“There will be caymans in the ygapo,” muttered Bomba thoughtfully. “Bomba cannot swim with Pipina and fight at the same time. Yet we must cross the ygapo if we are to be in the camp of the good chief before the sun comes up.”
“Pipina cannot cross,” whimpered the old woman. “She will be killed and Bomba too will be killed. Wait here till the darkness goes, and we will cross by the light of the sun. Bomba can make a raft and we will go on that.”
“Our enemies are about us,” returned Bomba, as he bent a frowning look upon the surrounding forest. “If we wait, they will find us and drag us to the village of Nascanora. We cannot wait. We must go.”
“The river roars,” wailed the squaw, wringing her hands. “It waits for Bomba and Pipina like a jaguar hungry for its meat. It is death to cross.”
“A little way from here there is a log across the water,” said Bomba. “What better bridge do Bomba and Pipina want?”
“The log is slippery,” moaned Pipina. “Bomba must go on. His feet are sure. But he cannot carry Pipina. He will fall. Bomba go alone. Leave Pipina behind.”
Ignoring the woman’s protests, Bomba caught her in his arms and bore her swiftly along the banks of the stream.
He came to the log that stretched from bank to bank of the ygapo, or swamp. At this point it had narrowed to the proportions of a moderately wide gully. Usually there was only a muddy ooze at its bottom.
But now the tropical rains had filled the gully, and a raging torrent roared between the banks.
Bomba’s bridge would have been but a poor one at the best of times—a tree trunk cut down close to the bank in such a way as to fall across the gulch.