What was it that had waited for him with the stealth of the panther to leap upon him as he passed?
That one of the headhunters of the tribe of Nascanora had him in his grip, Bomba knew at the first touch of those fingers of steel about his throat.
Few could break the grip of the jungle Indian. Only those bred as Bomba had been among the very wild beasts of that tangled region could have hoped to free himself of that strangle hold.
With a tremendous heave of his powerful young shoulders Bomba flung himself upon his back, the Indian half over him. With frantic fingers the lad tore at that clutch about his throat.
Above, the thunder rumbled dourly. Dim flashes of sheet lightning served to deepen by contrast the darkness that enveloped the antagonists.
Strain as he would the lad could not force that hold to break. His head was reeling, his brain confused and black spots danced before his glazing eyes.
A flash of lightning brighter than the rest showed him the Indian, on whose face was an expression of fiendish gloating.
That look was a spur to Bomba’s failing senses. He thought of Casson, left defenseless with Bomba dead, and by a mighty effort raised himself and drove his knee with all his strength into the flesh beneath the ribs of his antagonist.
The blow was a surprise to the Indian, who counted his adversary as already beaten. He grunted with dismay and pain. For the fraction of an instant his grip relaxed, and in that instant Bomba had burst the iron ring about his throat and was on his feet.
With a bellow of rage the savage also sprang upright, whipping out a short knife from his belt.