Читать книгу Bomba the Jungle Boy at the Moving Mountain - Walter S. Rogers - Страница 6
ОглавлениеTHE WHITE MAN’S MAGIC
Like a flash Bomba darted to the door, slammed it shut, and dropped the heavy bar into place.
He was not a moment too soon, for the next instant there came the impact of heavy bodies against the door. But the bar held, and the assailants fell back to the fringe of the forest, where, concealed by the trees, they could deliberate upon their next move, now that their attempt to spring a surprise had failed.
After all, they had plenty of time. Their quarry was trapped and could not escape. The appearance of either one outside the door would be the signal for his being shot full of arrows before he could go ten feet.
Although despair tugged at Bomba’s heart, he gave no indication of it. The instant he had slipped the bar into place he began making his preparations for defence. The five chambers of his revolver were loaded and a supply of cartridges lay near by. A sheaf of arrows was placed close to his hand. Seated by one of the loopholes with which he had provided the cabin, he looked toward the woods for a target. None presented itself, and his little store of ammunition did not permit him to engage in aimless shooting.
The woods beyond remained as silent as the grave. Bomba wondered how long that calm would continue. He glanced at the position of the sun and saw that it was about the middle of the afternoon. He thought it possible that the savages would defer their main attack until after dark. It was likely, too, that they were waiting for others of their party—those, perhaps, who had captured the whites—to rejoin them so that they might be in full force when they made their final assault.
Still, it was surprising, considering their immense advantage in numbers, that they did not attack at once. Bomba smiled to himself grimly as he guessed the reason. The little garrison was held in wholesome respect. The savages remembered all too well what had happened to others of their tribe on a previous occasion such as this and were not at all desirous of taking any chances that might be avoided.
Casson, who at first had been stupefied by Bomba’s sudden irruption with his startling news, now regained something of self-possession and joined with Bomba as well as he could in the preparations for defence.
When all was done that could be done, the old man crept close to Bomba where he was maintaining his vigil.
“Is it Nascanora who has come back?” he asked.
“No,” replied Bomba. “Nascanora is not with them. He was hurt the last time he came, and now he may be dead. Or he may be with another part of the tribe,” and he went on to narrate what he had seen of the savages and their captives from the top of the dolado tree.
The old naturalist sighed heavily.
“Heaven help those poor creatures if they are in the hands of the headhunters!” he murmured.
“Who is heaven and how can he help them?” asked Bomba, with his usual directness.
But Casson made no answer. He seemed to be deep in cogitation.
“Who was the leader of the party that you saw?” he asked, after a long silence.
“He was a man who looked like Nascanora, but his eyes were strange,” replied Bomba. “I think it was Tocarora, the man whose mind is not right, the one who, from what Hondura says, is a half-crazy man.”
At this moment there came a long, curious cry from the trees behind which the savages were hidden. It was not a war whoop, but seemed designed to attract the attention of the besieged.
A moment later it was repeated, and then a voice came from some unseen speaker.
“Tocarora would make talk with the white man,” said the voice.
Bomba and Casson looked at each other.
“What shall we do?” asked Bomba.
“We will listen to him,” replied Casson. “It will do no harm. Your voice is stronger than mine. Call out to him that we will hear his talk, but he must come out where we can see him, so that we may know we are talking to a chief who will be able to do what he says he will do.”
Bomba repeated the message, using the speech common to the natives of the jungle, that which, with some slight variations, could be understood by all the tribes.
There was a pause, probably for consultation, and then an answer came back.
“If the white man will not shoot with his arrows or the iron stick that spits fire, Tocarora will come,” the voice said. “And the white man too must come out to meet him.”
The proposition was fair enough, if no thought of treachery lay behind it. But concerning this Bomba was very dubious. He looked doubtfully at Casson.
To his surprise a great transformation had taken place in the appearance of the old naturalist. He was under the influence of some idea that seemed to have electrified him. His apathy had given place to energy. For the moment he was the keen alert scientist whom Bomba had known before the accident that had robbed him of his memory.
“Tell him yes,” he said to Bomba, who was staring at him as though he could not believe his eyes; “but tell him that if his tongue is forked, the fire stick will speak and he will die. He must come without weapons, and must tell his men not to shoot. I will do the same. When the talk is over, he may go back unhurt to his men and I will come back to the cabin.”
Bomba repeated the directions, although he was by no means convinced of their wisdom. He had no faith in the outcome of the conference. He dreaded treachery and feared lest the simple-minded Casson should be overmatched by the cunning of the savage. He would have much preferred to carry on the parley himself.
