The report seemed to madden the remaining brute. With a howl of fury it sprang at Bomba.
Quick as a flash, the boy dodged, missing by a fraction of an inch the impact of that heavy body and the death-dealing blow of the terrible paw.
As Bomba leaped, his foot caught under a root, and he almost fell. In his struggle to regain his balance, the revolver fell from his hand.
The puma had turned and crouched for another spring. Bomba had no time to stoop and recover his weapon. The boy gave himself up for lost.
But even as the puma launched itself in its spring, a great body shot across Bomba’s vision and met the assailant in mid-air.
It was Polulu who had finished his first opponent and now came to the rescue of his friend.
Teeth tearing, claws going like piston rods, the ferocious brutes fell to the ground and rolled over and over, growling, spitting, biting, each trying to get a strangle-hold on the other’s throat. No quarter was to be given in that desperate fight. It was to be a battle to the death.
Bomba, gladdened by his sudden deliverance when all hope had seemed lost, stepped back out of reach of the combatants. He felt for his revolver and found it.
Bomba could see now that Polulu, wearied from his first victorious battle, was at a disadvantage against the fresh young puma. The boy circled about the duelists, seeking for an opportunity to help the friend who had so loyally helped him.
The chance came sooner than he had expected.