There was a boyish elation in his tone that penetrated even Casson’s
bewildered senses. He put out a wavering hand to Bomba, and for the
first time noticed how badly the boy was burned.

“You will blister,” he said.

Bomba looked down indifferently at his bronzed skin.

“Yes,” he returned. “You are burned, too.”

Without further speech, he rose silently and disappeared in the
jungle. He reappeared a short time later, carrying handfuls of the
river mud. This he smeared thickly over Casson’s hands and face,
tearing open the tattered shirt of the old naturalist to see if his
chest was burned.

Then he vanished again, to return with more mud which he spread over
his own burns. Then he sat down beside the old man for a few minutes
of well-earned rest.

“The hut is bad,” he said, after a few moments of contemplation. “It
is almost half gone. I will fix it.”

Cody Casson made no reply.

He was a frail old man, bent with the weight of what seemed at least
seventy years. He had a finely shaped head and features that must
have once been pleasing, though now deeply seamed with the wrinkles
of exposure and hardship. His expression was kindly and benignant.
His eyes were blue and had once been clear and penetrating, though
now they had the bewildered vacuous look that comes to the half
demented.

As he sat there now he seemed to be puzzling over something.
Presently he looked up at Bomba with an expression that the boy knew
well, having seen it there many times before.

The aged man was trying to remember, trying to recall something
concerning past events of his own life of which Bomba knew nothing.

“You said”—Casson spoke slowly and painfully as though trying to
force his thoughts to keep pace with his words—“you said something
about—white men. You mean—what did you mean?”

A curious shyness fell on Bomba. He could not tell Cody Casson all
that was in his mind concerning these white men, could not explain
to him the vague but enchanting vistas this chance meeting with
his kind had opened up to him. How could he explain to another
what he could hardly explain to himself? He was a creature of the
wild, inarticulate, feeling the more deeply because he had no words
adequate to express his thoughts.

Questioned now by Casson, he could give only the bare facts
concerning his encounter with the rubber hunters, how he had made his
way to them following the report of the iron stick, how he had helped
them fight off the hungry jaguars, and how subsequently they had
presented him with the harmonica, the matches, and the revolver.

He exhibited these treasures with great pride, and even played a few
weird and mournful notes on the harmonica.

“This,” he lifted the revolver carefully in one brown hand, “they
said you would show me how to use. They told me something about it.
It is like your iron stick. It shoots blue fire and a thing they call
a cartridge. See, they gave me some of them,” and with face eager and
eyes glowing he brought forth the boxes of ammunition.

Casson was staring at the jungle boy in a queer, half-fascinated way.
Bomba was frightened. He broke off in the midst of what he was saying
and timidly touched the arm of the old man.

“You are sick?” he asked anxiously. “I will go to the ygapo and bring
back herbs.”

He was half-way to his feet when Casson’s nervous grip on his arm
halted him.

“No, no! I am not sick!” he cried. “You are a white boy, as white as
those men are. You should not be living here, buried in the jungle.
All right for an old man, all right for—old—Casson.” The disjointed
sentence wavered into silence.

Bomba regarded the old man eagerly, anxiously. In his heart a strange
excitement was throbbing. Was the door that at times had been partly
opened to be swung wide at last? Was he to learn something about—what
strange words had the white men used?—“folks,” “relations”?

That he was white he had known for a long time and secretly exulted
in it. But what did it mean to be white?

Primarily he knew that it referred to the color of the skin. His
was different from that of the caboclos that ranged the rivers,
different from that of the Indians who lived in the heart of the
jungle.

But it must mean more than that. To be white meant not only to look
different, but to act differently, to think differently, to live
differently. What inner thing was it that made those who wore white
skin for a covering, like himself and Casson and Gillis and Dorn,
different from the brown or copper-skinned natives?

It was a problem too deep for Bomba, a problem that perplexed while
it fascinated. Instinctively he knew that Cody Casson had the answer,
or at least that he had possessed it in the days before the explosion
of the fire stick.

The boy turned to the naturalist with a movement animal-like in its
swiftness. He wanted to question him, to find out the truth, but he
did not know how to begin.

But Cody Casson, groping in his mind, spoke suddenly of his own
accord.

