“They are like children,” he replied. “They think one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow. Then, too, they come from far off, and they do not know this part of the jungle. They might search for months and not find us.”
Such optimism made Bomba desperate. What could he do against the listless indifference of one who cared but little whether he lived or died?
“They do not know where we are,” he admitted; “but the caboclos who live here know. They may catch one of them and hurt him and tell him they will kill him if he does not tell them where we live. Then he will tell them.”
“Well, suppose he does?” sighed Casson wearily. “And suppose they come? We will do our best. We can do no more. Maybe we can talk to them and show them how foolish they are. If we have to fight, we will do that. If they kill us we cannot help it.”
But this calm fatalism was by no means to Bomba’s liking. Life ran strong in his veins, and he was determined to preserve it as long as possible.
“Listen,” he said. “I will make this house as strong as I can. I will pile rocks against the walls. And there is the boat in the stream behind the hut. If you hear them coming or see signs of them in the jungle, get into the boat and row down the river. They will have no boats. And the river leaves no tracks. I will learn how to use the fire stick. It will frighten them, if they hear it. Maybe they will think that we have magic and will go away.”
They were but slender props on which the boy leaned, but his stout heart did not quail at the odds against him. The life in the jungle—the jungle itself—was always against him, but his quick wit and unfailing courage had brought him through so far, and he dauntlessly faced the future.
For a long time after this the man and the boy sat in silence. Casson was wandering in some vague land of his own. Bomba kept repeating to himself over and over the words that had fallen from the old man’s lips, “Bartow” and “Laura.”
What had Casson meant? What had he been upon the point of telling?
Bomba did not know. But he was sure of one thing—that he would never forget those two words. Some day, perhaps, he would find out what they meant. But how? Would that closed door in Casson’s mind open? Would the jungle boy have to search for the knowledge he craved in the outside world—the world of the white men?