Pulp Fiction Book Store The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole 1
Cover
IronFist800 500x750 The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole
The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole

The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole

Jim Hatfield- Texas Ranger

The Iron Fist – The sheriff was too old to keep the lid on a town as rough as Paydirt, and the marshal was too shady to trust, so the Lone Wolf drew the hot spot.

Book Details

Book Details

Jim Hatfield, known as the Lone Wolf Ranger, is lazing in a spring fed pool after a long hot ride. Defenses down and guns on the bank with his clothes, Hatfield finds himself at a disadvantage when some jasper wants to “borrow” his horse Goldy. But Hatfield is really in a pickle when the jasper gets shot down by a hidden sniper.

The Iron Fist (1957) – The sheriff was too old to keep the lid on a town as rough as Paydirt, and the marshal was too shady to trust, so the Lone Wolf drew the hot spot.
Chapter I – Death in the Afternoon
Chapter II – Man on the Ropes
Chapter III – Gunman, Get Out of Town
Chapter IV – Johnny Cruze
Chapter V – Shotgun Ambush
Chapter VI – “Don’t Crowd Me!”
Chapter VII – Blowup at Barrabys
Chapter VIII – “Don’t Let Him Ride Back”
Chapter IX – The Fastest Gun
Chapter X – Bare Knuckles

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

The Iron Fist has 5 illustrations.

TR1957 03 The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole
Texas Rangers 1957-03

Files:

  1. Cole-IronFist.epub
Read Excerpt

Excerpt: The Iron Fist

Chapter I

Death in the Afternoon

GOLDY’S warning snort caught Jim Hatfield in the middle of the spring-fed-pool. The big Ranger was floating on his back, enjoying the water’s coolness after a long hot ride. He heard the big stud’s sudden snort of alarm and he flipped over like a startled seal and headed with powerful strokes for the willow-shaded bank where he had shed his dusty clothes.

He didn’t make it in time.

The man who crouched in the thin striped shade of the drooping trees whirled at the sound of Jim’s splashing. He had been going through Hatfield’s clothes—he spun around now, facing the Lone Wolf, and he had one of Jim’s big Peacemakers in his right hand.

The hammer made an audible click as he thumbed it back. His fleshy face was drawn, sweat-streaked, and his breathing was labored as though he had been running in the sun.

“Stay easy, mister!” the stranger snarled. “I’m not after your skin! I just want to borrow this gun and your horse—”

He was backing away as he talked. The willows whispered to the passing of a stray breeze and he jerked a quick glance toward the rock-strewn slope down which he had come.

He was afraid of someone, Jim thought. And he was just nervous enough to use that Colt at any sudden movement.

Hatfield stood up. He was about six feet from the bank and the water reached just below his armpits. Sunlight made its broken pattern on the small pond that was surrounded by the stony hills; it reflected upward across his broad, muscled chest and his eyes seemed to light with a deep green fire. He appraised the obviously harassed prowler with a regard that held a hint of wry humor at his own predicament.

The man backing toward Goldy was middle-aged, ruddy-faced and soft-bodied. A brown trimmed mustache made a neat line under a rather heavy, bulbous nose which held the small indentions made by steel-rimmed spectacles, but he was not wearing them now. He was dresed in soiled whipcord britches and a gray twill shirt. He was bareheaded, and where his thinning brown hair had receded from his forehead the sun had stamped its red brand.

He was moving crabwise along the bank, keeping the Colt leveled at the Ranger. Goldy threw up his head and eyed the stranger with unfriendly regard.

“I’ll leave him at Jacob’s Stables in Paydirt,” the man said. His voice was hurried, uncertain. He licked his lips and paused to reach in a hip pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his sweaty face. “Hate to do this to you, mister. But I need this animal more than you do right now. You’ll find him in Jacob’s—and I’ll pay you well for the loan.”

He reached Goldy’s side and glanced down at the saddle Hatfield had dropped by the base of the willow. Discouragement spread across his soft face. He stared hard at Jim, at the saddle, and the Lone Wolf could almost see his mind working, wondering how he could saddle the big sorrel and still keep Hatfield at bay.

He got the blanket over Goldy’s back first, talking gently to the big stallion. He managed this with one hand, but there was haste pushing him and he worked nervously.

Goldy let the stranger work on him, he was rigid, eyeing the Lone Wolf, waiting for a signal from his master.

“Nice animal,” the thief said sincerely. “Gentle, too.” He was awkward as he lifted the saddle with one hand and tried to toss it over Goldy’s back. He didn’t have the strength to do it.

“Better use both hands, mister,” Jim advised easily.

The man flushed. But he decided to take a chance. He thrust Jim’s Peacemaker inside his waistband and heaved the saddle over the stallion’s back, then he clawed at the gun again, drawing it and swinging around to face the big Ranger.

Hatfield had made no move.

“Thanks,” the thief muttered. He licked his lips again as he turned, tightened the cinches and lifted his left foot into stirrup. Goldy was like a statue, ears pricked forward, waiting for Hatfield to tell him what to do.

The man lifted himself into saddle. “Look me up at the Canyon House,” he called to the Ranger. “I’ll make this up to you. The name is Irvin Ram—”

The rifle shot cut him off. The whiplash of the .30-30 explosion echoed sharply among the rocky hills bordering the small pond.

IRVIN sagged over Goldy’s shoulder. The big sorrel whirled with the shot and the man slid off, limp as a sack of meal —he fell with a sodden thud.

Jim made the bank with the shot still echoing in the hills. His long-muscled naked body flashed in the sun. He made a run for Goldy who came to meet him. The second rifle shot came high, whipping through the drooping branches of the willow.

The Lone Wolf slid his rifle from Goldy’s saddle scabbard and slapped the stallion on the rump. “Get out of sight, boy!” he said and lunged ahead for the slim protection of the foot-thick willow trunk.

The shots had come from the rocky ridge a hundred yards south of the pond, the same ridge down which the man called Irvin had come. Jim levered a shell into firing position as he hugged the tree. He was counting on the dappled pattern of shadow and sunlight to screen him from the rifleman on the ridge.

Excerpt From: Jackson Cole. “The Iron Fist.”

More Westerns

More by Jackson Cole

More Jim Hatfield, Texas Ranger

Summary
IronFistThumb The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole
Our Rating
1star The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole1star The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole1star The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole1star The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole1star The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole
Aggregate Rating
5 based on 3 votes
Brand Name
Pulp Fiction Masters
Product Name
The Iron Fist by Jackson Cole
Price
USD 3.95
Product Availability
Available in Stock