He returned the scowl of the Indian with a flashing smile that showed all his white teeth, and, beating with his two clenched hands upon his bronzed chest, cried in a loud voice that held no sign of quavering:
“Karo Katu Kama-rah!” thus declaring himself “Good white friend!”
Without any relaxing of his scowl, the Indian grunted “Ugh” and pointed to the jaboty slung over Bomba’s shoulder.
The boy took the still living turtle by the bush cord with which it was tied and held it out to the Indian.
The latter received it with another grunt, and, beckoning Bomba to follow, threaded his way through the bushes to the maloca.
Bomba followed, knowing by a sixth sense that he was himself being followed and spied upon. He could feel eyes boring into his back. Yet not once did he catch sight of a dark-skinned form, nor did the cracking of a single twig beneath a brown foot betray the presence of anyone but himself and his Indian guide in all the silent jungle.
In a few minutes they reached the maloca.
It was only a small Indian village, with perhaps thirty primitive dwellings arranged in circular fashion about a small clearing.
The “huts” were of the simplest sort. Some were merely hammocks, swung between two poles. Palm leaves formed the roof of these rude abodes, wholly insufficient to shelter their owners from the mildest of tropical storms.
But the dwelling of the chief was more elaborate. This was more like the cabin that Bomba shared with Casson, except that only two sides of it were enclosed.