Loot of the Wolf by Jackson Cole

Book Details

Loot of the Wolf (1947) – When a mysterious cache of outlaw gold leads to a reign of lawlessness and death, the Lone Star Ranger rides into the Big Bend with six-guns primed for a roaring showdown! Jim Hatfield pits himself against a chieftain of owlhooters dedicated to slaughter and terror!

Chapter I – Fire in the Night
Chapter II – “Two Steps from Hades”
Chapter III – El Gato’s Claws
Chapter IV – Fist and Whip
Chapter V – The Crusade
Chapter VI – The Half Moon
Chapter VII – Range of Fear
Chapter VIII – Loot of Death
Chapter IX – The Raiders
Chapter X – The Devil’s Playground
Chapter XI – In the Toils
Chapter XII – Fight for Life
Chapter XIII – Death Has Claws
Chapter XIV – Secret of the Pool
Chapter XV – Lair of the Cat
Chapter XVI – El Gato Strikes
Chapter XVII – A Ranger Rides
Chapter XVIII – Death Gamble
Chapter XIX – Ranger at Bay

Jackson Cole was one of the pen names of Peter B. Germano (1913-1983).

Loot of the Wolf has 6 illustrations.

Files:

1. LootOfTheWolf.epub

Excerpt: Loot of the Wolf

Chapter I

Fire in the Night

AN HOUR before, the blazing red sun had dropped abruptly behind the turreted battlements of the mysterious Chisos Mountains, streaking their scarred faces with elusive hues of crimson, mauve and purple. Racing shadows had swooped like a horde of black panthers down into the long, narrow valley that cradled the town of San Jon.

The settlement lay quiet in the early evening dark, dirty lamplight from doorways and windows spearing out into the rutted street. Wiry mountain horses stood hip-shot at racks. Roughly dressed, quick-tempered men drank and gambled in the saloons, some honest, some plotting their evil deeds in smoke-tainted shadows. For this was in the heart of the Big Bend, the wildest, toughest spot in all of frontier Texas.

In his office, Sheriff Judd Starke opened a desk drawer and took therefrom a half-empty bottle. Starke was a fat, red-haired, pale-eyed man whose crossed gun-belts dangled below his paunch. He had a reddish, down-curling mustache, and bristly tufts of red hair sprouted from the backs of his huge hands.

Young Jeff Ryder, Starke’s deputy, watched with open distaste as the whisky gurgled down his superior’s thick throat. Ryder was tall, dark-haired, with the grace and power of a wild animal evident in his muscular body. He wore simple range garb, with a bone-handled .45 in a holster strapped to his thigh. His brown eyes were straightforward and steady.

Sheriff Starke waved the whisky bottle airily. He was, as usual, half-drunk.

“Yuh worry too much, my boy,” he declared pompously to Jeff. “Things will work out all right. Shore, I know this El Gato has got away with a few things. But that’s about over. I’ll cut his sign any day now.”

“Yuh’ve been sayin’ that for a year,” Jeff Ryder said bluntly. “Folks are tired of promises—and of El Gato. They want action.”

“They’ll get it!” the sheriff said expansively. “Folks expect too much, and whine too much. What in blazes do they expect?”

“They expect the law to give ’em protection!” snapped young Ryder. “They expect that a killin’ thief like El Gato will be caught and hanged. They’re not whinin’. They’re just scared—scared that their families will be killed in the dark. And they’re bein’ ruined!”

Starke frowned, squinting his pale eyes solemnly.

“I know yuh’re right, my boy,” he said. “El Gato’s got a heart as black as a rattler with the hydrophobia. More, he’s smart. I’ve tried every way I know to track him down, to trap him. What more can I do?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

RYDER’S tone plainly implied that he thought the sheriff’s efforts had been rather puny. Starke looked quickly at his tall deputy, a glint of anger in his pale eyes.

“I’ll decide, all right!” he said sharply. “I’ll make the decisions in this office, don’t forget that. I made you a deputy because I thought—”   He broke off abruptly.

Jeff Ryder had risen quickly and stepped to the open door. The quick, hard thud of a running horse’s hoofs came to his ears. A horse and rider streaked across a shaft of light that slanted from a doorway, swerved and headed directly toward the sheriff’s office. The horse, Jeff Ryder had seen, was reeling, and he could hear the mount’s harsh, tortured breathing in the shadows.

As the animal slid to a halt before the sheriff’s office, Ryder leaped across the plank walk and ran forward, followed closely by Sheriff Starke. The rider had made no effort to dismount. He was slumped over the saddle-horn, and he also was breathing hard. A sharp premonition of evil gripped the deputy.

“Who is it?” the sheriff demanded. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Smoky Shane,” Ryder said, in clipped tones. “He rides for Bill Jason up at the Boxed H. He’s hurt, looks like.”

At the sound of voices the rider had pulled himself erect.

“Shot—in the shoulder,” he said, through tightening lips. “Not bad—but I must of passed out from the joltin’. That you, Jeff, and the sheriff?”

“That’s right, Smoky,” said Ryder. “Take it easy. Here—I’ll help you into the office. Then you can tell us what’s happened.”

Ryder helped the wounded Boxed H rider from the saddle and into the sheriff’s office, where “Smoky” slumped on a cot The deputy sent another puncher, who had thrust his head inquisitively into the office, scurrying after a doctor.

Smoky Shane was a blocky, tow-headed young fellow. His freckled face was pale and drawn with pain. Sheriff Starke had been bombarding him with a stream of impatient questions, from the instant he had dropped on the cot.

“A drink might help him,” Ryder suggested.

Reluctantly, the sheriff handed over his bottle, and the wounded man took a deep swig at it. Color flowed back into his face almost instantly.

“What happened, hombre?” Ryder asked gently.

The bottled-up words poured in a torrent from Smoky’s lips.

“There’s perdition to pay at the Boxed H! El Gato’s gang of killers raided us just before sundown. Bill Jason and me were there alone. We made a fight of it, but we didn’t have a chance. This bullet in my shoulder knocked me out. When I come to I was still layin’ where I’d fell, close to the corral gate. I just laid there, playin’ ‘possum and watched. . . Give me another shot of that red-eye, will yuh?”

Excerpt From: Jackson Cole. “Loot of the Wolf.”