Bomba did not know whether it was dead or not. But he meant to make certain, and he struck at the bat again and again until it was a mass of pulp.
The battle was over. It had been like a struggle in a nightmare. In every other fight in which he had ever engaged he had been in the full possession of his senses. His courage, his agility, his strength had been at his command. But in this fearful combat the loss of blood before he awoke and the resultant physical weakness had put him under a terrible handicap.
But the soul of him had not failed. His indomitable fighting spirit had brought him through a victor.
He lay there panting, and it was some time before he could struggle to his feet.
He shoved the carcasses of the vampires from him with a disgusted grunt. Then he balanced the revolver in his hand and stared at it with a strange gleam in his eyes.
“I am like the white men now,” he said to Casson, as the latter crawled over to him. “I can use the fire stick!”
CHAPTER XII
KIKI, WOOWOO AND DOTO
Bomba’s exultation subsided somewhat when he recalled the fact that the much-prized weapon had failed to work the last time he had pulled the trigger.
“It is broken and there are no white men here to give me another,” he groaned.
Casson took it in his shaking fingers and examined it. Long years before he had been an expert shot with both rifle and revolver and was thoroughly familiar with their mechanisms.