CHAPTER VIIA PERILOUS CROSSING
Beneathhim the waters roared and thundered. Pipina whimpered and besought her gods, but the ears of Bomba were deaf to her cries.
Underfoot the trunk was like glass. The slightest misstep might mean disaster. But Bomba advanced steadily, scarcely troubled by the light weight of the squaw. He was so accustomed to the dark that he hardly needed the faint rays of moonlight that filtered through the trees to tell him where to place his feet.
He was half-way across. Now he was more than half. Before him loomed the dense undergrowth of the farther bank. Suddenly his foot slipped!
For one horrible moment Bomba teetered over eternity.
Pipina sent up a shrill cry, for she expected that moment to be her last.
By a marvelous exercise of muscular control, Bomba balanced himself and retained his foothold upon the log with one foot while he drewup the other and gradually regained his equilibrium.
But Pipina, in panic, was now squirming about in his arms and disarranging his calculations. He measured the distance still to be traversed, staked his all on one swift run, sped across the treacherous log, and with one last leap reached the farther shore in safety.
A great joy was singing in his heart as he set Pipina on her feet.
“The gods are with us, Pipina!” he exulted. “Where are your bad spirits now? Tell Bomba that!”
“We have not yet reached the maloca of Hondura,” the old squaw reminded him, holding tenaciously to her superstition. “It is not well to rejoice too soon. We may yet find evil spirits hiding, waiting for us behind the trees.”
But Bomba laughed such fears to scorn. He was buoyant with confidence. Fate had been kind to him thus far that night, fate and his own quick brain and strong arms.
His knowledge of the savages and their ways told him that he and Pipina had passed through the ring of the headhunters. Moreover, the maloca of Hondura was now only two hours’ journey away and through a less tangled part of the jungle.
True, there was not a moment that did nothold possible peril for them. A boa constrictor might dart from a tree branch and seek to encircle them in its folds. The roar of a jaguar might prelude its spring. Every thicket might harbor a bringer of death.
But evil as they were, they were better understood and more easily dealt with than those human enemies, the men who carried at their belts the heads of their victims.
Pipina declared now that she was strong enough to walk, and they made rapid progress through the jungle, and as the first faint heralds of the dawn appeared in the eastern sky they came within sight of the maloca, or village, of Hondura, chief of the Araos tribe, the strongest in that section of the jungle.
When Bomba and his companion reached the outskirts of the native village they found the inhabitants already astir. The wanderers were challenged by scouts, for since the advent of the headhunters a strict watch was kept day and night. But the jungle lad was well known and liked by the members of the tribe. His popularity with them was only second to that of the chief himself, for only a few months before, Bomba had rendered the tribe a service that made him forever secure in their affections.
So Bomba and Pipina were greeted with every manifestation of delight by the sentries andbrought in triumph into the presence of the chief.
The little Pirah, the greatly loved daughter of the chief, was with her father, coaxing and cajoling him as usual for some childish privilege. She gave a squeal of rapture as she saw Bomba and ran to him, flinging her arms about his neck.
“Bomba has come back to us!” she cried, in delight. “Bomba will stay. That make Pirah glad. Pirah very happy.”
Hondura had been watching the meeting with a smile upon his wizened face. Now he came forward, and his greeting, though not so demonstrative, was quite as cordial.
“It is good that Bomba is here,” he said. “Bomba has not come for many moons. Hondura is glad. He will make a feast for Bomba and all the tribe will rejoice.”
“Hondura has a good heart,” returned the lad. “He speaks good words and his tongue is not forked. Bomba has come to ask Hondura to help him. He wants to leave Pipina with him where she will be safe while he goes on a journey that may take him many moons.”
“Pipina is welcome in the maloca of Hondura,” replied the chief, as he turned a kindly look on the old woman, who bowed her head and stood in meek humility before him. “Pipina can stay with the women because she is a friend of Bomba, who is a good friend to the tribe of Hondura.”
