I have been writing Lucas Hallam stories for over thirty years. I'm a big fan of old westerns and I was amazed at the stunts of stuntman Yakima Canutt. One day I had the idea of writing mysteries about an older stuntman/riding extra who was once a legend of the west. I was so excited, I even called my husband at work to tell him. I remember his words to this day. "Livia, that's a great idea, but you'll never sell it." I didn't let it stop me. Now 3 awards, 3 novels, and many stories later I am still writing about Lucas Hallam. PANHANDLE FREIGHT is one of his early adventures.
A bitter winter storm was blowing fiercely when Lucas Hallam rode up to the isolated railroad station. It wasn’t a fit night for man or beast to be out, but Hallam found himself joined by a number of other pilgrims waiting for a train – and one of them just might be a killer. But the big man has a secret of his own . . .
A bitter winter storm was blowing fiercely when Lucas Hallam rode up to the isolated railroad station. It wasn’t a fit night for man or beast to be out, but Hallam found himself joined by a number of other pilgrims waiting for a train – and one of them just might be a killer. But the big man has a secret of his own . . .
PANHANDLE FREIGHT was a finalist for
the Peacemaker Award in the category of Best Short Fiction in 2012, and now
it’s finally available as an individual e-book. Full of mystery and action,
it’s another fine adventure of Lucas Hallam, author L.J. Washburn’s iconic
gunfighter detective.
EXCERPT
“Close the damn door!” the station agent yelled at Lucas Hallam.
“You’re lettin’ all the warm air out!”
And all the cold air in, Hallam thought as he shoved the depot’s front door closed behind him. People sometimes said there was nothing between the Canadian River and the North Pole except a barbed wire fence, and on a night like tonight, when a blue norther swept down over the plains, it sure felt like that old saying was right.
Hallam was a big, rugged man in a sheepskin coat, with his hat pulled down tight on his head so the wind wouldn’t blow it off. He tugged his gloves from his hands and stuck them in a coat pocket as he crossed the spacious waiting room toward the ticket window.
“I hope you ain’t here to buy a ticket,” the agent said from the other side of the counter. “No passenger trains comin’ through tonight, only a freight that’s due in about an hour.”
“No, I don’t need a ticket,” Hallam told the man, who looked like he wanted to just close up and go home for the night. “I’m here because of that freight.”
He unbuttoned the coat and slipped a hand inside it.
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