Hell Come Sundown (9 page)

Hell, Cuss and Pretty Woman charged the corral. Pretty Woman put a bullet into the armed guard, knocking him off the wall. Cuss fired at the conquistador, striking him in the chest, but Sangre didn't so much as blink. Sangre bared his fangs and moved forward, sneering his disdain for his attackers.

“Don't waste your ammo on him!” Hell yelled. “Let me handle Sangre.”

He fired his pistol, catching the conquistador in the right shoulder. Where the previous bullet seemed to have no effect, this time Sangre shrieked like a cat and clutched his left arm. There was anger in the conquistador's scarlet eyes, but also fear. Never before had he been wounded by a conventional weapon.

Hell raised his pistol higher for a headshot but was distracted by the volley of gunfire from the direction of the village. Sangre's followers had tossed aside the liquor in favor of their guns and were rushing to their master's aid.

Pretty Woman threw open the gate to the horse pen and fired her pistol over her head. The frightened animals bolted forth, charging right for the onrushing bandits. The strawberry blonde screamed as she disappeared under the hooves of the stampeding livestock. Upon seeing the chaos before him, Sangre tossed back his head and gave voice to a cry so high-pitched it was more felt than heard.

“What in the devil is he doing?” The stage driver asked as Hell freed his hands.

“Calling for reinforcements,” the Dark Ranger replied, as pale, gaunt-faced figures emerged from the shadows of the ruined buildings, their eyes gleaming in the dark. “We have to get to the church—
fast!”

Sangre's unholy offspring were an odd mix of gamblers, Indian braves, dancehall girls, horse thieves and school marms, most of whom were still dressed in the clothes they had died in. Hell gave up counting when he reached thirty.

“Get to the church! All of you!” he shouted.

“What about you, Sam?” Cuss asked.

“Don't worry about me. As long as I'm wearing this, I'll be okay in there,” he replied, tapping the bloodstone we wore about his neck. “I just need you to get these people to safety.”

The newly freed prisoners did as they were told, running as fast as they could up the hill. However, Katie Tucker made the mistake of looking behind her. When she saw the legion of dead'uns at the base of the hill she screamed and lost her footing. Pretty Woman heard the girl cry out looked back to see her sprawled on the ground, paralyzed by fear as Sangre's spawn swarmed up the hill. Cursing under her breath, the medicine woman reversed her course.

“Damn it, child! If you want to live, get up!” Pretty Woman barked, grabbing the girl's upper arm.

“I—can't! I'm too scared!” Kate sobbed.

“Don't look at them! Look at
me
!” Pretty Woman shouted, jerking Katie to her feet. “Now run, and don't stop!”

Katie lurched up the hillside, alternately sobbing and gasping. Even though her heart was beating so fast it felt like she had a hummingbird stuck between her ribs, she did as the Comanche shamaness told her. She did not look back until she reached the door of the church, where her mother and younger brother were waiting for her. Only then did she turn around, just in time to see Pretty Woman disappear under a mass of pale, dead flesh.

The interior of the church was empty save for some wooden pews, an altar located in the nave and a full-sized wooden cross hanging from the wall above it. The stained glass windows had long since been destroyed by the ravages of time, leaving the floor covered with rainbow-colored shards of glass.

“Is everyone here and accounted for?” Hell asked, a concerned look on his face. “Where's Pretty Woman?”

“I fell down and she came back to get me and—and—” Katie burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. “They were all over her!”

Though the news hit Hell like a kidney punch, he tried his best not to let it show. He was surrounded by frightened, confused people way out of their depth, and they were all looking to him to get them out of the situation they were in. He had to keep up a strong facade, or the others would come unraveled like so much bad knitting.

“We've got to barricade ourselves the best we can. I need you, Clem, and you, Elmer,” he pointed to the stage driver and his assistant, “to move these pews in front of the doors. And I want you two to try and do the same with the windows,” he said, pointing to Mr. Crocker and the salesman.

“Why bother? We're doomed, no matter what!” The salesman spat, kicking at the shards of colored glass that littered the floor. “This being a holy place might keep the hell-beasts at bay, but it won't slow down the others.”

