CHAPTER IVTERRIBLE JAWS
Atsight of the cayman, Bomba’s heart for a moment seemed to stop beating.
A wild hope that perhaps the brute was asleep and would not perceive his presence was quickly dispelled as the lad caught sight of two fiery eyes fixed upon him. Then the huge mouth opened, displaying the horrible array of teeth that, if they once closed on the lad, would bite him in half as easily as a pair of shears would snip a thread.
Despairingly, Bomba felt for his machete. He knew that it would avail little except perhaps to wound. It would simply help him to die fighting.
Then his heart leaped. His feet felt the river bed beneath them! He had reached the shallower part of the stream! Now he would have a footing, something that would give him a purchase and enable him to use his bow and arrows.
Quick as lightning, he unslung the bow from his shoulder and drew an arrow from its quiver. With one motion he fitted the arrow to the string and let fly.
The light from the fire gave him what he needed for his aim, and the arrow entered the eye of the monster and penetrated to the brain.
With a fearful bellow of rage and pain, the great brute leaped half out of the water and fell back, only to churn the water into a seething whirlpool. In its wild flounderings the end of its serrated tail caught Bomba on one of his legs and threw him farther out into the stream.
Bomba did not mind the blow, so full of exultation was he at the mortal wound he had inflicted on his enemy. But his elation changed to fear when he saw the scaly back of another alligator breaking the water. The brute had been attracted by the uproar created by its stricken comrade and was coming swiftly.
Luckily, the bank was not far away, and, putting all his power into his strokes, the boy swam as he had never swum before. He reached the shore not a moment too soon, for the hideous jaws snapped close behind him as he pulled himself up the bank.
The impulse was strong on Bomba to shoot another arrow at the reptile and send it to join its companion. But arrows were precious now, and all he had would perhaps be needed for human foes.
So he repressed the impulse and hurried along the bank until he had come near the fringe oftrees that bordered the clearing in which stood the hut. He could not yet see the hut itself. But to reach it he would have to make a dash across the clearing.
In the dark he could have eluded the eyes of his enemies, for no snake could move more silently. But now the open space was flooded with light. No figures were visible, but he knew that many eyes were watching from the surrounding woods.
Still he must chance it. He had faced death too often to let it daunt him now.
Summoning all his strength, he darted out into the open. His first few bounds carried him fifty feet. Then he dropped to the ground as a dozen arrows whizzed over his head.
It was upon this that Bomba had counted. He had timed his drop for just the instant that would allow the startled savages to aim and let fly.
He was up again on his feet, and before arrows could again be fitted to strings had gained another fifty feet. Again he repeated his stratagem, but this time not without scathe, for an arrow grazed his ankle.
“The arrow may be poisoned,” he thought to himself, as he felt the twinge of pain. “If it is, this is the end of Bomba.”
He reached the shelter of a tree and whirled behind it. On the side of the clearing he hadjust left, one of the headhunters, keen after his prey, had come from behind his shelter.
Like lightning, Bomba fitted an arrow to his string. There was a twang, a hideous yell, and the savage threw up his hands and fell headlong.
“There will be one less to fight Bomba,” muttered the lad. “They will find that Bomba can shoot.”
If any had been inclined to follow the fallen Indian, they had hesitated when they had seen him drop, and Bomba had a moment’s breathing space. He flew from behind the tree and, availing himself of what shelter he could find in his flight, came in sight of what had been his home.
His heart sank within him. The cabin was a mass of flames. It was impossible for life to be sustained in that furnace for a minute. If Casson and Pipina had been trapped there, they were already far beyond human help. They must be just what the hut itself would be in a few minutes more, a heap of smoldering ashes.
For a moment Bomba forgot everything save the agony that clutched at his heart. Then a sound brought him back to the danger that menaced him personally.
Out from the shelter of the trees, crouched almost double, their horrible faces illumined by the lurid light of the flames, came a number of the headhunters.
They approached in a semicircle, cutting off Bomba’s retreat toward the front and on either side. Back of him was the blazing hut, the heat from which was already scorching his face and hands.
Bomba felt that he was trapped. His doom seemed sealed. He felt for the handle of the machete at his belt. He grasped his bow. He would not allow himself to be taken alive. Better instant death than the tortures of Nascanora. And he vowed that he would take more than one of his enemies with him.
He bent his bow, took quick aim and fired. A bronze-skinned buck clapped a hand to his breast, gave a frightful howl, and fell writhing in the dust.
But before Bomba could fit another arrow to his string there was a concerted rush and a dozen hands reached out to seize him.
Bomba leaped back quickly and drew his machete. His eyes blazed, his muscles tensed.
The Indians yelled and leaped forward.
Bang!
A sharp detonation clashed against their eardrums like a crash of thunder. The force of the explosion shook the earth and flung the natives to the ground.
Bomba found himself on his face, half-stunned,bewildered. Mysterious missiles hurtled over his head, exploding in mid-air.
He raised himself cautiously to his knees and saw a sight that brought hope to his heart.
The Indians were in full retreat, and as they fled they looked over their shoulders at him fearfully, as though they blamed him for their discomfiture.
Bomba well knew the mind of the Indian. The cause of the explosion and the trembling of the earth were unknown to them. So they reasoned that it must be a spell thrown over them by Bomba, friend of the old witch doctor, Casson, to destroy them and save himself.
The Indians stopped in their mad flight at the edge of the jungle and looked back. One of them, more daring than the rest, raised his bow and took aim.
But before he could release the string one of the flying missiles struck the would-be slayer, hurling him to the ground.
This was too much. The savages turned terror-stricken and fled from that scene of mysterious death.
By this time Bomba had realized what must have caused the explosion. Their little store of powder, so carefully guarded by Casson and himself, had gone off when reached by the hot breath of the fire. The flying missiles were the last ofthe cartridges belonging to his revolver, that wonderful gift of Gillis and Dorn, the white rubber hunters.
Bruised and shaken, Bomba staggered to his feet, hardly able to believe his good fortune.
But as he turned back toward the cabin a great wave of desolation flooded his heart.
There lay the cabin, now a heap of ashes. Were the ashes of Casson and Pipina also there? Had those faithful ones come there to their death?
With a sob Bomba threw himself on the ground and abandoned himself to uncontrolled grief.
This, however, was of short duration. A wild rage welled up in his heart, rage against the wicked Nascanora and his cruel tribe.
“They shall pay!” the lad cried, leaping to his feet. “For every drop of Casson’s blood they shall pay! There will yet be wailing in the huts of Nascanora. It is I, Bomba, who swear it!”
He paused, head upflung, listening.
What was that sound?