Bomba edged himself still further between the bowlders until he found a place where he could look through without himself being seen.
At once he saw the reason of the excitement.
A dead jaguar lay stretched out on the ground. One arrow protruded from its side. Another was imbedded in its throat.
Two natives were inspecting it and gloating over their kill. They were vigorous and stalwart specimens, somewhat above the usual size of jungle dwellers. Their faces were savage, but not so brutish as those of the headhunters of Nascanora. They were unclothed, save for the customary breech clout. On their broad breasts was painted a tribal emblem that Bomba had never seen, and a band about the forehead of each held a cluster of nodding plumes.
While the language in which they spoke had some words that were unfamiliar to Bomba, he was so well versed in most of the dialects of the jungle, which differ little, that he had no trouble in understanding what they were saying.
“The aim of Sunka is true,” boasted one, as he bent over the dead beast and proceeded, with the aid of his knife to get the arrow from its throat.
“No truer than that of Boshot,” retorted the other, as he sought to reclaim his arrow from the body. “See how it went through from side to side!”
“The jaguar is brave, but he is not so brave as the fighting men of Japazy,” went on Sunka, as he examined his arrow, dried it and returned it to his quiver.
“His leap is as the lightning, but when the arrow sings he falls,” added Boshot. “I see Olura, Tama and Abino coming,” he went on, as he looked toward a trail at his right.
“They have heard the jaguar roar and they come to help,” declared Sunka. “But there is no need of help when Sunka and Boshot have fitted their arrows to the string.”