“That's no way to be talkin' in front of the women and kids!” Cuss snapped. “Now you do as Sam says, or I'll toss you outside myself! You savvy me, slick?”

The salesman opened his mouth to argue, but there was something in the old-timer's eyes that made him decide against it. Grumbling under his breath, he set about his task.

Cuss took Hell's elbow and pulled him away from the others. “Remember I told you I was a gunrunner? That's the reason I know about Diablo Wells in the first place. Last time I was here was just before my lowdown snake of a partner tried to turn my leg into firewood. I had a feelin' he was up to something, so I hid a cache of guns here, just in case he tried to run off with all the goods.”

“Lot of good that does us stuck here,” Hell sighed.

“Son, when I said I hid them
here
, that's exactly what I meant.” Cuss grinned, pointing at the altar. “The inside's hollow. Help me move the lid. It's damned heavy, but it comes off.”

Mrs. Crocker, who had been doing her best to comfort the weeping Katie, frowned her disapproval as the two men laid hands on the altar. “Here now! What are you two doing? That's the Lord's table!”

“And the Lord helps those who help themselves, my good lady,” Cuss said, touchin' the battered brim of his hat before returning to his task.

“I'll get it,” Hell said, lifting the heavy oaken altar top as if it were made from balsa wood.

Cuss peered into the interior of the altar and let loose with a whoop. Inside were a box of rifles and two cases of ammunition.
“Hallelujah!
We might not exactly be shittin' in high cotton, my friend,” the old gunrunner said with a grin. “But at least they can't see us from the road!”

As Cuss distributed the guns among the men, Hell climbed onto an upended pew to look out one of the windows, and what he saw was enough to make his heart skip a beat, if it weren't already as still as a stone.

The church was ringed by Sangre's spawn, who kept about six feet of distance, as if held back by an invisible barrier. They muttered and moaned among themselves, staring at the church with an awful hunger in their crimson eyes. Sam had first thought

Sangre's men had stolen the horses and the rest of the livestock from the trading post for their own uses, but now he realized it was to feed their master's progeny.

“¡Salga de mi manera, los tontos!”

The pallid hungry faces parted, allowing Sangre to stride forward. His left arm was in a makeshift sling fashioned from a bandana. The conquistador was accompanied by two of his human servants, who held between them the limp figure of Pretty Woman. Her head had dropped forward, so her hair obscured her face. The toes of her moccasins dragged the ground behind her.

“Ranger!”
Sangre shouted. “Ranger, do you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you!” Hell yelled back.

“As you can see, I have
su puta india
. It was all I could do to keep my followers from eating or raping her—if not both. As for myself—I do not think I will make her one of my brides. She is too headstrong, and willful women never make good wives.” Sangre grabbed Pretty Woman's hair, pulling her head back so Hell could see her bruised and swollen face. “However, I think her skin would make an excellent leather vest—do you not agree?”

“Damn you! What do you want?”

“The same thing you want from me, Ranger—to look you eye-to-eye as I kill you! But I am willing to make you an offer,
mi amigo
. I will spare
la india
if you are willing to come forward, and meet me,
mano a mano.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“What choice do you have? You do as I say, or the squaw dies now.” Sangre motioned to one of the bandits, who pulled a machete from his belt and positioned the blade against Pretty Woman's exposed jugular. “Either way, it is your decision.”

“Very well! I'm coming out!” Hell replied, jumping down from his perch.

Cuss and the other men were gathered by the front door. “What are you doin', Sam?” the old man asked. “It's a trap!”

“I know. But I have no choice. You told me you had to do right by the Tuckers—well, it's the same for me and Pretty Woman. I've got to try and get her back. Just shut the door as fast as you can and make sure that barricade stays in place. If it's a trap, don't hesitate to open fire. Don't worry about shooting the dead'uns, just focus on the living bastards working for Sangre, otherwise you're just wasting ammo. I'm counting on you to hold the fort until dawn. That shouldn't be more than a couple of hours from now. If you can make it to sunrise, then everything else will seem like a cakewalk.”

