Bomba the jungle boy at the giant cataract

by Roy Rockwood

It made Bomba catch his breath and stand entranced. For a few minutes he forgot that he was a prisoner, forgot the horrors that might await him. His soul drank in the beauty of this mighty cataract and its splendor. He had heard of its wonders, but had never dreamed it could be like this.

But there was little time to dwell on its grandeur and sublimity. The harsh voices of their guards drove the prisoners on. To the besotted minds of their captors the cataract was nothing, except that it signified that they were once more at home and now could revel in the torture of their victims.

The main village lay near the foot of the fall, and from this now came pouring out the women and children and old men of the tribe.

There were shouts of delight as they saw the number of prisoners that their warriors had brought with them. They gathered about the captives, taunting and jeering at them and striking them with sticks until the guards intervened, not out of pity, but in order that the captives might be kept in good condition for the horrid festival that Nascanora was planning.

The prisoners passed through the streets of the village and their hearts sank, for they saw the human heads, shriveled and blackened by the sun, that were fastened on poles on the tops of the wigwams. They had evidently been there a long time. Now a new collection was in prospect.

In the center of the village was a rough stockade. Into this the prisoners were corralled and left under the supervision of guards, while the others of the band dispersed to their homes.

The captives sank down under a pall of horror. This, then, was the end of the trail. A day or two more, while their captors were preparing for the great festival of blood, and then torture and death.

The only calm and collected person in the whole enclosure was Bomba. Not that he was dwelling in a fool’s paradise. He did not disguise from himself the awfulness of the situation. But he faced it unflinchingly. His courage had never been at a higher pitch. His mind had never worked more clearly. He could die, and die bravely, if need be. But he meant to live.

He was making things as comfortable as he could for Casson and little Pirah when he heard his name spoken. He looked up quickly and saw before him Ruspak, the medicine man.

It was Ruspak that Bomba had once captured in the jungle and compelled to accompany him to the cabin where Casson lay at the point of death. Against his will, Ruspak had been forced to minister to the sick man, whom his native medicines finally brought back from the grave. When this had been done, Bomba had dismissed the medicine man with gifts and they had parted with professions of friendship.