His footsteps had been directed toward the river, since that offered the shortest route to the region of the Giant Cataract. Now, however, he struck deeper into the jungle, not caring to be caught in a raging torrent if the river should overflow its banks. He remembered how nearly he and Mrs. Parkhurst had been overwhelmed by the waters while they were escaping from the Indians, and he had no wish to repeat the experience.
He quickened his pace, leaping over many of the obstacles in his path instead of cutting his way through them. He did not want to be caught in the open during the storm that seemed to be gathering. If a wind accompanied it, there would be a rain of castanha nuts from the branches, and many of these were big and heavy enough to kill anyone they struck.
He must find shelter of some kind. He knew of the existence of a cave not far away. If he could reach this, he would be safe until the storm abated. Fortunately the tropical tempests, though fierce while they last, are not of long duration, and Bomba knew that he would not be delayed long on his journey.
The storm was gathering with frightful rapidity. Now it was a race between the boy of the jungle and the elements. The roar of the thunder came closer. Jagged sheets of lightning shot athwart the sky. The wind tore through the jungle, shattering the ominous silence that had prevailed into jangled discords of sound.
The trees bent before that furious onslaught. Parrots, monkeys and other denizens of the jungle scurried to shelter.
The castanha nuts were ripped from their fastenings, and their thuds blended into a menacing chorus as they struck the ground.
One of these heavy missiles in falling grazed Bomba’s shoulder, sending a thrill of pain through his arm.
The cave was now not far away, but the wind was pressing with terrible force against Bomba’s straining muscles. Flailing, sharp-thorned vines whipped about his head, stinging, half-blinding him. His breath seemed torn from his gasping lungs, to be borne off mockingly on the wings of the terrible blasts.
Still Bomba’s muscles were iron and he forged forward doggedly, ignoring the thorns that tore at him, the roots that tried to trip him up, the vines that sought to strangle him.
He was closer—closer—only a short distance now, and he would be able to drag himself into the welcome shelter of the cave.