Ronnie hadn’t wanted this job. He knew driving the stagecoach through Dead Man’s Gap was going to be one helluva bad trip. But his family needed the money. His youngest son had just beat strep throat, and the doctor’s bills had mounted. Ronnie had needed the job, but he needed an Indian attack like he needed another asshole.

The first arrow had slammed into his back. As he leaned forward for the rifle at his feet, blood gushing from his wounds, he looked like a porcupine with all the arrows crudely stuffed into him.

He managed to pick up the rifle. His first shots had taken down two of the Indians circling the stagecoach, but that was before the arrow pounded its way into his neck.

As Ronnie’s corpse slumped down into the seat, he fell over the stagecoach’s brake. The coach ground to a halt, running over top of the horses that had been carrying it. The animals let loose with skin-crawling howls as the coach buried them into the deep sand of Dead Man’s Gap.

The last remaining Indians, three of them totaled, circled the stage. They raised their rifles and bows victoriously as they approached the survivors inside the stagecoach.

A large fat man by the name of Josiah Hedges struggled from the coach. He raised his hands in the air as he fell down to his knees.

“Please,” he muttered. He dug into his pants pockets, pulling out a wad of dollar bills. “Take my money! But please, spare me my life.”

The Indians laughed at him. One of them dropped down from their horse. He shot a steely glance at Hedges. And then, with one swift movement, ripped his tomahawk from his belt and smashed it into Hedges’ face. The blade split open Hedges terrified features. Its jagged edge cut deep into his face, grinding bone and brain as the Indian crudely pulled the tomahawk from him.

As the Indian pulled his knife from his belt and began to scalp Josiah Hedges, the other Indians whooped. Slowly, they began to trace their horses towards the coach. They dropped down stealthily as they approached the wreckage. Silently, they climbed aboard. Hidden down in the seat was an attractive lady by the name of Helena Rogers.

“I beg of you,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “Don’t hurt me.”

But her pleas fell on silent ears as the Indians crawled down into the seat atop her.

Atop a nearby ridge, Jonah Hex watched the scene unfold. He wasn’t prodded to go down and help the lone surviving lady now screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Why should I give a damn,” he cursed to his horse. “I’ve got enough problems of my own.”

And that’s when his problems mounted a little steeper.

Behind him, an Indian brave slowly sneaked atop him. The Indian lunged at him, knife held tightly in his red fist, and knocked Jonah from his saddle.

The blade sliced open Jonah’s left shoulder. Blood poured from the wound as he toppled from his horse. “Damned savage,” he spit. “Just don’t know what’s good for you.”

Both Jonah and the Indian spilled onto the ground. Riding him like a horse, the Indian pushed his knife down towards Jonah’s open throat. Ignoring the burning gash in his shoulder, Hex reached up and blocked the blow.

He wrestled the knife from the Indian, but a fist to his face made Jonah drop the blade.

As the Indian jumped off him, searching through the dust for the knife, Jonah pulled his .44 Frontier Colt and shot him through the back. Hot blood shot like a geyser from the wound. And as Hex pulled himself to his feet, he noticed that green-shit flies had already begun to congregate as the smoking bullet-hole.

Hex knew the shot would attract the other Indians. Straining against his wound, he managed to pull himself back into the saddle. He wheeled his horse around and plunged into Dead Man’s Gap. There were three other bodies he needed to add to his body count.

The Indians below looked up at the ridge as Jonah led his horse down into the fray. They whooped, again, smelling fresh meat.

One of them raised his bow-and-arrow and fired the first shot. The arrow missed Hex by mere inches.

“If that’s the way you want to play,” said Jonah, “so be it.”

His first shot took the Indian with the bow out of his saddle. His corpse crumpled to the ground and was smashed into the dust as the other Indians charged their horses forward.

Reining his horse to a halt, Hex aimed with his pistol and pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into the features of an unsuspecting brave. As his features were drowned in blood and bone, the Indian toppled from his saddle. In a scared dance, his horse trampled over his corpse, grinding him into the hot desert sand.

Using the death of his brothers to draw close, the last remaining Indian jumped from his mount. He tackled Hex and dropped them both to the ground.

Hex squinted against the choking dust. He was able to raise his arms just as the Indian swooped down with his tomahawk. The blade smashed into Hex’s forearms, cutting down to the bone.

“Motherfucker,” Hex grunted.

He hiked up his legs, barely able to kick the Indian from atop him.

“Kill,” said the Indian as he bent down on one knee.

Hex, still stunned, looked around for his lost .44 Frontier Colt. In the dust, he couldn’t see it. But he could see the Indian as he leaped through the air.

