However, he had no more time to hunt. He at least had the jaboty, and he could promise to bring the natives more game at some future time if they would let him have the hammocks he needed.
The sound of a drum rang through the jungle. Bomba halted, head up, every sense alert.
He was hard upon some Indian maloca, that was certain. The medicine man of the tribe was beating the drum to propitiate the particular god worshipped by his people.
Was it the village of the Araos he was approaching? It should be, by his reckoning of time and distance. Yet it was by no means certain, for these tribes shifted their locations frequently as they followed the game trails or searched for better fishing places.
Even if it were some other tribe, however, Bomba had no reason, he thought, to fear their active unfriendliness. The head-hunters were the only real enemies that he was conscious of having in the jungle.
He went on, therefore, trying to stifle some vague premonition that was stirring within him. He had a feeling, an instinct, that something unpropitious was in the air.
Soon the increasing signs of human habitation warned him that he was in close proximity to a village.
In accordance with Indian etiquette, which resents a sudden intrusion, he clapped his hands and shouted.
The echo of the shout died away in the forest. There was no answering call.
Bomba waited stoically, betraying no outward sign of uneasiness. After a few moments he shouted more loudly than before.