Bomba the jungle boy

Bomba was awake instantly. He strove to rise, but fell back heavily. His limbs seemed weighted with iron.

At the same moment another shrill cry from Casson reached him!

“Vampires! The blood-sucking vampires! Quick, Bomba! Quick!”

As Bomba’s eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom of the hut they caught sight of the horrid creature that had provoked Casson’s cry of warning—a blood-sucking vampire bat, as large as a hawk, with a spread of over two feet across the wings.

True to its habits, it had attacked its victim while the latter was sleeping. It had settled on Bomba’s feet and started to suck his blood, while its great flapping wings kept up a gentle fanning motion, designed to soothe the lad and keep him asleep as long as possible.

Bomba had been so exhausted from his exertions of the day before that the bat’s task had been easy, and it had been able to prey on him for a long time undisturbed.

In a flash Bomba knew what had happened to him. This, then, was the reason for that strange numbed feeling in his legs. Much of his blood must have passed from him to the vampire to render him so weak.

The bat was still at his feet, draining him of the vital fluid, flapping, flapping those terrible wings with a lulling motion.

A wild fury assailed Bomba, rage at his own impotence.

With a tremendous effort, he raised himself to a sitting posture and moved his half-paralyzed legs.

The vampire left its perch on Bomba’s foot and flapped into the air a short distance, its vicious, beady eyes fastened malignantly on the boy’s face. Bomba knew that the terrible creature, with the cunning instinct of its kind, was aware of his weakness, and would not easily be frightened off.

At the same moment there was another cry from Casson, and two other sinister shapes flapped their way into the half-ruined hut.

Bomba gave a hoarse cry, staggered to his feet and reached for the heavy club that he always kept close by his side when he slept. With the other hand he grasped his machete and turned grimly to face the invaders.

But even as he turned, he staggered and almost fell. He was horribly weak. He could hardly hold the weapons. It was a gigantic effort even to lift them above his head.

He called to Casson, hoping for some help from the old man. But the aged naturalist was sitting upright on his improvised couch of boughs and palm leaves, and his eyes were fixed with the bewildered, half-fascinated look of a frightened child upon the horrible winged intruders.

Bomba groaned. Lifting the machete with a tremendous effort—he had already discarded the club, finding the weight of both weapons too much for him—he made a feeble advance upon the enemy.

There was a whirring of wings, and the hideous creatures swooped down on him in a black, loathsome cloud.

Bomba gave way before the fury of the onslaught, striking at them with the machete, while with the other arm he shielded his face from the batting of those merciless wings.

Sensing his weakness, the bats became more bold and vicious. They pressed upon him, striking him about the head and body. There was a sharp pain in the arm that shielded his face, and Bomba felt a trickle of blood run slowly down to his finger tips.

He lowered the shielding arm and shook the blood from his fingers. He wielded the machete again, and this time found a mark. But the blow was weak, and far from seriously injuring his foe seemed only to have the effect of further enraging it.

There was a second fierce attack, and beneath the flailing of wings Bomba found himself borne to the floor.

In the fall the machete dropped from his hands.

Weaponless! Helpless!

In a fury of impotence, Bomba beat at the bats with both fists. He struck out wildly, blindly. But his wily enemies avoided the blows and pressed him the more viciously.

Bomba could not see that Casson had slipped from his bed and was staggering to his feet. Even if he had, he would have felt but little hope. Before Casson in his enfeebled state could be of any assistance, Bomba’s need of help would be over.

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.

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.

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!”