But it had been a terrible fight, and after Polulu had risen from the body of his dead adversary he was hardly able to move. He staggered away a few paces, and then lay down panting and exhausted.
Bomba let him rest awhile, and then went up to him and caressed the great, shaggy head.
“Polulu is a good friend,” he said gratefully. “It is not the first time he has saved Bomba’s life. There is no one in the jungle as big and strong as Polulu.”
The puma tried to purr, and licked the hand that fondled him.
Their strange friendship was of long standing. It dated from the time when Bomba had come across the puma trapped by a tree in the jungle, that had fallen upon the animal and broken its leg. The boy of the jungle had been stirred to pity at the creature’s distress. He had released him from the weight that held him, bound up the broken leg, and brought him food and drink.
By the time Polulu, as Bomba named the puma, had fully recovered, a strong attachment had grown up between the oddly assorted pair. Their paths often crossed in the forest, and more than once the great beast had saved Bomba from serious danger. Now, once more, he had come to the rescue when the lad was at the last extremity.
Leaving the animal to lick its wounds, Bomba hastened to the hut. Its inmates had no inkling of what had happened except that for some mysterious reason the attacks upon the door had ceased. The screams of the woman had given place to moaning.
“Pipina! Casson!” shouted Bomba. “It is Bomba calling. The pumas are dead. Open the door.”
Again there came a scream, but this time it was one of delight. There was a hurried removal of the barriers on the other side of the door, and then the old squaw came rushing out and threw her arms about Bomba’s neck, crying and laughing in the same breath.
Behind her came Cody Casson, his steps slow and uncertain, looking so frail that it seemed as though a zephyr would have blown him away, but with an affectionate welcome in his faded eyes.