“I try to remember,” he muttered while Bomba bent closer to him,
anxious to let not a word escape. “I try, but something closes like a
door in my mind, locking me out, locking me out——”

It was pitiable to see him trying to goad his poor twisted brain
into action. Bomba sat as though carved in stone, fearing that any
movement on his part might hinder the revelation that seemed on the
brink of utterance.

Casson began again, the words coming more quickly and with feverish
intensity.

“It is for you I want to remember, Bomba; for you! I owe it to you.
I am trying to think, trying—the door again—Bomba, help me to push
back the door. There, I almost had it! Bartow—push, push hard,
Bomba—trying to remember—Laura, dear sweet Laura—Oh, I can’t! I
can’t! The door is shut. Gone—gone——”

The last word was a shriek.

With a groan of despair, Cody Casson turned over on his face, thin,
veined hands outflung to clutch the jungle growth, his form convulsed
with a passion of sobs.

CHAPTER X

THE SHOUT OF WARNING

This emotional outbreak on the part of Casson disturbed and puzzled
Bomba.

Before it, he remained inarticulate, dumb, though there stirred in
him a great longing to comfort his companion. The white men, he
thought, would have slapped him on the back and laughed and made him
feel better.

But Bomba could not do this. A strange embarrassment restrained him.
So he sat and looked at Casson and suffered with him and said nothing.

The storm was short-lived. Casson’s groping fingers unclenched, and a
long sigh shuddered through his frame.

Seeing this, Bomba gently turned him over, and, gathering some fallen
leaves, placed them as a cushion beneath Casson’s head.

“You wait and rest here,” he ordered. “I will go and get some herbs.”

This time Casson made no objection to his going. He seemed exhausted,
apathetic. His poor bruised mind no longer strove for memory. It was
doubtful that he even knew Bomba had left him.

The lad returned after a while with a handful of herbs. Over these he
poured some river water and set the pot upon a small heap made of a
few crossed sticks.

Bomba brought forth the precious supply of “fire sticks,” as he
mentally named the matches Gillis and Dorn had given him, intending
to light the fire with one of them.

With a feeling of great excitement he struck one upon a stone near
by. This had been, while in the white men’s camp, an ever recurrent
miracle, the quick spurt of flame that followed the scratching of
this strange little stick along a rough surface.

But to his astonishment and utter chagrin the fire stick failed him.
There was no response to his quick stroke upon the rock.

Bomba sat back upon his heels and regarded the match with frowning
attention. Here was something he could not understand. Under the
direction of the rubber-hunters, he had struck fire from the stick as
easily as they had themselves. What then was the matter now?

He tried another match and then another, but when they still failed
to give forth their magic fire, Bomba threw them from him with angry
violence.

With a grunt of disgust he had recourse to his old standbys of bowl
and stick, and soon had the fire going merrily.

Bomba was disturbed and worried by the incident. He could not know
that the matches had been ruined for the time during his swim in the
rushing waters of the river. Neither Gillis nor Dorn had thought to
tell him that water was bad for these queer fire sticks.

So Bomba reasoned that the fault must lie with him. He must have
lost his cunning since he had left the white man’s camp. In a vague
way he felt that he was sinking back again, back into that morass of
ignorance and loneliness from which his brief acquaintance with the
white men had inspired him with the wish to raise himself.

Was he white after all, except in the color of his skin? Had he not
lived in the jungle too long to hope to escape to that other and
mysterious one, so utterly different from the one in which he had
been brought up? He was sure that Gillis or Dorn could have struck
that match. How far he was below them! Would he ever be able to stand
on a plane with them?

But he dismissed these gloomy forebodings and turned to the work
at hand. The boiling herbs in the pot sent up a stifling, aromatic
odor. Bomba had learned the secret of herb medicine from Candido, a
poor half-witted caboclo who traveled from place to place living on
turtles’ eggs and fish and such game as he could manage to bring down
with his arrows.

Candido was the only native who had ever shown any friendliness
toward Bomba. He had told the boy the secret of the herb medicine,
and had taught him where to search for the spindly little plant along
the river’s edge.

Since then this primitive medicine had served as Bomba’s stock remedy
for all the ills of Casson and himself. It had remarkable healing and
tonic qualities. Bomba had once taken it internally for snake bite,
and since he had not died, believed implicitly ever afterward in the
panacea of Candido, the half-witted caboclo.

