Читать книгу Bomba the Jungle Boy at the Moving Mountain - Walter S. Rogers - Страница 3
ОглавлениеTHE HISS OF THE SERPENT
As silently as a panther, Bomba climbed the great dolado tree, the giant of the forest.
It was a hard task, for the trunk was full of sharp-pointed spines and a thrust of one of these might mean fever and death.
But the tree was on the top of a hill and towered so far above its fellows that it would give Bomba a view of the jungle for many miles around.
Bomba needed that view, for there was trouble brewing, trouble for himself and trouble for old Cody Casson, and it behooved the boy to be on the alert, if he and his companion were to escape with whole skins.
So he went up the tree with almost the litheness and agility of Doto, his chief friend among the monkeys, climbing in the way that Doto had taught him, not by using his knees, but relying wholly on his hands and feet, the former so hardened by his jungle life that no spines could penetrate them, and the latter protected by his homemade sandals.
Deftly he made his way through the branches, until the increasing slenderness of the upper boughs warned him that they would break beneath his weight if he went any higher. Then he made himself a seat among the foliage and, drawing a deep breath, scanned the surrounding country with eyes that were almost as keen as those of a hawk.
He was a striking figure as he half-sat, half-stood there, sweeping the horizon, himself in such perfect harmony with the jungle that he seemed to be a part of it.
Bomba was a boy of about fourteen years of age, of more than medium height and so remarkably developed physically that he might easily have been supposed to be much older than he was. He had wavy brown hair, keen brown eyes, and a skin that was deeply bronzed by the heat of tropical suns. As far as color went, he might have been one of the native Indians of the Amazonian jungle; but his features showed that he was of white blood.
He wore no clothing save a breech-clout of native cotton, a pair of sandals that he himself had made, and a puma skin—the skin of Geluk, the puma, which Bomba had slain when it had tried to kill Kiki and Woowoo, the friendly parrots. The skin, held by straps at the shoulders, covered his breast and formed a partial protection against the stings of insects and the thorns of the jungle.
His arms were powerful and symmetrical, with muscles that rippled beneath the brown skin at every movement and betrayed the strength and agility that lay in them.
In his belt was thrust a machete, a knife nearly a foot in length with its two edges ground almost to razor sharpness. In addition he carried a revolver, his most precious possession and the only one he had ever owned, or even seen, the gift of white rubber hunters when he had saved their camp from an attack by jaguars, the tigers of the South American jungle. His bow and arrows he had left at the foot of the tree when he had begun his climb.
He had seen signs that day that filled him with anxiety. Enemies were abroad in the jungle. Not merely his animal foes, the jaguars, reptiles, alligators and others, against which he had constantly to be on his guard.
But the ones he had in mind at the moment were human enemies, tall, powerful, cruel-looking Indians, who, from the signs painted on their breasts and faces, he knew were on the warpath.
He had caught sight of a party of these earlier in the day, and from a secure covert in the underbrush had watched them as they had drifted along like so many shadows over a jungle trail.
At the belts of some of them hung human heads, the dreadful trophies from some onslaught upon a native village. They were the headhunters, a distant tribe living in the vicinity of the Giant Cataract, who occasionally left their native haunts on a foray against more peaceful tribes, leaving desolation and death in their wake.
Bomba had already had one experience with the headhunters, and had escaped death by the narrowest of margins. In the struggle he had wounded Nascanora, their chief. Were these men whom he had seen to-day a part of Nascanora’s band, perhaps under his leadership, returning to seek vengeance? In any event, he knew them for enemies. If he should fall into their hands his life would not be worth a moment’s purchase.
His first study of the jungle from his lofty perch yielded no results. The great expanse of trees and streams and underbrush was apparently destitute of all signs of human life.
But as his gaze grew more intent he caught sight of a thin wisp of smoke rising above the trees at a distance. So tenuous and slender was it that at first he was inclined to think it a shred of vapor rising from the lush vegetation, steaming under the fierce rays of the sun.
But it had a quality in it different from that of steam, for it yielded more readily to vagrant breaths of winds, and he knew it betokened the presence of human beings.
