CHAPTER VII
CARRIED INTO CAPTIVITY
For a moment Bomba stood stupefied with dread. Then he ran out into the open.
He beat the bushes about the hut. He dashed down to the edge of the ygapo, his quick eye scanning the expanse for some sign of the passing of Casson and Pipina.
Nothing anywhere. No footprints, no trampling of the bushes, no clue to guide him in a search for the missing ones.
To all appearances no one had trodden that deserted spot since Bomba had returned from his journey to the Moving Mountain.
Yet Casson was gone. Pipina was gone.
Bomba retraced his steps to the hut, his mind in a ferment of bewilderment and grief.
Indians! Only Indians could traverse the jungle with the silence and stealth of ghosts, leaving no trace behind.
“Nascanora!” The word hissed between the boy’s clenched teeth. “This is your work! If you have killed Casson, Bomba will not rest until he has found your heart with an arrow, a bullet, or a knife!”
The boy reëntered the empty hut with a sharp pain stabbing at his heart. He would search the cabin more minutely now for some sign, some clue, to the whereabouts of the absent ones. And if he could not find it there, he would call into play all his skill in woodcraft to find and follow their trail. For trail there must be somewhere. They could not have vanished into thin air.