He knew them at once. They were the Araos coming to the rescue of their chief. There was Lodo, evidently in command, a little apart from the rest. And there was Grico, squatting on his haunches and bringing weird sounds from Bomba’s harmonica for the delectation of his mates.
Bomba stepped from the shelter of the bush, his hands upraised with palms outward in sign of friendship.
There was a chorus of ejaculations, a hurried grasping of weapons, and then shouts of pleasure as they recognized the newcomer.
They crowded about him with every manifestation of delight, overwhelming him with questions. And cries of joy went up as Bomba, in as few words as possible, told them what had happened and that Hondura with the ex-captives must be close at hand and coming to meet them.
Instantly their meal was forgotten as they gathered up their weapons and supplies and prepared to go forward to greet their chief, their women, and their children.
Grico, the man with the one eye and the split nose, had listened to Bomba’s story with such absorbed interest that he still held the harmonica loosely in his hand. Bomba reached out coolly and took it from him.
Grico looked astonished and sheepish. And he was still more abashed when Bomba, noting a protuberance in Grico’s pouch, reached in and drew out the precious revolver.
“It was good of Grico to keep these for Bomba till he should come back again,” said the boy in the friendliest of tones, as he stowed away the treasures in his pouch.
His look was so kindly, so innocent, that Grico did not know what to do or say. Ordinarily this would have meant a fight. But Grico knew that Bomba was a bad opponent to pick for a fight, and, besides, at this moment, the boy was high in the favor of the tribe.
And Bomba’s eyes were very compelling, despite their friendliness. Grico had never heard of an iron hand in a velvet glove, but he felt that something of that kind was very close by.