At last they paused and grouped themselves together for consultation. Bomba’s eyes strained through the darkness, trying to ascertain their number. His ears sought also to get what they were saying. Had it not been for the noise of the tempest, he might have succeeded in this, for he was familiar with most of the dialects of the jungle dwellers. But all he could hear was a low growl that conveyed to him no meaning.
Then the sound of voices died away and the only noise was that of the storm. The black mass of figures had dissolved. Bomba seemed to be alone.
Had the headhunters passed on? Had they been warned perhaps of some danger that menaced them as well as the fugitive?
For a moment the heart of the jungle lad leaped with hope. Then his sensitive ear caught a rustling that he knew was not occasioned by the wind.
No, they had not gone. Some, perhaps, but not all.
A lightning flash more dazzling than any that had gone before rent the darkness of the jungle, flooding it with weird, unearthly light. In that flash Bomba caught sight of several Indians crouched in the vicinity of the tree.
There came a rending, splintering crash that nearly shattered his eardrums, a detonation that seemed to shake the earth.
A giant tree near by, struck to the heart by the bolt, toppled and crashed toward the earth. The Indians yelled and tried to flee. A blood-curdling scream rang through the jungle as the tree trunk thudded to the ground.
Bomba sensed what had happened. There was only one meaning to that scream.
“The storm does Bomba’s work better than he can do it himself,” muttered the lad.