But quick as he was, Bomba was quicker. He saw the gleam of the Indian’s steel, drew his own machete and with one stroke sent his enemy’s weapon whizzing off into the underbrush.
Like a panther, the Indian sprang upon the white boy, and before Bomba could strike home with the machete had seized upon the lad’s hand, striving to bend it backward and possess himself of the machete.
But if the Indian was strong, so was Bomba. He was fighting for two lives, his own and Casson’s, and, moreover, one of his fierce rages was upon him; one of those wild bursts of fury that for the moment gave him the strength of the jaguar, the wile of the fox, the quickness of the snake.
Bomba was all these in one now, as he fought with the Indian, straining backward and forward, resisting the pressure upon his knife arm, striving with all the power in him to drive downward the shining point of his machete, to sink it to the hilt in his enemy’s flesh.
For some minutes the fierce struggle went on. Then, with a sudden twist, Bomba broke the Indian’s hold, leaped backward several feet, and threw his machete.
It would have found its mark had not the savage fallen forward with the sudden releasing of Bomba’s pressure. The knife grazed his head. Thrown off his balance, the savage tried to recover himself. But the slime of mud and leaves made treacherous footing and the Indian plunged headlong.
Bomba was upon him with the swiftness of a jaguar!
CHAPTER III
THE BLAZING CABIN
At such close quarters Bomba could not use his bow, and he dared not fire the revolver lest it attract the attention of lurking foes.
Rising into the air, he came down with both feet on his enemy’s head. Then he stamped the head into the mud and ooze till the savage lay still.