But his arrows would soon be gone. Then it would come to a hand-to-hand fight with the machete. But that weapon was only effective when wielded by a strong hand. He might strike with it, wound with it, but in his present wearied state he could not kill. And when it should drop from his paralyzed hand—But Bomba would not allow himself to think of what would happen after that.
Now his last arrow was really gone, and the vultures seemed more numerous than ever. Reinforcements had come to their depleted ranks.
Bomba stooped over and picked up his machete. But to his dismay he found that he could not lift it above his head. His numbed muscles had rebelled at last and refused to obey his will.
Then suddenly, mysteriously, the heavy cloud lifted. Bomba heard the whirring of wings in retreat. He looked up. The vultures had gathered as though in obedience to a signal and were winging their way above the trees.
For a moment the jungle boy did not know what to make of the sudden flight of his enemies. From his place on the ground he could not know what had startled the vultures.
Then he heard the cries and whimperings of the monkeys.
At the same time Bomba heard the rushing of wind through the jungle. It came with a roar like that of surf pounding upon the shore.
“The great wind!” cried Bomba, and raised his bleeding arms toward the sky.
CHAPTER XV
THE WRATH OF THE STORM
The great wind, the forerunner of the tropical thunderstorm, had come at the moment of Bomba’s greatest need.