The Frisco Trail

By Robert Gosnell

Bounty hunter Logan Hawke takes on the most unorthodox job of his career, when he agrees to escort a wealthy rancher's daughter from Arizona to San Franciso, with a rival rancher's gang hot on his trail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Gosnell
• Release date: Aug 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781301649341

Robert Gosnell

A professional screenwriter for more than twenty-five years, Robert Gosnell has produced credits in feature films, network television, syndicated television, basic and pay cable, and is a member of the Writers Guild of America, West and the Writers Guild of Canada. Robert began his career writing situation comedy on the staff of the ABC series Baby Makes Five and freelanced episodes for Too Close for Comfort and the TBS comedies Safe at Home and Rocky Road. In cable, he scripted numerous projects for the Disney Channel, the Showtime original movie Escape from Wildcat Canyon and the Denver produced film Tiger Street. His feature credits include the Chuck Norris/Louis Gossett Jr. film Firewalker and the independent features Dragon and the Hawk, Siren and Juncture. Robert currently conducts screenwriting classes and workshops in the Denver area.

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THE FRISCO TRAIL

by

Robert Gosnell

Smashwords Edition

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PUBLISHED BY:

Robert Gosnell on Smashwords

The Frisco Trail

Copyright© 2010 by Robert Gosnell

All rights reserved. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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The Frisco Trail

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CHAPTER ONE

Sand Dollar

The sun was setting, blood-red, when Logan Hawke rode into Sand Dollar. The oppressive desert heat had not noticeably diminished, yet, and it would be several hours into evening before a body could move, without dripping sweat. Logan was thankful, though, to be at the end of the trail. At least, for now. His last stop had been Yuma, in the Arizona territory. That was three days behind him. There, he had picked up his lead on Blaine Rawlings. He considered it a lead, though it was more of an inkling. Like drawing to an inside straight. The chances are slim, but the temptation is almost unbearable.

Logan had followed Blaine from Wyoming; had been on his trail for more than three weeks. Rawlings couldn't have known that, but, a seasoned outlaw like him developed a second sense about such things, and had covered his tracks well. Rawlings probably figured Logan was the law, and he could cut for the border, and the relative safety of Mexico. He was wrong on both counts. Logan Hawke was no lawman, he was a bounty hunter. And, Mexico wouldn't stop him.

In Arizona, the outlaw fell in behind a cattle drive. That mish-mash of torn earth could have hidden a herd of buffalo, and after three days, Logan lost his trail. But Logan Hawke wasn't easily discouraged. In fact, this was the part of the game he liked best. With no clear trail to lead him to his prey, he had only his instincts to rely on. There was no chance of catching up with Rawlings before he got into Mexico...if he did go to Mexico. Logan wasn't so sure he would. In spite of the common belief that most outlaws on the-run head for Mexico, Logan had found that it wasn't always so. Cowboys aren't comfortable in Mexico, at least not for any length of time. They can't speak the language, or get used to the customs. And, the natives can be downright unfriendly.

On pure gut-instinct, Logan headed for Yuma. There, he found a bartender and a saloon girl who had, indeed, seen Blaine Rawlings. After a two-day drunken spree, Rawlings had fallen in with three other men. Gunhands, by the barkeep's account. He'd heard them talk of joining up with a range war, across the border in California. The name of the town was Sand Dollar. And, it sure as hell didn't look like much to Logan, as he rode in. Stuck smack in the middle of a stretch of prairie that seemed to go on forever, it was a dusty, hot, ramshackle gathering of wood shacks and adobe buildings.

The crude little town squatted beside a small river tributary that justified..and sustained its existence. With so much open space around them, it seemed an unlikely place for a range war. From that, Logan surmised that it probably wasn't the land they were fighting for. More likely, it was the water. He noted a few half-curious looks, as he plodded at a leisurely pace through the middle of town. Soon, he spied several gunfighters on the streets of Sand Dollar. They knotted together in small groups of three, or four. Logan rode through to the livery, and stabled his horse, then set back on foot toward the Sand Dollar Hotel.

