The furious attack of his fists had kept the enemy at bay for only a few seconds, and now Bomba was utterly exhausted. His muscles refused to obey the commands of his will. His hands fell limp, and again the vampires settled upon him.
The arms with which he tried to protect his face were bitten a score of times. Blood welled from the wounds. One of the vampires had settled upon his chest. Its weight seemed to be crushing Bomba, smothering him. The next moment he expected it to be at his throat.
With a hoarse cry he threw out one arm. His fingers touched something cold and hard. The revolver, the gift of the white men!
What was it that thrilled Bomba as his fingers closed upon the barrel of the weapon? What meant the excitement that coursed through his weakened body as his finger felt the trigger? A feeling inherited from generations of white ancestors; the sensation of almost limitless power that the touch of a firearm brings to its possessor?
With all his remaining strength Bomba called for Casson to get out of the way.
“Fire stick! Shoot!” he cried, and Casson, understanding, backed into a far corner of the hut.
Bomba’s arm was throbbing and paining. He was bruised and beaten by those powerful wings. He felt as though almost the last ounce of strength had been drained from him. That sensation of overpowering weakness warned him that he must act quickly if he were to act at all.
Slowly he lifted the revolver and pressed it against the body of the bat that rested on his breast.
The boy shut his eyes, held his breath, and pulled the trigger.
There was a loud report, a curiously throttled squawk close to his ear, and what had been a vampire bat was now but a gory mass huddled on the ground.