Bomba the jungle boy on Jaguar Island — Reading Notes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, suddenly, Bomba stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AT GRIPS WITH THE ENEMY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While the jungle boy struggles desperately to loose that strangling hold, it may be well, for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series, to tell who Bomba was and what had been his adventures up to the time this story opens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew that he was fighting for his life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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