A sharp detonation clashed against their eardrums like a crash of thunder. The force of the explosion shook the earth and flung the natives to the ground.
Bomba found himself on his face, half-stunned, bewildered. Mysterious missiles hurtled over his head, exploding in mid-air.
He raised himself cautiously to his knees and saw a sight that brought hope to his heart.
The Indians were in full retreat, and as they fled they looked over their shoulders at him fearfully, as though they blamed him for their discomfiture.
Bomba well knew the mind of the Indian. The cause of the explosion and the trembling of the earth were unknown to them. So they reasoned that it must be a spell thrown over them by Bomba, friend of the old witch doctor, Casson, to destroy them and save himself.
The Indians stopped in their mad flight at the edge of the jungle and looked back. One of them, more daring than the rest, raised his bow and took aim.
But before he could release the string one of the flying missiles struck the would-be slayer, hurling him to the ground.
This was too much. The savages turned terror-stricken and fled from that scene of mysterious death.
By this time Bomba had realized what must have caused the explosion. Their little store of powder, so carefully guarded by Casson and himself, had gone off when reached by the hot breath of the fire. The flying missiles were the last of the cartridges belonging to his revolver, that wonderful gift of Gillis and Dorn, the white rubber hunters.
Bruised and shaken, Bomba staggered to his feet, hardly able to believe his good fortune.