Читать книгу Bomba the Jungle Boy at the Moving Mountain - Walter S. Rogers - Страница 5

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The boy could climb no higher. He was already at the extreme limit of safety. And even if he could ascend, the snake would follow him.

Bomba looked wildly about at the adjoining trees. But there was no hope there. The branches of the nearest one were nearly thirty feet away. Even a monkey could not have made the leap.

Again came that terrible hiss, this time nearer. The snake was crawling toward him. But the thick foliage below had thus far hidden it from sight.

Now Bomba could hear the rustling of the leaves as the slimy monster wound its way among them. Death was coming toward him!

Bomba’s hand sought the revolver at his belt. But the hand stopped before it reached the weapon, for he remembered the savages. The report of the weapon would bring them whooping to the tree and they would have five captives instead of four. And as between the human and reptile enemies, Bomba preferred to take his chance with the snake.

As he reached this conclusion, his eye was caught by a movement on a bough below. The leaves were rising and lowering in horrid undulations, as a long writhing body made its way among them, coming in his direction.

Then suddenly a cluster of leaves parted, and a wicked triangular head appeared, rising slowly from a long black neck, while two malignant eyes with a fiendish glint in them fastened themselves upon the lad.

Like a flash, Bomba drew his knife and braced himself for battle.

While the boy stands at bay, his eyes fixed upon the awful head and slavering jaws drawing nearer with the relentlessness of doom, it may be well for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volume of this series to tell who Bomba was and something of his adventures up to the time this story opens.

As far back as Bomba could remember he had dwelt in the depths of the jungle. His only companion had been Cody Casson, an aged naturalist, whether related to him or not, Bomba did not know.

The boy had grown up in absolute ignorance of the world at large. His only world was the jungle, but with this he was thoroughly familiar. He knew every bird and animal and reptile in it, their lairs and haunts and habits. Some of the more harmless ones, such as the parrots and the monkeys, were his friends. He understood their gestures and their language, and their company was a relief to the loneliness that at times overwhelmed him.

Neither he nor Casson had much to do with the natives of that part of the jungle, who, though not hostile, held aloft from a superstitious feeling that the white man practised magic and might do them evil if he were so inclined.

The old naturalist had given Bomba some smattering of education. But this had not gone far, for the explosion of a rifle that Casson had fired at an anaconda that was attacking Bomba had injured the old man’s head and made him childish. From that time the lessons had ceased, and the care of providing food for the two had devolved on Bomba.

The danger involved in this had developed the boy into a mighty hunter, a dead shot with bow and arrow, a master of the spear and the machete, quick, crafty and resourceful, a match for any of the deadly inhabitants of the jungle.

But Bomba was lonely, restless, and unhappy. He knew that he was out of place in the jungle. He was different from the natives. His white blood and instincts called him elsewhere. He was in a turmoil of longing for he knew not what.

An accidental meeting with two white rubber hunters, whose lives he saved when their camp was attacked by jaguars, had intensified these longings. They had wanted him to go with them to civilization, but he could not leave Casson.

He had besought the latter to tell him something of his parents, and the old naturalist had tried to do so. But his memory had failed him. He had spoken vaguely of “Bartow” and “Laura,” persons whom Bomba finally guessed must be connected in some way with his history.

What exciting adventures Bomba had with boa constrictors, jaguars and alligators, how narrowly he escaped death from vampires, the way he saved his monkey friends from the attack of the vultures, the desperate and successful defense of his cabin against the hordes of Nascanora—these and other exploits are narrated in the preceding volume of this series, entitled: “Bomba the Jungle Boy; or, The Old Naturalist’s Secret.”

Now to return to Bomba as he stands in the topmost branches of the tree, knife in hand, facing the scaly monster that seeks his life.

The snake was coming more slowly now. It saw the tense attitude of its intended victim, noted the knife in his hand, and knew that a struggle was impending.

But there was no relaxation of its purpose. Its forked tongue darted between the thin lips that were like a gash in the horrible face.

Bomba realized that victory would go to the one that was the quicker of the two. The snake would strike like lightning. He must try to parry with his knife and slice the snake in two. There was little chance to dodge. There was absolutely no chance to retreat.

Bomba knew that the chances were against him. Deft and agile as he was, the snake was quicker.

Nearer and nearer came the reptile, measuring the distance. Eight feet away—seven—six. There the reptile stopped to throw itself into the coil from which it would launch the deadly stroke.

And in that moment an inspiration came to Bomba.

He caught hold of the end of the bough the snake had been ascending, bent it down as far as he could with all the strength of his muscular arms, and then released it.

The tough, elastic bough shot upward against the one just above it, catching the body of the snake between the two. The force of the impact drove the sharp spines into the reptile from above and below, holding it impaled.

There was a fearful hissing and writhing as the monster thrashed about, trying to release itself. But it was held as between the jaws of a trap.

It bit and tore at the stabbing spines furiously, but its struggles only served to drive them deeper. Then it turned and struck out savagely again and again at Bomba. But stretch and strain as it would, the strokes fell two feet short, though the poison expelled from its fangs spattered against the puma skin that covered the boy’s breast.

Repeatedly it tried until its strength was exhausted. Then Bomba, watching his opportunity, lunged forward, as the neck fell limp and severed the snake’s head from its body.