So now, when it had acquired the proper consistency, he made a leaf
cup and poured some of the steaming liquid into it. Lifting Casson
to a sitting position, he put the primitive cup to his lips and
commanded that he drink.

“You will feel good,” he declared, and Casson obediently swallowed
the dose.

Casson shortly afterward seemed greatly revived. He insisted on
sitting up, his back propped against a tree. From this vantage point
he watched Bomba as the boy prepared to clear away the ruins of the
fire.

The jungle boy worked hard and fast. It was no easy task to clear
away the débris, much of it still hot and smouldering, and night was
coming on. Later he would rebuild the damaged side of the hut. For
the present it was sufficient that he arrange some sort of bed for
Casson and build a fire that would keep the prowling beasts of the
forest at a safe distance.

While he worked, Bomba could feel the wistful eyes of Casson upon
him. He knew that the old naturalist was again groping, trying to
swing open that “closed door” in his mind.

The work was done at last. Leaves and branches for a bed had been
dragged within the hut. The fire was built far enough from the cabin
not to endanger it, but still close enough to warn off nocturnal
marauders.

Bomba went for water to the stream that flowed back of the dwelling,
and, returning, set the pot once more upon the fire, this time to
prepare the evening meal.

There was no food about the place, for Bomba had brought none back
from his trip to the white man’s camp. He was about to go into
the forest, weary as he was, in search of some sort of game, when
Casson’s faint voice called to him.

“There are turtle eggs,” he said. “I found them this afternoon when
I was watching the ciganas, those big brown birds with the splendid
crowns. They are there, the eggs, beyond that large flat stone.”

He pointed to the cache where he had concealed the spoils of the
afternoon.

Gratefully, Bomba seized upon the eggs and plunged them into the
boiling water. Turtle eggs were ever a luxury for the jungle-bred
palate.

When they were ready, Bomba brought them to Casson, and the two sat
cross-legged upon the ground to eat the simple repast.

Bomba was tired and ravenous. He consumed several of the eggs in
jungle fashion by clipping off the tops and then squeezing the shell
in both hands until yolk and white were forced through the opening.
It was some time before his appetite was sufficiently appeased to
permit of conversation.

Then he said to Casson:

“Why did you stay inside the hut when it was in flames? If I had not
come just when I did, you would have been burned to death.”

Casson nodded and passed a hand across his forehead in bewildered
fashion.

“That is what puzzles me,” he said. “I had walked so far through the
jungle that I was very tired, and flung myself down to rest. I must
have fallen asleep, and when I woke the hut was full of smoke. I
guessed what had happened at once, and tried to rise to make my way
from the place. But there was no strength in me——”

“The smoke made you blind?” suggested Bomba.

“No.” Again that pitiful gesture of bewilderment. “My brain was
clear. I was not dazed, as though from the smoke. It was weakness. I
could not move. I knew that unless you came and rescued me, I must
lie there and be burned.”

Bomba pondered this, brow furrowed. He was greatly worried about
Casson. The old man must be weaker than he had thought. Bomba must
take good care of him.

And this led him to speak of the Indians, the thought of whom had
been driven from his mind by the excitement of the fire.

“It is not safe for you to go far into the jungle,” he warned the old
man. “The head-hunters have come from the Giant Cataract. They will
kill you if they find you when I am not there.”

Casson shrugged his shoulders. He had long since ceased to regard his
life of great value.

“I am not afraid,” he said simply.

“But I am afraid for you,” said Bomba. “They have bad hearts. Some in
their tribe have been sick and some have died. They say you do this.
They say if they kill you, their men and women will not be sick.”

Casson smiled faintly.

“They are foolish men,” he said. “I have never done harm to anyone.
I would rather do them good if I could.”

“I know,” said Bomba. “I said that to one of them. I told him you
were a brother, a good man. But he would not listen. The medicine man
has said that you must die.”

Still Casson’s interest was only slight.

“They are like children,” he replied. “They think one thing to-day
and another thing to-morrow. Then, too, they come from far off, and
they do not know this part of the jungle. They might search for
months and not find us.”

Such optimism made Bomba desperate. What could he do against the
listless indifference of one who cared but little whether he lived or
died?

“They do not know where we are,” he admitted; “but the caboclos who
live here know. They may catch one of them and hurt him and tell him
they will kill him if he does not tell them where we live. Then he
will tell them.”