The chief motioned them to seat themselves upon the cushions of rushes within his tepee, and presently food was brought to them which they devoured eagerly, for they had not eaten since noon of the day before.
While they ate, Hondura questioned them further, while Pirah sat close to the jungle lad, every now and then reaching out a timid little hand to touch him.
“Where is the good white man, Casson?” asked Hondura.
Bomba shook his head sorrowfully.
“Casson has gone away,” he replied. “He has wandered into the jungle. The headhunters came last night and burned the cabin of Pipina. Bomba was not there. But when he came he found Pipina hiding. She did not know where Casson had gone.”
Fire flashed in Hondura’s eyes.
“May the curse of the gods rest on Nascanora,” he cried. “Bomba should have killed him the night he had him at his mercy.”
The reference was to a happening that had taken place near the Giant Cataract on a night that Bomba had met Nascanora in the midst of a perilous and horrifying scene. As the chief had blocked his path Bomba had sunk the iron hilt of his machete into Nascanora’s face, knocking him senseless. Hondura had urged then thatBomba slay Nascanora, but the boy had refused to kill an enemy who could not fight.
“The point of your knife should have bit into his heart,” went on Hondura. “Then he would have troubled you no more. Now he hates you more than before and has sworn to have vengeance. His nose is crushed, and the squaws laugh at him behind his back, though they do not dare to smile where he can see them. He would die happy if he could make Bomba die first.”
Bomba laughed.
“He has yet to catch Bomba,” he replied. “And if he does catch him, he may wish that he had rather laid his hand upon a cooanaradi. I do not fear Nascanora. But I fear for Casson.”
“Hondura is sorry that the good old white man has gone,” said the chief gravely. “Hondura like Casson. All the Araos like him. Wish him good.”
“The good spirits will be with him in the jungle,” put in little Pirah. “They will bring him safely to Bomba again or to one of the bucks of my father.”
Hondura smiled indulgently upon the child and put a hand upon the dark hair.
“Pirah speaks well,” he remarked. “May the good spirits be with Casson during his journeyings in the jungle.”
Bomba thanked them both from his heart and addressed himself to the chief.
“If the good chief meets the white man, Casson, will he bring him to his maloca and keep him safe until Bomba comes back?” he asked.
“That Hondura will do,” promised the chief gravely.
For a few moments there was silence, while each stared thoughtfully into the jungle. Then Hondura asked:
“Where does Bomba go now that he speaks of leaving the maloca of Hondura?”
“I shall not leave yet, Hondura,” he replied. “First, I shall search for Casson. I will beat every thicket of the jungle until I find him or feel sure that the gods have taken him. Only after that is done will Bomba set out on a long journey.”
“The words are dark yet,” replied the chief. “Where is Bomba going?”
“Bomba still seeks his parents,” returned the lad. “He wants to know about his father and his mother. Even the jaguar’s cubs know their father and mother. Bomba does not know. His heart will be heavy till he does know. He has tried to learn the truth for many moons. He has gone to the land of the Giant Cataract. He has traveled to the Moving Mountain. He has gone to the snake island of Sobrinini. He has journeyedmany miles and met many dangers, and he does not yet know the truth.”
“Where does Bomba go now to find the truth?” asked the chief, his eyes dwelling thoughtfully on the lad.
“I go to seek Japazy, the half-breed,” replied Bomba. “Japazy may tell Bomba what he wishes to know. Jojasta is gone. Sobrinini is gone. Casson is gone. Japazy is the one hope of Bomba. If Japazy is dead—”
He did not finish the sentence, but with a shrug of his shoulder stared gloomily before him.
There was an interval of silence, and when the chief spoke again it was in a low and solemn tone.
“Where is it,” he asked, “that Bomba would seek for Japazy, the half-breed?”
Bomba hesitated for a moment, then spoke:
“I go to a spot where it is said I may find Japazy. I go to Jaguar Island.”
The stoic calm of the Indian vanished. A look of horror sprang into his eyes.