Hell Come Sundown by Nancy A. Collins Page B

lash. “Get him on his feet!” Sangre snarled, pointing to Hell’s prone body.
    Two dead’uns obediently grabbed the former Ranger and jerked him upright.
    â€œWe undead are a hardy breed,” Sangre said, retrieving the knife tucked into his boot. “We break a leg and it knits within hours. Pluck out our eyes, and they grow back in a fortnight. While we cannot regenerate severed limbs, or survive a fire, for all practical purposes we are immortal. That can be both a blessing and a curse. As you will soon discover.
    â€œI shall have you drawn and quartered, so that you can never again raise a hand against me or run away from me. Then I shall have your eyes gouged out, your ears cut off and your nose sliced off.” Sangre mimed the actions with short, sharp jabs of his knife. “I will keep you in your own little box, like I was kept. And whenever your eyes, ears and nose start to grow back, I will have them removed yet again. And again. And again!” Sangre pressed the flat of the blade against Hell’s cheek, angling the tip so that it was directly under his right eye. “Perhaps then you will learn your lesson, eh?”
    â€œLord Sangre!” one of the bandits blurted. “Something’s happening at the mission!”
    The conquistador turned to see the double doors of the church swing wide open and Cuss Johnson come barreling out, bellowing at the top of his lungs, a huge wooden cross clutched in his hands like a battle standard. Sangre’s spawn, made bold by their feeding frenzy, surged forward, shrieking in delight at the prospect of another meal, only to have the first of their number that came within striking distance of the cross burst into flame like dry kindling.
    â€œCome on, you sorry sons of bitches!” Cuss yelled as he swung the cross like a giant baseball bat. “Come and get it!”
    The dead’uns drew back, their hunger overridden by their sense of self-preservation. Since the enemy was refusing to attack, the former gunrunner waded in among them, swatting them like so many flies. “Hold on, Sam!” he shouted as he set an Apache dead’un ablaze with a backhand swing. “I’m comin’!”
    Sangre cursed and motioned for his remaining human servants, who were gawking at the sight before them with open mouths, to close ranks around him. “What are you fools waiting for?” he shouted. “Shoot him!”
    The bandits opened fire and Cuss went down in a hail of bullets, the cross falling from his hands before he hit the ground. Hell used the distraction to break free and run to where his friend lay dying on the hard earth. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Dark Ranger snatched up the fallen cross.
    Though he was wearing leather gloves, he could feel his hands grow hot the moment he touched the icon. Screaming in anger, grief and pain, he charged toward Sangre, who stood behind his wall of human killers. He could feel bullets enter his chest and belly, but they meant nothing to him and hurt even less. Smoke curled from his palms as he brought the cross down onto a bandit’s skull, and he put the searing pain in his hands out of his mind. As he flailed away, all he could see in his mind’s eye was his father, desperately chopping at the rattlesnake that had bitten him before it had a chance to slither away and kill someone else.
    The bandits protecting Sangre fell away, their heads crushed and necks fractured, until there was nothing separating Sam Hell from Sangre. He swung the cross high above his head, but as he was about to bring it down with all his might, his leather gloves dissolved in a burst of flame, setting his hands afire. Though Hell tried to maintain his hold on the cross, the agony was too great. He dropped the wooden icon to the ground, where it continued to burn. Gasping in pain, Hell dropped to his knees, holding his charred hands before him in a grotesque parody of prayer. The