“Well, suppose he does?” sighed Casson wearily. “And suppose they
come? We will do our best. We can do no more. Maybe we can talk to
them and show them how foolish they are. If we have to fight, we will
do that. If they kill us we cannot help it.”

But this calm fatalism was by no means to Bomba’s liking. Life ran
strong in his veins, and he was determined to preserve it as long as
possible.

“Listen,” he said. “I will make this house as strong as I can. I will
pile rocks against the walls. And there is the boat in the stream
behind the hut. If you hear them coming or see signs of them in the
jungle, get into the boat and row down the river. They will have no
boats. And the river leaves no tracks. I will learn how to use the
fire stick. It will frighten them, if they hear it. Maybe they will
think that we have magic and will go away.”

They were but slender props on which the boy leaned, but his stout
heart did not quail at the odds against him. The life in the
jungle—the jungle itself—was always against him, but his quick
wit and unfailing courage had brought him through so far, and he
dauntlessly faced the future.

For a long time after this the man and the boy sat in silence. Casson
was wandering in some vague land of his own. Bomba kept repeating to
himself over and over the words that had fallen from the old man’s
lips, “Bartow” and “Laura.”

What had Casson meant? What had he been upon the point of telling?

Bomba did not know. But he was sure of one thing—that he would never
forget those two words. Some day, perhaps, he would find out what
they meant. But how? Would that closed door in Casson’s mind open?
Would the jungle boy have to search for the knowledge he craved in
the outside world—the world of the white men?

Bomba slept fitfully that night. Several times he was up to replenish
the fire. Only toward morning did he fall into a heavy sleep.

He was aroused at last by a cry from Casson—a cry of fear and horror.

Another shout, this time of warning, from the old man:

“Bomba!”

CHAPTER XI

THE VAMPIRES ATTACK

Bomba was awake instantly. He strove to rise, but fell back heavily.
His limbs seemed weighted with iron.

At the same moment another shrill cry from Casson reached him!

“Vampires! The blood-sucking vampires! Quick, Bomba! Quick!”

As Bomba’s eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom of the hut they
caught sight of the horrid creature that had provoked Casson’s cry
of warning—a blood-sucking vampire bat, as large as a hawk, with a
spread of over two feet across the wings.

True to its habits, it had attacked its victim while the latter
was sleeping. It had settled on Bomba’s feet and started to suck
his blood, while its great flapping wings kept up a gentle fanning
motion, designed to soothe the lad and keep him asleep as long as
possible.

Bomba had been so exhausted from his exertions of the day before that
the bat’s task had been easy, and it had been able to prey on him
for a long time undisturbed.

In a flash Bomba knew what had happened to him. This, then, was the
reason for that strange numbed feeling in his legs. Much of his blood
must have passed from him to the vampire to render him so weak.

The bat was still at his feet, draining him of the vital fluid,
flapping, flapping those terrible wings with a lulling motion.

A wild fury assailed Bomba, rage at his own impotence.

With a tremendous effort, he raised himself to a sitting posture and
moved his half-paralyzed legs.

The vampire left its perch on Bomba’s foot and flapped into the air a
short distance, its vicious, beady eyes fastened malignantly on the
boy’s face. Bomba knew that the terrible creature, with the cunning
instinct of its kind, was aware of his weakness, and would not easily
be frightened off.

At the same moment there was another cry from Casson, and two other
sinister shapes flapped their way into the half-ruined hut.

Bomba gave a hoarse cry, staggered to his feet and reached for the
heavy club that he always kept close by his side when he slept. With
the other hand he grasped his machete and turned grimly to face the
invaders.

But even as he turned, he staggered and almost fell. He was horribly
weak. He could hardly hold the weapons. It was a gigantic effort even
to lift them above his head.

He called to Casson, hoping for some help from the old man. But
the aged naturalist was sitting upright on his improvised couch of
boughs and palm leaves, and his eyes were fixed with the bewildered,
half-fascinated look of a frightened child upon the horrible winged
intruders.

Bomba groaned. Lifting the machete with a tremendous effort—he had
already discarded the club, finding the weight of both weapons too
much for him—he made a feeble advance upon the enemy.

There was a whirring of wings, and the hideous creatures swooped down
on him in a black, loathsome cloud.

Bomba gave way before the fury of the onslaught, striking at them
with the machete, while with the other arm he shielded his face from
the batting of those merciless wings.

