There was nothing that his eyes could tell him. Not a leaf stirred nor was there any movement in the brush. There was only that ghostly rustling that to Bomba’s sensitive ears was as plainly perceptible as the rumbling of distant thunder.
Then something shaped itself, vague and dim behind a thicket. Like a beast at bay, Bomba crouched, pulled his bow from his shoulder and plucked an arrow from his pouch.
Before he could fit the arrow to the string a hideous chorus of shouts rent the air, and like magic the jungle was filled with men, men with the ferocious faces of demons, who rushed upon him, shouting and brandishing their sharp, murderous knives above their heads.
Bomba had no time to turn and flee. He dropped his bow, whipped out his machete and backed toward a tree, only to feel himself seized from behind and borne helpless to the ground.
A score of natives bent above him, their faces menacing, their knives pointed at his throat.
“Hondura?” grunted one of them. “Where is he?”
A light dawned upon Bomba. These were braves of the Araos tribe seeking their leader. They blamed him, Bomba, for the disappearance of their chief—Bomba, who at that very moment was on his way to rescue that chief from captivity.
“Let me up and I will tell you,” he said, refusing to quail before the fierce eyes directed upon him.
They hesitated, evidently suspicious of some trick. But finally the leader, a strapping native named Lodo, whom Bomba remembered having seen on his recent visit to their village, ordered that a close ring be formed about the lad. Then he ordered him to stand up.
Bomba did so, and Lodo advanced toward him, knife in hand, his gaze lowering.