The balding, rather fragile looking little man behind the desk peered up at him through thick, heavy glasses with only a mild interest, as Logan silently signed in, and paid for his room.

Where can I get a bath? Logan asked.

There's a bath house back of the Red Dog Saloon, the little man replied, in a small, squeaky voice.

Logan went to his cramped, sparsely furnished room, deposited his rifle and saddlebags, removed some clean clothes, and headed for the Red Dog Saloon. The Red Dog was housed in an adobe structure, at the east end of town. It consisted of a polished, plank-wood bar, scarred with knife cuts and cigarette burns. There were a handful of tables and chairs, here, but not much in the way of decoration, save a stuffed bear head above the bar and an Apache war shield on one wall. The place was nearly empty, except for the dumpy, weary looking Chinese woman, who shared a corner table with a wiry old codger of a man. The man was rail-thin, and his clothes hung baggy on him, giving him a scarecrow appearance. There was a grubby Rebel army cap on his balding head.

The bartender was a robust, leathery fellow. The rough, reddish whiskers on his face were peppered with gray. This, and the sharp blue eyes that were accented against his sun-darkened skin gave him a wild, unpredictable look.

Shot of whiskey, Logan said, and a bath.

The barkeep poured the whiskey, and slid it in front of Logan.

Bath house is out back, he said, and gave a jerk of his head toward a door in the back wall, at the end of the bar. Fifty cents for the drink, fifty for the bath.

Logan laid a dollar on the bar. As the barkeep picked it up, Logan laid another dollar in front of the man. The barkeep looked up, curious. Logan reached to his pocket, and took out a wanted poster on Blaine Rawlings. It offered a five-hundred dollar reward for the outlaw. He showed it to the barkeep.

Ever seen this fella? Logan asked.

The bartender's mouth turned downward in a scowl, and he became immediately defensive. Can't recollect, he snapped, and turned away.

Logan took a sip of his whiskey. It was cheap stuff, harsh and bitter, but he enjoyed the little shudder that it caused in him, as it seared its way down his throat. It was then that he became aware of someone sidling up next to him, at the bar. It was the old codger, who peered down at the wanted poster on the bar. Then, his gaze rested on the shiny dollar piece next to it, and he cast a sidelong look at Logan.

Mebbe, I know that man, he said, in a raspy voice.

Maybe? Logan responded, with a twinge of sarcasm. Maybe isn't worth a dollar.

The old man made a display of examining the wanted poster once more.

I seen him, all right.

You know where I can find him? Logan asked.

The old man glanced around, somewhat jittery in fashion, and licked his lips nervously. If he was going to sell out Blaine Rawlings for a dollar, he sure didn't want anyone to know it. Then, he quickly reached over and snatched up the dollar coin.

You stick around, right here, and he'll turn up, he said quickly. He works for Maston, and this is their saloon. Harper's men, they do their drinkin' at the Wolf Head, up the street. Rawlings is in here, most nights. Don't reckon tonight'll be no different.

Maston and Harper, who are they?

Scarecrow pursed his lips, then lightly drummed his fingers on the bar. He was obviously fishing for another bribe, but Logan shook his head.

Forget it, he said, It's not important..

The old-timer gave out a huff of disappointment, then slid down the bar, waving over the bartender as he did, quickly using his newfound wealth to purchase a drink. The bartender gave him a searing look of disgust as he shoved the whiskey glass into the man's bony hand. Then, he moved down the bar and leaned close to Logan.

Maston and Harper own the biggest spreads in this territory, mister. Right now, they got themselves a war goin' over water rights. You don't want no trouble with them.

I don't want trouble with anybody, Logan replied. Not even Blaine Rawlings. Logan folded the wanted poster and returned it to his pocket, then downed his drink and headed for the back room and the bath house.

The wash tub he utilized in the back wasn't much, but it was pure luxury, compared to the sparse comforts of the trail. He languished in the steaming water until the trail dust was gone and his aching muscles soothed, then he shaved, dressed in the one set of clean clothes he had brought and re-entered the front of the saloon an hour later.