The head fell through the tree to the ground, though several minutes elapsed before the writhing of the folds ceased.

Bomba wiped his knife on the leaves and restored it to its place in his belt. His heart was beating with excitement, but his nerves were tingling with exultation. Once more that wily brain of his had extricated him from a plight that had seemed to mean certain death.

But he could not stop long to indulge in rejoicing. He knew that these terrible reptiles usually traveled in pairs and the mate of the one he had killed was probably not far off. It might be in that very tree.

But before Bomba began his descent, he cast one more look abroad from his lofty perch.

The group of white people in the glade were as he had seen them. But the meal now seemed to be over and the savages had risen from their sprawling postures on the grass and were gathered together in animated council.

Leaving them for a moment, Bomba’s eyes swept the horizon, and his heart gave a bound as he detected the smoke from another campfire in a different direction.

This second column was in the vicinity of the cabin in which Bomba made his home with Casson! Poor old Casson, weak and sick and bewildered in mind! What chance would he have, if he were attacked by the headhunters? Not the least in the world, thought Bomba, his heart turning sick with apprehension.

He must get to the old naturalist at once. If he could not live with Casson, he could at least die with him.

Moving with the utmost celerity, but keeping his eyes open for any stirring of the foliage that might betray the presence of the mate of the dead reptile, the boy made his way down the tree to the ground.

He reached it in safety, gathered up his bow and arrows, and with a look of disgust and repulsion at the grinning head that lay there, the jaws still open but the eyes glazed in death, started in the direction of the cabin.

It was here that his first duty lay. It gave him a wrench to abandon his resolution of helping the captives, especially the woman, whose plight had so deeply stirred him to pity. But this task had to be postponed. He must save Casson first. If he succeeded in this, he promised himself to take up the trail later and do what he could for the others.

As he traversed the jungle some of his animal friends saw and joined him. Kiki and Woowoo, the parrots, swooped down upon him, one on each shoulder, chattering and rubbing their heads against his. Doto, the monkey, dropped down from a tree and ambled along by his side, telling him in simian language how glad he was to see him.

At almost any other time Bomba would have stopped to talk and play with them, but now he was too worried and intent upon his errand to do more than give them a hasty caress and tell them that his heart was sad and burdened and that he must hurry on. They sensed his absorption, and one by one withdrew, though he was conscious that they were accompanying him overhead.

Bomba tore along at a rapid pace until he knew that he was near the place where he had seen the second column of smoke. Then he relaxed his speed, and moved forward with the stealth of a panther.

A little later he sniffed the smoke of a campfire and heard a jabber of voices.

Instantly he dropped to the ground and wormed his way on his stomach through the thick underbrush until he came to a spot where, by cautiously peering through the leaves, he could see a score or more of savages, whom he knew to be headhunters.

They had evidently just concluded their meal and were gathering their weapons together in preparation for moving on.

Bomba glanced from one to another of the faces in search of Nascanora, his bitterest enemy. But Nascanora was not there. The man who seemed to be chief, judging by the deference shown him by the others, was as tall and powerful as Nascanora and bore some resemblance to him.

Bomba recalled what Hondura, a friendly native chief, one time had told him, that Nascanora had a half-brother, Tocarora by name, with whom he divided the chieftainship of the tribe. It might very well be, thought Bomba, that the leader he now looked upon was Tocarora, come perhaps to avenge the wound that Bomba had inflicted upon his brother the night the headhunters had attacked his and Casson’s cabin.

One fact especially made this seem probable. Hondura had told things that made Bomba believe that Tocarora was at times half-crazy, owing to a blow that he had received in a fight. Bomba thought that now he could see in the leader’s eyes a lurid light that bespoke a deranged mind.

But the boy had little time to spend in speculation. The savages were preparing to march, and, from the gestures of the chief, they intended to go in the direction of the cabin. At all costs, Bomba must get there first.

He made a circuit of the camp, and when he was confident that he was out of sight and earshot, rose to his feet and made for the hut with the swiftness of a deer.

Roots reached out to trip him up, long vines depending from the trees sought to throttle him, the underbrush tugged at him as he forced his way through. But he kept on, summoning all his speed and strength, until finally he broke into the little clearing where the cabin lay.

The door was ajar, and he rushed into the hut, where Casson was lying asleep in his hammock.

The sudden incursion roused the old man, and he started up in alarm.

He was so frail that it seemed as though a breath would blow him away. Straggling locks of white hair formed a frame for a face as withered and colorless as parchment. The lines in his face had been graven there by intellect and force of character, but there was no indication now of either of these qualities in the faded blue eyes that were turned on Bomba.

“What is the matter?”

“The headhunters!” panted Bomba. “They are coming! They will try to kill us!”

“The headhunters!” exclaimed Casson incredulously. “How do you know?”

“I saw them,” cried Bomba. “Do not talk. Do not wait. We must go. We must hide. Quick!”

He half lifted the stupefied old man from the hammock and set him on his feet. Then he darted about the cabin, replenishing his stock of cartridges and arrows and gathering up what food he could find.

An exclamation from Casson caused Bomba to whirl about. His heart sank as he looked through the doorway into the open.

A swarm of savages was pouring from the jungle and rushing toward the hut!