What to do? Where to turn?
There was a stealthy rustling in the bushes, but as yet Bomba could see nothing. His fingers itched for the comforting feel of his bow and arrow. He almost groaned aloud when he thought of his lost revolver, the cherished “fire stick,” that at such close quarters could do deadly execution.
The faint rustling drew closer and closer. From the corner of his eye Bomba glimpsed a gleaming yellowish-brown body. Beyond this he could see the dim outline of another.
Two of them! And what chance would he have even against one?
Sensing his helplessness, the jaguars were gaining confidence. He could see their eyes now, glowing like sparks of fire. In a moment they would abandon cover altogether and begin to climb the tree.
Bomba could no longer disguise his presence. The beasts knew that he was there.
So the boy began suddenly to swarm up through the branches. If he could crawl out upon a slender bough, so slight that it would barely hold his weight, there was a possibility that the jaguars would not dare to venture after him.
It was a frail hope, for Bomba knew that when the jaguar’s blood was up he was relentless in pursuit of his prey.
Still, Bomba hoped against hope that he at least might find a better position from which to use his machete. At any rate, it was his only chance. So he went higher, and higher, his eyes searching for a strategic position.
His movement stirred his enemies to action. They broke from cover as he began to swing himself upward. A quick glance downward showed Bomba the swift advance of the lean, hungry brutes. It would be a race between them to see which would grasp him first.