“But the boy still lives,” returned the other. “Nascanora will not sleep well until he has his head upon his wigwam. Already this night the boy has beaten Toluro in fight. He stamped his head into the mud. And his arrows have carried death on their points.”
“The demons help him,” the other replied. “They come from the fire and strike down our men. He has the same magic as the old man with white hair. He is wiser and stronger than our medicine men.”
A few more words, and the Indians passed on, their going scarcely disturbing a leaf or a twig.
“They pass like the shadows of all things evil,” murmured Bomba to himself, as he cautiously rose again to his feet and prepared to resume his journey. “Come, Pipina.”
They made fairly good progress, considering Pipina’s age and weakness. There was no pausing to take their bearings, for Bomba was familiar with the way that led to Hondura’s village.
When the strength of the old squaw failed and she could go no farther, Bomba picked her up in his strong young arms and carried her with scarcely a lessening of his stride.
After a while they heard the sound of rushing water.
Bomba lowered Pipina to the ground and stood listening.
“The storm has filled the ygapo,” he murmured. “It will be hard crossing. Listen, Pipina.”
“I hear,” wailed the squaw. “Bomba cannot ford the ygapo. He must swim, and that will be hard with an old woman on his back. Pipina cannot swim.”