The tribe was small, reduced in numbers by the periodical inroads made upon it by some of its neighbors. Also, led by an aged man who relied more on charms and incantations than upon valor, it stood in a fair way of utter extermination.
Among the men was a youth of promise, Oomah by name. He was a general favorite, praised by the men for his deeds of courage and daring, admired by the women and beloved by the children.
Oomah was only seventeen. Still, at that early age he stood half a head above any other member of the tribe and was built in proportion. It had been hinted on more than one occasion that he was to be their next leader. But, if he knew of it, he gave not the slightest evidence of the fact. He went about his affairs as stolidly as ever, indifferent to all but the urge of the water, the lure of the forest and those other things that rounded out the well-filled days of the annual period of recreation.
And now the time had arrived when that period must soon come to a close. But the sun was shining still, the wind blew and the birds shrieked in their revels overhead.
The men were dozing in their hammocks; the women had built fires over which to roast the turtle meat for the evening meal. And the children played in the sand.
A shout went up suddenly from one of the group.
“Here comes Oomah now.”
“Yes! We will run to meet Oomah,” another said. “See, he brings birds from the forest.”
They raced toward the oncoming figure still a few hundred yards away on the edge of the sandbank. Each wanted to be the first to reach his side and to hear from his lips the story of the afternoon’s hunt.
“Oh, look,” the leader said in wide-eyed wonder when they all came to a stop in front of the mighty hunter. “A gura and a chapla. Tell us, Oomah, how did you get them?”