“The white man bad medicine,” said the Indian, his scowl deepening and his hand tightening on his spear.
“He is good medicine,” declared Bomba.
“He is a Man of Evil,” was the reply. “He bring trouble on my people. Much sickness. Many die. Chief Nascanora very angry. He make talk with big medicine man, and medicine man say there will always be sickness as long as white man stay alive.”
A thrill of apprehension ran through Bomba.
“Old white man is good man,” he protested energetically. “He hurts nobody. He would like to cure people, not make them sick. He has been here many years. He is a brother. He has a good heart.”
“He is a Man of Evil,” repeated the other doggedly. “Medicine man say so. Medicine man know. Tribe will have trouble, much trouble, unless old white man die.”
Bomba tried to collect his thoughts, which had been thrown into a tumult by these ominous words. It came to him that perhaps this man was an emissary of death chosen by the tribe to accomplish its purpose. If this were so, Bomba, boy though he was, would have been ready to do battle with him for the life of Casson.
But if the man were not alone, if companions were near at hand, that would put another aspect on the matter. Then craft and strategy would have to make up for the disparity of numbers.
“My brother has come a long way,” Bomba said, changing the subject. “The home of his people is near the Giant Cataract. Why has my brother come so far from his own people to do his hunting alone?”
“I am not alone,” was the answer. “Many of my people are near me. If I call, they will come.”