As he did, Hex pulled up his own knife and stuck it into the air. He pushed deep as the blade caught the brave beneath his jaw. As the Indian’s body fell onto the ground, thrown in spasms from the wound, Hex ground the knife deeper. He didn’t stop until the blade had cut through the Indian’s jaws and into his brain.

Hex pulled himself onto his face. He slipped his knife back into its scabbard on his belt and began to peer through the dust for his pistol. He found it laying, awaiting him, a few feet away.

“Help,” a weak voice called from the tumbled stagecoach. “Please, someone, help me.”

Hex, badly wounded, walked over to the stagecoach. He barely glanced at the scalped corpse of Josiah Hedges. A vulture was sitting on the dead man’s chest, picking away at his exposed brain.

Climbing aboard the stage, Hex peered into the dark shadows. Looking back at him was a badly scarred woman. One of the Indians had taken his knife and carved away one of her cheeks. It flapped as she tried to move her mouth. There was also blood dripping down the insides of her naked thighs.

“They raped me,” she muttered, watching Hex as he peered at the blood. “The savages raped me.”

“I can see for myself,” snarled Hex. “I’ve got eyes.”

“Please,” the woman said. “Help me.”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” asked Hex. He rose up his wounded arms. “I’ve got troubles of my own.”

“Kill me.” The woman managed to swallow over the lump in her throat. Tears streaked down over his mangled cheek. “Kill me.”

“What for?” asked Hex.

“I’m a whore,” the woman said. She reached up with ginger fingers, wincing as she touched her wounded face. “Nobody will want me like this.” She sucked back her tears. “I’ll have no way to make a living.”

“That’s your problem,” said Hex.

“Please,” she said, again. “Kill me.”

“Sorry,” said Hex, grunting. “I can’t do that.”

“You bastard!” she screamed. “You’ve already killed all those savages! What would one more be?”

“That’s for you to figure out,” said Hex. He dropped down out of the stagecoach.

“You bastard!” she said. Fresh tears exploded from her eyes. “You’re no better than those savages!”

Suddenly, from behind her, a lone shot exploded. It jerked her head forward as the bullet tore open the back of her skull.

“It’s always best if you don’t know it’s coming,” said Hex.

And then he watched as the vulture that had been feeding on Josiah Hedges climbed into the sky.

Hex wheeled his horse around. He spit on the hot desert sand, listening as it sizzled. “Birds gotta eat same as worms.”

“What the hell are you looking at, you ugly bastard?”

Hex glared at the man. He wiped away the drool that ran down his face from his bad eye.

“I said,” repeated the man, “what are you looking at?”

There were three men gathered around the hole in the ground. It didn’t take a smart man to realize that they were digging a grave.

Hex ignored the man. He finished hitching up his horse outside the Morning Sunshine Baptist Church and walked up the rickety steps to its front door. He rapped on it: HARD.

The door slowly opened.

“Come inside,” said the preacher, eyeing the guns holstered around Hex’s sides. “Please, come inside.”

Hex walked inside the church. He heard the preacher throw the bolts closed as he shut the door. He squinted against the darkness.

“You’ve got to help us,” said the preacher. “Please. You must help us.”

“I ain’t got to do a damned thing,” said Hex.

Through the dim light filtering through a stained-glass window, Hex saw a woman standing with a little boy at her side. She timidly waved at him. Hex nodded.

“You got any food?” asked Hex.

“I’m sorry,” said the preacher. “Our supplies ran out this morning.”

Hex turned to leave. The preacher held out his skeletal hands.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t leave.” He licked his lips. “I’ll give you gold if you stay.”

“Gold, you say?” Hex sneered at the man. He jerked a thumb towards the closed door. “Is that what those men outside want?”

“Yes,” said the preacher. “They believe the church stole their money.” He nodded towards the pulpit. “We took the gold and melted it down for the cross you see.”

Hex looked towards the front of the church. There, behind the pulpit, was a cross that glinted in the dim sunshine. “Did you steal it?” he asked.

“Technically,” said the preacher, “yes, we did. But we discovered it first. Tom Raven, and his brothers, the men outside, say we found it on their land. Now, they want it back.”

“Who’s that grave for?”

The preacher gulped. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny throat. “Me,” he whispered.

Hex grunted. He jerked a thumb towards the woman and little boy.

“What do they have to do with it?”

“That’s my wife and son,” said the preacher. He smiled at the little boy. “The sun shines on my little boy.”

“Does it, now,” said Hex.

From outside, the men became restless.

“Give it up, preacher!” yelled Tom Raven. “Give us our gold or we’re going to burn you out!”

