This done, Bomba went to the hut, lifted the body of Tatuc, bore it to the long narrow hole in the ground, and placed the remains in it.
The boy stood for several minutes, head bowed, heart heavy, looking mournfully at all that was left of the friend whom he had known and cherished for many years. Bomba had many fond recollections of that friendship. It had supplied in large part what he had lacked in human companionship. How many times a visit to Tatuc had relieved his sore and lonely heart!
“The vultures shall not have you, Tatuc,” he said simply.
Then he covered the body with palm leaves and over them put earth. He finished his work by piling up a cairn of heavy stones, so that no marauding beast of the jungle should search out the resting place of his friend.
Then Bomba threw himself face downward near the spot. He lay there for a long time motionless. He was swept by an intolerable sense of loss.
It seemed to him that he was a mere atom in the world. Who would care whether he lived or died? The white men were gone. He did not believe that he would ever see them again. Tatuc was gone. Casson was left. But Casson had become a mere child again and could not remember, did not want to talk, was wrapped in apathy, as much of a companion as a stone image.
But he had talked once, had almost remembered! Perhaps if Bomba were patient he would remember more one day. Then perhaps Bomba would learn more of what he meant when he had spoken those words that were indelibly engraven upon the boy’s memory, “Bartow,” “Laura.”
Bomba raised himself from the ground and for the last time stood beside the grave of Tatuc.
“Good-bye,” he murmured, and then he choked.
Turning and dashing the tears from his eyes, he plunged into the rain-drenched jungle.