“I got you, Sam. Good luck out there, partner.”

“Same here.”

The doors to the old church opened just wide enough to allow Hell to step out. The sound of the barricade being quickly put back in place behind him was as final as Judgment Day.

Chapter Seven

As Hell strode to where Sangre stood waiting for him, the dead'uns drew back, quivering like whipped dogs. One of the human bandits stepped forward and aimed his pistol at Hell's head. He froze, shooting an angry look in the direction of the Spaniard.

“I thought you said this was to be
mano a mano.”

“And so it shall be,
mi amigo,”
Sangre said with a crooked smile. “But first, please be so kind as to hand over your gun belt. I do not know what sorcery you have used to charm the bullets in your gun, and I do not intend to suffer any further wounding at your hand in such a manner.”

Hell glowered as he unfastened his holsters and gun belt and handed them over to the bandit pointing the gun at his head.

“You have proven yourself a worthy adversary, Ranger,” Sangre admitted. “Ah! I see you are surprised that I know of you. How could I not, when each time you destroy one of my disciples, I, too, feel the wound, one step removed? As one of the undead, you know that all I create are bound to me by blood. And that includes you. I made a gross mistake when I did not hunt you down and destroy you the night you escaped Golgotha. Like the living, the undead are made in their maker's image. Yet not all of my spawn are created equal. Most are weak-minded, sheep-like creatures, good for nothing more than cannon fodder. Feeding may spread the seed of our kind, but such promiscuity dilutes the breed. That's why I, alone, feed on humans, while the others must make do with horses and livestock.

“Humans of strong character and powerful will are rarely good choices for resurrection, because they are the ones who weary of servitude and eventually challenge their maker for control. Those prone to virtue also make very poor spawn. Take that dreary little man from the trading post, for example. I drained him as needed, but I denied him rebirth in my image. As for you,
mi amigo
, I sensed you were too strong-willed, too ‘good' to be gifted with eternal life. But I was still giddy with freedom after spending centuries folded like a suit of old clothes, and allowed you to escape.

“I came to this accursed new world with Cortes, our hearts burning for gold and glory. But where he was proclaimed a god, I was declared a devil. Not that I did not give them good cause to think so. It was the Indian slaves who first gave me the name ‘Sangre,' you know. I heard stories of a tribe of wizard-priests dedicated to Xipe Totec, god of the Aztec goldsmiths, said to be guardians of a great treasure. I took my men and went in search of their temple. It took me several months, and I lost many of

men to fever and jaguars, but in the end I found them. The wizard-priests claimed to be the result of the mating of human women and gods. Perhaps that is true, for they all possessed six fingers and toes. But if they had divine blood in their veins, it did not save them.

“I roasted each and every one of them alive, turning them on spits above a pit of coals like suckling pigs, but still they refused to tell me where they had hidden their gold. Their high priest cursed me, saying that he would turn the invaders' sword upon them, then spat in my eye just before he died. When I returned to Cortes empty-handed and told him what I had done, he had me clapped in irons. Not long after that, I was placed in the stockade, where I fell ill from a fever and died. But I did not stay dead.

“Three days after I was buried, I clawed my way free of my grave. It did not take long before Cortes and his followers realized there was a demon in their midst. My plan was to remake the entire Aztec Empire in my image and name myself their demon-king. Once I secured my hold on the New World, I would do the same to the Old. All this was within my reach, if not for Cortes's concubine, that wretched whore Malinche.

“She was the one who coerced the old Aztec wizard into helping her lover defeat me. At first the sorcerer saw no reason to do anything to benefit the invaders. But when she claimed that Huitzilopochtli, the sun god, would punish the Aztec for turning their face from his shining countenance in favor of eternal darkness, he relented and cast the spell that created the bloodstone.

“Malinche knew that since I had lusted after her in life, I would eventually come for her in death. She pretended to lay sleeping as I slipped into her hut. As I leaned forward to take her blood, she sat up and placed the charmed amulet about my neck. I was instantly rendered powerless and fell onto the floor motionless. Although I was still in possession of all my senses and knew everything that transpired about me, I was unable to move or speak.