It squirmed and writhed and twisted, seeking to sink its fangs into the hands that held it. Its jaws, slavering with poison, were never more than a few inches from the boy’s flesh. If Bomba’s hands should slip from that slimy throat ever so little, his doom would be sealed.
The snake knew this and redoubled its exertions. But Bomba knew it too, and held on with desperation, sinking his powerful fingers deeper and deeper into the reptile’s throat.
If he could only hold on a little longer!
For time was on his side. The snake, deprived of breath by that choking grasp, must eventually succumb. Its only chance lay in the possibility of Bomba’s hands slipping or his nerve failing.
But his hands did not slip nor did his nerve fail.
Gradually the struggles of the snake grew weaker. A glaze began to steal over the horrid eyes. The grip of its body about the boy’s leg slowly relaxed. Then at last the reptile straightened out and its head hung limp.
Bomba still retained his grip for another minute or two to make assurance doubly sure. Then, when no doubt remained, he threw the reptile to the ground and with one stroke of his machete cut off its head.
Only then did he sink down on the ground, panting and exhausted. The tax had been a tremendous one, not only on his muscles but also on his nerves. He had seldom been brought more closely face to face with death.
But he had conquered, and a tingle of exultation ran through his veins. He cast a glance of disgust at the grinning head of his dead foe, and then turned his attention to the human enemies without.
The struggle had been carried on in such silence that it had not attracted their attention. They were still at some distance, beating the bushes for their prey and uttering exclamations of disappointment and chagrin.