In the dark he could have eluded the eyes of his enemies, for no snake could move more silently. But now the open space was flooded with light. No figures were visible, but he knew that many eyes were watching from the surrounding woods.
Still he must chance it. He had faced death too often to let it daunt him now.
Summoning all his strength, he darted out into the open. His first few bounds carried him fifty feet. Then he dropped to the ground as a dozen arrows whizzed over his head.
It was upon this that Bomba had counted. He had timed his drop for just the instant that would allow the startled savages to aim and let fly.
He was up again on his feet, and before arrows could again be fitted to strings had gained another fifty feet. Again he repeated his stratagem, but this time not without scathe, for an arrow grazed his ankle.
“The arrow may be poisoned,” he thought to himself, as he felt the twinge of pain. “If it is, this is the end of Bomba.”
He reached the shelter of a tree and whirled behind it. On the side of the clearing he had just left, one of the headhunters, keen after his prey, had come from behind his shelter.
Like lightning, Bomba fitted an arrow to his string. There was a twang, a hideous yell, and the savage threw up his hands and fell headlong.
“There will be one less to fight Bomba,” muttered the lad. “They will find that Bomba can shoot.”
If any had been inclined to follow the fallen Indian, they had hesitated when they had seen him drop, and Bomba had a moment’s breathing space. He flew from behind the tree and, availing himself of what shelter he could find in his flight, came in sight of what had been his home.