Sensing his weakness, the bats became more bold and vicious. They
pressed upon him, striking him about the head and body. There was
a sharp pain in the arm that shielded his face, and Bomba felt a
trickle of blood run slowly down to his finger tips.

He lowered the shielding arm and shook the blood from his fingers. He
wielded the machete again, and this time found a mark. But the blow
was weak, and far from seriously injuring his foe seemed only to have
the effect of further enraging it.

There was a second fierce attack, and beneath the flailing of wings
Bomba found himself borne to the floor.

In the fall the machete dropped from his hands.

Weaponless! Helpless!

In a fury of impotence, Bomba beat at the bats with both fists. He
struck out wildly, blindly. But his wily enemies avoided the blows
and pressed him the more viciously.

Bomba could not see that Casson had slipped from his bed and was
staggering to his feet. Even if he had, he would have felt but
little hope. Before Casson in his enfeebled state could be of any
assistance, Bomba’s need of help would be over.

The furious attack of his fists had kept the enemy at bay for only a
few seconds, and now Bomba was utterly exhausted. His muscles refused
to obey the commands of his will. His hands fell limp, and again the
vampires settled upon him.

The arms with which he tried to protect his face were bitten a
score of times. Blood welled from the wounds. One of the vampires
had settled upon his chest. Its weight seemed to be crushing Bomba,
smothering him. The next moment he expected it to be at his throat.

With a hoarse cry he threw out one arm. His fingers touched something
cold and hard. The revolver, the gift of the white men!

What was it that thrilled Bomba as his fingers closed upon the barrel
of the weapon? What meant the excitement that coursed through his
weakened body as his finger felt the trigger? A feeling inherited
from generations of white ancestors; the sensation of almost
limitless power that the touch of a firearm brings to its possessor?

With all his remaining strength Bomba called for Casson to get out of
the way.

“Fire stick! Shoot!” he cried, and Casson, understanding, backed into
a far corner of the hut.

Bomba’s arm was throbbing and paining. He was bruised and beaten by
those powerful wings. He felt as though almost the last ounce of
strength had been drained from him. That sensation of overpowering
weakness warned him that he must act quickly if he were to act at all.

Slowly he lifted the revolver and pressed it against the body of the
bat that rested on his breast.

The boy shut his eyes, held his breath, and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud report, a curiously throttled squawk close to his
ear, and what had been a vampire bat was now but a gory mass huddled
on the ground.

The noise of the shot had frightened the other two marauders, and
they hovered about fanning the air with their great wings, manifestly
uncertain whether to return to the attack or take refuge in flight.

Relieved of the weight of them, Bomba raised himself unsteadily on
his left elbow and again lifted the magic gift of the white men.

Despite his fatigue, his weakness from loss of blood, Bomba was
fiercely exultant. He had done with this wonderful weapon what he had
failed to do with the club and the machete.

But there was small time allowed him for jubilation. The vampires,
the first moment of panic passed, evidently resolved not to let their
prey escape them and again returned viciously to the attack.

This time Bomba was ready for them.

Casson, watching from the remote corner of the hut, saw the boy
slowly lift the weapon. Bomba waited until the first of the
assailants was almost upon him. He was by no means sure of his skill
with this death-dealing weapon, and he meant to take no chances of
the bullet going wild.

There came a second report, another wild flapping of wings, and he
had lessened the odds against him by half. But the remaining vampire
kept on straight for Bomba’s head.

Bomba pulled the trigger again, but only an ominous click answered
him. Twice he tried again desperately, and with the same result.

And now the vampire was fairly upon him.

Acting purely on instinct, Bomba shifted the revolver in his hand,
and with the butt end of it struck at his enemy. He hit the bat full
on its ugly head, and it fell stunned to the floor.

Bomba did not know whether it was dead or not. But he meant to make
certain, and he struck at the bat again and again until it was a mass
of pulp.

The battle was over. It had been like a struggle in a nightmare. In
every other fight in which he had ever engaged he had been in the
full possession of his senses. His courage, his agility, his strength
had been at his command. But in this fearful combat the loss of blood
before he awoke and the resultant physical weakness had put him under
a terrible handicap.

But the soul of him had not failed. His indomitable fighting spirit
had brought him through a victor.