Some one had stopped there to make a fire. It might have been a member or members of some of the more or less friendly tribes of the district, with whom, although he was not on terms of intimacy, he had no quarrel. In that case, the smoke was nothing to be viewed with concern.
But—and this was the thought that made his pulses beat more rapidly—it was far more likely that the drift of smoke indicated a temporary encampment of the dreaded headhunters. For when these ferocious invaders made their appearance in this part of the jungle, it was the signal for the native inhabitants to gather together their women and children and such property as they could carry and flee to some of the more inaccessible parts of the region, where they hid themselves until the marauders, wearied with slaughter of whomever they could find, should retire to their distant villages, bearing their hideous trophies of human heads, with which they adorned their wigwams.
Bomba strained his eyes to follow the column of smoke from its apex to the ground, so that he might see what was going on beneath the trees.
But too much foliage intervened, and he was forced to shift his position in order to obtain a better view. This made it necessary to ascend still higher into the branches. The attempt was fraught with peril, for he had already reached the limit of safety. The branches were even now giving forth ominous cracklings as he trusted his weight to them. Should they give way, he would go crashing to the ground, nearly two hundred feet below.
But the urge of discovery was too strong to be resisted, and with the utmost wariness he worked his way upward inch by inch, distributing his weight by placing each foot on a different branch.
Then an exclamation of satisfaction broke from his lips, for he had found an opening through which he could see what he sought.
And the sight thrilled him.
In a small glade of the jungle he saw a party of stalwart Indians gathered about a fire over which strips of meat were roasting.
The men were grouped in knots on the grass, most of them eating, while others, who seemed to have finished their meal, were jabbering together excitedly.
They were of an entirely different type from the natives near whom Bomba and Cody Casson lived, and he knew them at once for headhunters, some of them, no doubt, the very ones he had watched from his covert that morning.
But it was not upon them that his gaze rested for long. His eyes found something far more compelling beneath a group of trees on the edge of the clearing.
Tied securely to those trees were four captives. Bomba could see at a glance that they were not natives. They were white men!
He had seen only two white men in all his life, besides Cody Casson. That was on the never-to-be-forgotten day when he had met Ralph Gillis and Jake Dorn and had thrilled to the consciousness that he himself was white. He remembered how they had looked, how they had borne themselves, how they had been dressed.
These captives wore the same kind of explorers’ outfits, and, despite the cords that bound them, bore the indefinable marks of a superior race.
Yes, they were white! And Bomba was white, as he had assured himself proudly every day since he had met the rubber hunters. His heart bounded with the surge of kinship that went through it. The men were his brothers!
And in what a pitiable plight! Captives of these bloodthirsty fiends of the jungle! Bomba shuddered as he thought of the terrible fate that awaited them.
His heart swelling with pity and sympathy, Bomba scanned the prisoners more closely. He could not detect their features at that distance, but one of the four caught his attention as being different from the others.
The figure was slenderer and not so tall, and a great mass of golden hair fell from the head over the shoulders. Bomba caught his breath.
He had never seen such hair, had never seen a white woman. But he knew instinctively that he saw one now. Perhaps his mother, whom he had never known, had had such hair.
A woman! And in the hands of those monsters! His blood boiled at the thought.
He must save her! He must save them all! Were they not his own kind? They were white. He was white. He felt the call of the blood.
But how could he do it alone and unaided, he a mere boy against a host of enemies?
He did not stop to answer the question. He would do that as he went along. His jungle craft and his stout heart had always helped him. He believed that they would help him now. He must not delay a moment, even to formulate a plan of action.
Without any definite idea as to what plan he would adopt, he started to descend from the tree. Then he stopped as though he had turned to stone.
From some point near at hand he had heard a sound that chilled his blood.
It was the hiss of a jaracara, one of the deadliest snakes of the Amazonian jungle!
At the sound of that sibilant hiss, Bomba’s heart seemed to stand still for a moment. He was at no loss to grasp the sinister portent.
The deadly snake was close at hand, in the same tree as himself. And what was more, the sound came from below. The snake was between him and the ground!
