The noise of the shot had frightened the other two marauders, and they hovered about fanning the air with their great wings, manifestly uncertain whether to return to the attack or take refuge in flight.
Relieved of the weight of them, Bomba raised himself unsteadily on his left elbow and again lifted the magic gift of the white men.
Despite his fatigue, his weakness from loss of blood, Bomba was fiercely exultant. He had done with this wonderful weapon what he had failed to do with the club and the machete.
But there was small time allowed him for jubilation. The vampires, the first moment of panic passed, evidently resolved not to let their prey escape them and again returned viciously to the attack.
This time Bomba was ready for them.
Casson, watching from the remote corner of the hut, saw the boy slowly lift the weapon. Bomba waited until the first of the assailants was almost upon him. He was by no means sure of his skill with this death-dealing weapon, and he meant to take no chances of the bullet going wild.
There came a second report, another wild flapping of wings, and he had lessened the odds against him by half. But the remaining vampire kept on straight for Bomba’s head.
Bomba pulled the trigger again, but only an ominous click answered him. Twice he tried again desperately, and with the same result.
And now the vampire was fairly upon him.
Acting purely on instinct, Bomba shifted the revolver in his hand, and with the butt end of it struck at his enemy. He hit the bat full on its ugly head, and it fell stunned to the floor.