But on the other hand he could not divest himself of the weapons, which he alone was qualified to use effectively. With these he must cover the chief during the conference and be ready to use them on the first sign of violence or bad faith.
While Bomba was relaying the message Casson moved about the hut, gathering together with feverish haste some small objects which, in the semi-darkness, Bomba could not clearly discern.
A few minutes later Tocarora stepped out from behind a tree, wholly unarmed, his hands held high above his head with the palms extended toward the cabin in sign of amity. At the same moment the door of the cabin opened and Casson stepped out, making the same amicable gestures.
They eyed each other for a brief space and then moved slowly toward each other until they stood face to face in the middle of the clearing.
They presented a striking contrast—the powerful, copper-colored savage and the frail, attenuated white man. It seemed as though the former could have broken the latter between his thumb and forefinger.
Yet there was an indefinable something that stamped Casson as the master of the situation. What was it, Bomba asked himself, that gave Casson the supremacy? And he answered his own question with a throb of exultation.
It was because Casson was white. His soul was awake. And Tocarora was a savage. His soul was asleep.
And he, Bomba, was white! He could have shouted with joy, despite the gravity of the situation.
Of the two antagonists as they faced each other, Casson was the first to speak.
“Why has Tocarora come from the Giant Cataract to the cabin of the white man?” he asked gravely.
“There is good hunting in this part of the jungle,” replied Tocarora evasively.
“Tocarora speaks with a double tongue,” Casson said reproachfully. “It is not well. It is not the tapir nor the jaboty that Tocarora is hunting when he rushes to the cabin of the white man and tries to get into the door.”
The savage chieftain looked confused.
“There is no evil in the heart of Tocarora for the white man,” he professed, though he could not meet the steady gaze of Casson’s eyes. “He wants the white man to come with him to the Giant Cataract, but he will not do him harm.”
“Why should I come to the Giant Cataract?” asked Casson.
“It is the will of Nascanora,” replied Tocarora. “He has been ill, and many of his people have suffered from the sickness. He thinks that the white man’s magic has done this, and he wants that you should remove the spell that you have laid on the tribe.”
“I have laid no spell,” declared Casson. “My magic is good magic. I have done no evil to Nascanora and his people. I would rather do them good.”
“But it is Nascanora’s will that you should come,” persisted Tocarora stubbornly. “He will make you many gifts, much cattle.”
“The white man needs no gifts,” said Casson haughtily. “What would my magic be worth if it did not bring me what I want? Things come to me when I call. Behold!”
From his left hand he let drop some nails and fragments of arrowheads.
“They will come to me when I call,” he announced.
He bent down and extended his right hand, in the palm of which he held a magnet concealed.
“Come!” he called.
The bits of iron leaped from the ground to his hand. Casson straightened up and nonchalantly dropped them, together with the magnet into his pocket.
“What do I need of the gifts of Nascanora when even the hard iron obeys me?” he demanded.
The effect on Tocarora was prodigious. How could he doubt what he had seen with his own eyes?
He started back, his eyes bulging and the sweat of terror breaking from his face.
“The white man’s magic is strong,” he managed to get out from his trembling lips.
“Oh,” said Casson with a gesture of indifference, “that is but little compared with what the white man can do. He carries fire at the end of his fingers. Behold!”
He lighted with a match a small torch of pitch pine that he had brought with him. Tocarora jumped as the match blazed up. He had never seen anything like it. He viewed the stump of the match fearfully and seemed relieved when Casson threw it away.
Still, though this was a new method of making fire and he did not understand it, it hardly appealed to him as supernatural.
“Tocarora make fire with stick too,” he said, referring to the native method of twirling a hard stick in a bowl until a spark was produced.
“Yes,” assented Casson, who had been busy shuffling his feet, “but not with finger. Look!”
He blew out the torch, from which a slender shred of smoke ran upward. Then, touching the top of the smoke column with the tip of his finger, now full of electricity, the torch again burst into flame.
Tocarora’s face was a study in bewilderment and apprehension. He looked about him as though seeking a path of retreat from the white wonder-worker.
Casson noted the effect produced and followed it up immediately.
“Why is Tocarora carrying betel nuts in his ears?” he queried. “Are they a present for the white man?”
The savage put his hands impulsively to his ears.
“I have no betel nuts there,” he said. “Is the white man making a mock of Tocarora?” and he drew back his lips in a menacing snarl.
Casson reached over and plucked a betel nut from Tocarora’s right ear. Then he took another from his left ear. Then he plucked them in rapid succession from the savage’s nose, lips, eyes and throat.
