When he had almost reached them, Polulu stopped and growled warningly.
Three growls answered him, and Polulu knew that, confident in their numbers, they were accepting the challenge. They were defying his authority, a thing that none of them would have dared do if alone.
Jungle bred as Bomba was and used to fighting for his right to live, a momentary doubt entered his heart as to whether he ought to ask Polulu, his friend Polulu, to give battle against such odds in a quarrel not his own.
But such thoughts were idle. In the jungle, if one lived at all, one must not question but must act. Moreover, the puma was filled now with the excitement and joy of battle and could not be stopped before victory or defeat had come to him.
Polulu started forward, his big head swinging from side to side, yellow eyes gleaming, lips drawn back wickedly from his fangs.
Before him the other beasts gave ground slowly, grudgingly, growling with increasing irritation as they were crowded back toward the jungle.
They were not really angry yet. Polulu’s strange conduct bewildered them. They did not know his object. Ordinarily the beasts shared the water hole without dispute, their fighting instincts subdued for the time by the gratification of a common need.
But now they were growing fierce from this summary eviction. When Polulu would have driven them still further back, so as to give Bomba free access to the water hole, their growls grew more menacing and their bodies crouched closer to the ground.
But they had been crowded a considerable distance away from the pool, and Polulu turned and looked at Bomba as though to assure him that the way was clear.
Bomba would gladly have waited until the trio of enemies were fairly out of sight. But he knew now that Polulu would feel hurt and bewildered if he did not come. It would make the brute seem foolish. Had he not driven off Bomba’s enemies? Was he not now standing guard? Did Bomba distrust his power?