He lay there panting, and it was some time before he could struggle
to his feet.

He shoved the carcasses of the vampires from him with a disgusted
grunt. Then he balanced the revolver in his hand and stared at it
with a strange gleam in his eyes.

“I am like the white men now,” he said to Casson, as the latter
crawled over to him. “I can use the fire stick!”

CHAPTER XII

KIKI, WOOWOO AND DOTO

Bomba’s exultation subsided somewhat when he recalled the fact that
the much-prized weapon had failed to work the last time he had pulled
the trigger.

“It is broken and there are no white men here to give me another,” he
groaned.

Casson took it in his shaking fingers and examined it. Long years
before he had been an expert shot with both rifle and revolver and
was thoroughly familiar with their mechanisms.

He broke the stock and examined the chambers.

“This is what is the trouble,” he said, as he saw that the chambers
were empty. “It can’t shoot if there’s nothing in there to shoot. You
didn’t have it fully loaded.”

“But it was loaded when I left the white man’s camp!” Bomba replied.
Then he remembered that he had been tempted to try his marksmanship
on a tree the day before and had thus disposed of three of his
cartridges.

His relief was great at this solution of the mystery, and he reloaded
the weapon forthwith, mentally recording a vow that never again would
he go to sleep or sally forth into the jungle without the revolver
containing the full five missiles, any one of which might spell the
difference between life and death.

A sudden thought occurred to him as he shoved the bodies of the
vampires out of the door.

“Perhaps one of them had been here before,” he said to Casson, “and
that is what made him come back with others to-night.”

“What makes you think that?” asked the old man, looking at him with
some surprise.

“Because you were so weak when I found you in the hut,” replied
Bomba. “The bat may have been sucking your blood when you lay asleep.
Then the fire came and the smoke frightened the bat away. But he had
taken so much of your blood that you had no strength left to get
outside the door.”

“I hadn’t thought of that; but it may be so,” replied Casson. “I know
I never felt so weak before. I felt as if I could not move hand or
foot. And perhaps that is the reason I could not help you to-night.
I wanted to. I tried to. I would have given my life to get to your
side. But I could not.”

Though he could hardly drag one foot after the other, Bomba went to
the stream back of the hut and washed his wounds thoroughly. Then he
got out a salve that had great soothing and curative qualities and
applied it on every place where he had been bitten. This done, he
fell rather than lay down, and reclined there utterly exhausted till
the break of day.

It was now that his vitality and perfect physical condition stood him
in good stead. Had he been less hardy he might have succumbed, owing
to his great loss of blood.

Even as it was, it took several days to restore him to his usual
condition. His hunting and fishing had to be given up for a time, as
he did not dare to venture into the jungle.

As he grew a little stronger, he busied himself in the rebuilding of
the ruined portion of the hut.

The hut, in which they had lived for years, was simple in the
extreme, though compared to some of the abodes of the half-breeds and
the primitive shelters of the Indians, it was almost palatial.

It had been totally enclosed on all four sides, except for the small
opening of the doorway, which let in light and air, whereas many of
the huts of the caboclos had only roofs for coverings and were open
on all four sides to the vicious fury of tropical storms. Those of
the natives, deep in the heart of the jungle, were still more simple,
consisting usually of cotton hammocks swung between two trees and a
couple of giant palm leaves meeting above for a covering.

There was a wood flooring, laid by Casson years ago, that served to
keep out scorpions and the snakes that made their home in the ygapo.
It had contained two hammocks, which had been destroyed in the fire,
some old boxes with markings on them that had become illegible from
time, a chest in which Casson had stored his precious specimens of
butterflies and flowers, some scientific books, a few old rusted
cooking utensils, and some bits of nicked and broken crockery.

The dress of the inmates of the hut was as primitive as their
furniture. Casson wore an old patched pair of trousers and a ragged
cotton shirt, which he washed now and then in the river at the back.
But Bomba, child of the jungle, preferred the dress of the Indians,
the mundiyeh, or short tunic of native cloth, with the addition of
the puma skin which helped to keep him warm when he was compelled to
sleep out at night.

Bomba worked steadily at the reconstruction of the hut, which he
was determined to make stronger than it had been before, in order
that it might serve as a fort in case they should be attacked by
the head-hunters. He used timbers of lignum vitæ, the toughest and
strongest wood of the Amazon jungle. Then he stopped up all the
crevices with mud, that under the fierce sun soon assumed the
consistency of stone. He wound everything about with stout bush cord,
and completed his work by piling mud and stones against the lower
part of all four walls.

