His heart sank within him. The cabin was a mass of flames. It was impossible for life to be sustained in that furnace for a minute. If Casson and Pipina had been trapped there, they were already far beyond human help. They must be just what the hut itself would be in a few minutes more, a heap of smoldering ashes.
For a moment Bomba forgot everything save the agony that clutched at his heart. Then a sound brought him back to the danger that menaced him personally.
Out from the shelter of the trees, crouched almost double, their horrible faces illumined by the lurid light of the flames, came a number of the headhunters.
They approached in a semicircle, cutting off Bomba’s retreat toward the front and on either side. Back of him was the blazing hut, the heat from which was already scorching his face and hands.
Bomba felt that he was trapped. His doom seemed sealed. He felt for the handle of the machete at his belt. He grasped his bow. He would not allow himself to be taken alive. Better instant death than the tortures of Nascanora. And he vowed that he would take more than one of his enemies with him.
He bent his bow, took quick aim and fired. A bronze-skinned buck clapped a hand to his breast, gave a frightful howl, and fell writhing in the dust.
But before Bomba could fit another arrow to his string there was a concerted rush and a dozen hands reached out to seize him.
Bomba leaped back quickly and drew his machete. His eyes blazed, his muscles tensed.
The Indians yelled and leaped forward.
Bang!