Hell Come Sundown by Nancy A. Collins Read Free Book Online

thing’s gaze.
    To his horror, there were dozens of similar creatures boiling out from under the boardwalks and crawlspaces of the surrounding buildings, like maggots escaping a corpse. He made a mental note to himself to amend his opinion of Farley. The man was definitely a horse thief, but he certainly wasn’t a liar.
    He turned to flee to the relative safety of the church, only to find his way blocked by more of the erstwhile citizens of Golgotha. They stood shoulder to shoulder, their bloodless faces fixed into masks of depraved longing. He’d rescued men held captive by Indians until they where starved into scarecrows who didn’t look that hungry. He fired his Colt .45 into the crowd that encircled him. Of the six dead’uns he hit, only one dropped and stayed down—from a head wound that took off her sunbonnet along with the top of her skull.
    With a collective shout of anticipation, the creatures surged forward, clawing at Yoakum with yellowed nails. They swarmed over him like rats attacking a wounded terrier, violently biting and clawing one another as they jockeyed for position. Yoakum kicked, punched, bit and gouged eyes as best he could, but they seemed immune to any punishment he meted out. In the end, there were simply too many of them. Within seconds of emptying his pistol, he was overwhelmed.
    What had once been the town’s blacksmith clamped cold, clammy fingers about Yoakum’s throat. The Texas Ranger drove his fist into the undead thing’s face with all his might. Though he could feel the creature’s from the force of the blow, his attacker continued to pull him inexorably forward. As the blacksmith opened his mouth, a graveyard stench rolled forth, causing Yoakum to gag. He didn’t know what was worse—dying at the hands of fiends, or having to endure their stink while doing it. Suddenly, there was a shout that froze the entire congregation in their tracks.
    â€œÂ¡La Parada!”
    The dead’uns crowded about Yoakum abruptly withdrew. As the burly blacksmith let go of Yoakum’s throat, the Ranger dropped to his knees, coughing raggedly as he fought to regain his breath. He looked up as he massaged his bruised and swollen neck, staring in mute amazement at the figure before him. Even if he had not heard Farley’s story about the mummified conquistador, he still would have known that this was their leader, the one they called Sangre.
    The Spaniard stood well over six feet tall, with long black hair that fell past his shoulders, and an equally dark beard and goatee that gave his face an appropriately saturnine appearance. Save for his pallid complexion and a set of overlong, yellowed fingernails, there was little to indicate to the casual observer that he was as cold as yesterday’s mutton.
    Sangre stared down at Yoakum with eyes that glittered like rubies held before a flame. Although he still wore the rusty morion helmet and armored vest he had originally been buried in, the revived conquistador was also outfitted in a pair of denim trousers and cowboy boots, no doubt taken from one of his recent victims. The others milled about him at a respectful distance. The way they kept their eyes riveted on him, while avoiding his gaze, reminded Yoakum of a pack of hounds anxiously awaiting their master’s command.
    The undead conquistador pointed a talon-like finger at Yoakum and spoke in a booming voice. “¡Primero sangres es mía!”
    The dead’uns muttered to themselves. It was clear that they did not like what Sangre had to say, but were unwilling to argue the matter. The conquistador allowed himself a smile, displaying fangs the color of antique ivory.
    â€œLa paciencia, mis niños. Después que yo soy hecho, èl es suyo.”
    â€œLike hell!” Yoakum growled, spitting a wad of bloody phlegm onto the conquistador’s boots. Like most Texans, he understood Spanish about as well as he did English. And he knew he