And always while he worked Bomba pondered the words that had fallen
from Casson’s lips when he had heard of the visit of Bomba to the
camp of the white men.

“Bartow.” “Laura.” He repeated them to himself perhaps a thousand
times. What did they mean? What bearing, if any, did they have on his
own life and destiny?

Several times he was on the point of asking Casson for an
explanation. But he remembered the terrible paroxysm into which
Casson had been thrown the last time he had uttered those words.
Bomba was afraid to precipitate another such scene. It might kill
Casson. He loved the old man, clung to him. He would not endanger his
life by probing him with any further questions.

In a few days the work on the hut was finished. Bomba was proud of
his craftsmanship, and even Casson roused himself from his apathy far
enough to bestow some words of praise.

But now that his task was done and his strength fully recovered, a
great restlessness took possession of Bomba. Casson, a mere shadow
of a man, going for hours without speaking a word, responding to
questions only in monosyllables, was no companion for the lad.

Bomba longed to be off to the shadowy depths of the jungle. He had
enemies there, but he also had friends. He would call these friends
to him, Kiki and Woowoo, Doto, the giant monkey, and Tatuc, head of
the monkey tribe.

They were the warmest friends he had in that vast tangled wilderness
besides Casson. He understood them, and they loved and trusted him.
He was scarcely ever lonesome when with them.

It was very bad to be lonesome. That ache was more terrible to Bomba
than any tearing of his flesh. He shrank from it as he did from no
physical pain. It was really the poignant longing in him for his own
kind, but Bomba knew it only as a strange illness, an ache not of his
body but of some mysterious part of him of which he had no knowledge.

So now, feeling this sickness creeping over him, he felt irresistibly
the impulse to fly from it, to seek forgetfulness among the only
friends he knew.

The jungle boy determined to take his harmonica, too. His eyes
brightened at the thought. He had now learned to make the instrument
emit the sounds he, Bomba, wished. Perhaps the monkeys and parrots
would like it. At least they would be surprised and inquisitive.

Bomba had two good reasons to give Casson for his trip. They needed
game. They had been living almost altogether upon the eggs of the
jaboties, or forest turtles, and even to a jungle palate, easily
satisfied, such a limited diet becomes monotonous, if too long
continued. Then, too, he wanted to get in contact with some of the
more friendly natives and secure from them a couple of hammocks to
replace those that had been destroyed in the fire.

When he announced his intention to Casson, the old man merely nodded
in an absent manner and went on with what he was doing. So Bomba
took his machete, his bow and arrows, his precious fire stick and
his harmonica, and plunged into the jungle, not without repeated
injunctions to Casson to be on the alert if the head-hunters should
come, and, if he had time, to try to escape down the river.

Bomba had not gone far before he began to see among the trees and in
the branches the faces of his wild friends peering at him with their
bright eyes.

He called to them softly, and they came to him. Kiki and Woowoo, the
parrots, perched on his shoulders and pecked affectionately at his
face.

Doto, the great monkey, swung from branch to branch close above his
head, now and again playfully dropping a bunch of leaves upon him.
Bomba felt soothed and comforted.

These wild folk loved and trusted him. He was one of them. He
belonged here in the heart of the jungle. It must be so.

Yet all the time some mysterious voice within him whispered that it
was not so. He did not belong here. He was no caboclo, no Indian.
What was he then? Where did he belong?

Bartow! Laura! He felt that in these words must lie the solution of
the enigma. Over and over the words ran through his mind, until it
seemed that even the chattering monkeys overhead must hear them.

Feeling the loneliness again creeping over him, Bomba sat down on a
log and took out his mouth organ. He would gather his friends around
him. They would help him to fight off the sickness that came from
nowhere and did not hurt his body—hurt only that mysterious part of
him that he did not understand.

But the first weird notes on the harmonica had a queer effect upon
the jungle denizens. They had begun to cluster about the boy, as
they always did when he appeared among them. But at the wail of the
curious thing that Bomba held to his mouth they disappeared. If they
had suddenly been sucked down to the muddy bottom of the ygapo, the
place could not have seemed more utterly deserted.