CHAPTER XXII
THE CREEPING DEATH
Bomba, his head in a whirl, staggered back from the window when he heard the sinister words:
“Was not that the name of the man Japazy killed?”
Was it possible that the father whom he had sought so long was really dead? Had all his search been futile?
But the despair that this thought brought him was quickly swallowed up by another emotion. Rage, blinding rage, at the man who had killed his father, at Japazy, the half-breed, the arrogant, heartless monster who lorded it over this ignorant people.
If this should prove true—that Japazy was really his father’s murderer—Bomba then and there vowed vengeance. Let Japazy look to himself! Let him gather all his ghosts and demons to protect him! They would be of no avail. Bomba’s arrow or Bomba’s knife would find the black heart of the half-breed! His father’s murder should be avenged!
Bomba knew nothing of the Christian law of forgiveness. He had been brought up in the jungle, whose first law was self-preservation, whose second law was vengeance for evil received. If Japazy had taken Bartow’s life, Japazy’s life must pay the forfeit.
Oh, if Japazy were only here! Oh, if Bomba could meet him face to face and wrest the truth from him! The lad paced the room, gnashing his teeth with impatience.
His restless pacings brought him beneath the lovely pictured face on the wall. He gazed at it yearningly. If she were his mother, perhaps she still lived, even if his father was dead.
Then another thought came to him and his rage flamed up anew. Perhaps she, too, had fallen a victim to Japazy. The hand that slew the one might also have slain the other. In that case, Bomba would owe a double debt of vengeance. And he would pay that debt!