Suddenly, from inside the vestibule, the preacher’s wife ran towards the locked doors. She began to throw open the bolts as he tried to stop her.

“Don’t go out there!” he commanded her. “They’ll kill you!”

“It’s a chance I’ve got to take,” she told him, wiping away the tears that welled in her eyes. “I’m not going to let them kill my son.”

The preacher let loose of her arm. He stood there, motionless, as she opened the door and spilled outside.

“You’re letting your woman go and do your fighting for you,” said Hex. “You’re not much of a man.”

“The Lord doesn’t permit me to kill, mister,” said the preacher. He eyed the guns peeking through Jonah’s holsters. “And if you were a man, you’d help us.”

“I ain’t a man,” he said. Hex sneered at him. “I’m the Devil in disguise.”

The preacher’s face went white. And then he heard the screams from outside the church.

Both Hex and the preacher looked outside the open door. In the yard outside, both of them could see the horrible scene unfold before them.

The preacher’s wife was laid spread-eagled on the ground. Tom Raven’s brothers had pushed her skirt up over her head, leering at her nakedness. They took turns raping her.

“We don’t want your ugly ass wife,” said Raven. “We want our gold.” He held up a blazing torch. “And if you don’t give it to us, we’re going to burn your ass to the ground.”

The preacher wiped a hand over his face. His tongue felt fat and swollen as he tried to swallow.

Suddenly, running between Hex and the preacher, the little boy ran outside into the yard. “Momma!” he cried. “Leave my Momma alone!”

Raven sneered at the little boy. As he ran towards his brothers, hitting them with his little fists, Raven picked him up. He ignored the child’s kicking legs and threw him on the ground. Raven lifted a boot and smashed it into the little boy’s face. He ground his heel into the boy’s skull, grinding bone and brain into the dirt.

“I ain’t gonna waste no bullets on no kid,” spat Raven.

“Looks like you’re little boy has gone where the son don’t shine,” said Hex.

The preacher fell back away from Hex. He escaped into the church, sitting in a pew and bowing his head. Silently, he began to pray.

“Your time is up, preacher!”

Raven walked around the side of the church. He swept his torch against the worn wood, stepping back as fire licked up the side of building.

Hex shot a glance at the two brothers. One of them was standing, his pants bunched around his ankles, as he picked up a torch. The other took a knife and slashed open the preacher’s wife’s throat. Hot blood stained her lily-white flesh.

“Get those flames to burning, boys!” shouted Raven.

And they did. The roar of an inferno began to embrace the church.

Hex glanced over his shoulder. The preacher was still perched in the pew, silently praying.

He walked out of the church and to his mount, which was stomping the ground. Hex ran a hand over the horse’s mane, quieting him. He slipped up into the saddle.

“Where do you think your ugly ass is going?” said Raven.

“Away,” said Hex.

“You ain’t going no place but the grave,” said Raven, and he slapped leather.

But Hex was faster. He pulled out his .44 Frontier Colt and shot Raven cleanly between the eyes. For good measure, he pumped another bullet into the dead man’s fat guts and groin.

“You’re gonna pay for that, mister!” said one of the brothers. “We’re gonna bury your ass in the bone yard!”

Hex remained calm as he killed the two brothers. He shot one of them in the throat, watching as the brother attempted vainly to stop the wound. Hex put him out of his misery by shooting him in the forehead. Brains spewed out of the wound and onto the last brother.

As he attempted to wipe away the brains distracting his vision, Hex shot the man in the guts. He tilted forward onto his knees before toppling back onto the ground.

“Gut wound is the worst,” said Hex. “It’ll take you a while to die.” He gazed into the sky at the vultures circling through the oily smoke billowing up from the church. “You’ll probably still be alive when the buzzards eat your eyes out.”

Suddenly, from the church, the preacher spilled out. The flesh on his face ran down in molten globs of skin. His eyes were turned a deep yellow, popping from his face like fried egg yolk. His skeletal hands were charred, and flames licked up his robes. He clutched the golden cross in his hands.

“Help me,” he muttered. “Put me out of my misery.”

“Sorry, preacher,” said Hex. He stepped out of his saddle towards the man. He took the cross away from him. The preacher stumbled to the ground.

“Forgive me of my sins,” he said.

“God forgives,” said Hex. He pulled himself back into his saddle. The preacher fell forward, the flames engulfing his body. “I don’t.”

_____

Next Issue: Jonah Hex ventures into San Francisco’s Chinatown where he stumbles upon an opium and child prostitution ring. Hex gets deeper into trouble when he meets a young lady which offers him more than he might be able to handle…