Into Bomba’s heart sprang a great joy. This was the voice of Pipina, the squaw—the voice that he had never expected to hear again. And where Pipina was, must be Casson!
He was off like a deer in the direction from which the cry had come.
“Bomba hears you,” he called softly. “Bomba is coming.”
“Help!” came the feeble voice again. “Pipina is caught and cannot get loose. Come quickly.”
Bomba wondered why he did not hear Casson’s voice, if Casson still lived. But he said nothing and hurried on, hacking a passage through the undergrowth.
He came nearer and nearer to the wailing woman until, pushing aside a tangle of vines, he saw her. The moon, following close on the heels of the tropical storm, was now riding high in the heavens and shedding a soft luster over the jungle. By its light, Bomba caught sight of Pipina as she stood holding out helpless hands to him.
She had been caught in a thorn thicket that had cruelly scratched her hands and arms as she had struggled to free herself. Her wrinkled face was drawn with pain.
By the deft use of his machete Bomba cleared away the clutching branches and released her. The old squaw staggered dizzily, and the lad put this arms about her shoulders to support her.
“Casson!” muttered Bomba hoarsely. “Tell me, Pipina! Tell me quick! Where is Casson?”
The old woman drooped her head and stood there like a bowed statue of grief, but said nothing until Bomba, mad with anxiety, shook her gently by the shoulders.