He freed himself and struggled doggedly onward. It was not far to the hut of Pipina now, but, pursued by the demons of the storm and having to hack his way at times through the underbrush, each yard had to be fought for.
Then, suddenly, Bomba stopped.
His hand grasped tightly the hilt of his knife, his eyes narrowed as they searched an especially heavy clump of bushes.
Another flash illumined the thicket and Bomba saw the ugly head of a jararaca, the rattlesnake of the South American jungle, upraised to strike.
As the world was again bathed in blackness the serpent sprang. At the same instant Bomba dodged, his hand darted forward and caught the reptile by the neck. His fingers closed upon that slimy neck like a ring of steel. The snake writhed fearfully and threw its coils about Bomba’s arm.
Had the lad’s fingers relaxed the merest trifle, the fangs would have found their mark. But those fingers kept up their relentless pressure until the thrashing coils gradually grew limp.
To make assurance doubly sure, Bomba beat the reptile’s head against a rock, then flung the hideous thing far from him into the bushes.
“The snake is quick,” said the boy to himself, in justified pride, “but Bomba is quicker.”
He plunged forward again, but in a moment stopped, listening intently. What was that?
Only the threshing of the rain, the roar of the wind?