So, on the innocent heads of Casson and Bomba they were prepared to vent the irritation caused by this invasion. And here was one of the troublemakers who had walked right into their hands. What better opportunity to get him, at least, out of the way? Casson could be dealt with later.
So Bomba’s instinct had not played him false when it had warned him that he was in danger. He read doom on the faces of all that scowling group.
He knew that to try now to escape would be useless. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that all escape was cut off from the rear. A score or more of Indians had magically appeared to swell the group, no doubt those who had been following and spying upon him in the jungle.
The women and children of the tribe had gathered at one end of the maloca, and were looking on stoically at the scene.
As Bomba reached the circle of Indians about the chief a dozen sinewy hands reached out to grasp him. In a moment more he would be helpless, a prisoner where he had expected to be a guest. And none knew better than Bomba what it meant to be a prisoner of the Indians.
But before one of the reaching hands could close upon him there came a shrill cry from among the group of squaws and maidens.
While all turned in surprise at this unexpected interruption, a small girl, not more than six or seven years old, detached herself from the group and rushed toward Bomba.
While the lad stood amazed and unable to move, the little thing took his hand in her own and turned to face the chief.
“Kama-rah!” she exclaimed impetuously. “Kari Katu Kama-rah!” and touched the white boy on the chest.