A few men had trickled in, mostly cowboys and a couple of town citizens. There were close to a dozen here, now, but two of them interested Logan more than the rest. These were sitting at a table in the farthest corner of the room, and had the look of seasoned range warriors. One, in his early forties, was stocky, with thick facial features, and curly hair. Logan figured him to be quick on the draw. You don't make it into your forties in his profession, otherwise. The second was younger, barely out of his twenties; cocky, with fresh-faced good looks. Brash and impulsive, judging by his demeanor. He wouldn't likely make it into his thirties, much less his forties. These were two of Maston's hired killers, no doubt, and Logan could only hope that their loyalty wouldn't extend to Blaine Rawlings, should it come to a fight. The two gunmen were sharing a bottle of whiskey, already half gone, and were idly engaged in a game of cards. Logan ordered a beer, then leaned with his back to the bar and watched the comings-and-goings in the Red Dog Saloon.

During the two hours that passed, Logan nursed his way through two beers, while the gunslingers finished their bottle and order another. That pleased him. Let them get good and drunk. Finally, his vigil paid off.

Blaine Rawlings was a bigger man than Logan had anticipated, and older than the likeness on his wanted poster would indicate. There was no doubt, though, that it was Rawlings who came shoving through the doors of the saloon. He had a hard, cold look to him, like the mean spirited back-shooter that he was.

Rawlings joined the other two gunmen and waved for an empty glass. He had several quick drinks, as if to catch up with his cronies, then joined in the poker game. Logan let them play..and more importantly, drink, for awhile longer, then casually crossed the room to their table. They looked up at him with suspicion, and the glazed look in their eyes told Logan that they were sufficiently intoxicated.

Somethin' we can do for you? one man asked.

Thought I might join your game, Logan replied.

The men exchanged a look. It was Rawlings who finally gave the nod. Guess we could use some fresh blood, he half-growled, and waved to an empty chair

Logan seated himself, and the stocky man dealt a hand. Logan examined his cards, and found himself one card shy of an inside straight. He smiled to himself at the irony. He went for the straight, and missed it. The game went on with little conversation, and ten minutes later, Logan found himself in a face-off with Rawlings, the other men having folded their hands. Logan held two pair, not that it mattered. Whatever Rawlings had, he was damned proud of it, as he slid a twenty-dollar gold piece into the pile.

Raise twenty, he said flatly.

Logan tossed his own twenty-dollar piece into the pot. See the twenty, he said, then pulled out the folded wanted poster, and laid it on the table. And raise five hundred.

He unfolded the wanted poster in front of Rawlings with his left hand. His right was already holding his Colt under the table, pointed at Rawlings' belly.

I've got a Peacemaker leveled on your midsection, Blaine, Logan said, You, or one of your friends so much as flinches, I'll give you a gut-full.

Logan's voice was steady and firm. Rawlings knew he meant it. Logan had known plenty of men who weren't afraid of dying, but damn few who relished being gut-shot. It was a slow, painful way to go. Rawlings took his eyes from Logan long enough to look at the other two men.

Reckon you'd best do like he says, he ordered calmly.

Good, Logan said, now you boys just lay your irons up here on the table, real slow. Blaine, raise up your hands, and get on your feet.

It was then, just out the corner of his eye, that Logan saw the barkeep lift the shotgun from under the bar. Had the man taken his time and not moved so suddenly, he might have gotten away with it. As it was, Logan was able to spin and blast a shot into the barkeep, before he could cock the hammers on the sawed-off twelve-gauge. The shot slammed the barkeep back into the wall, and he spun to the floor, out of sight behind the bar.

The three gunhands simultaneously went for their weapons! Logan gave the table a mighty kick, tipping it back toward the two who were reaching and toppling them from their chairs, their sixguns clattering to the floor along with them. At the same time, he put a shot into Rawlings, who had his piece in his hand, now. The shot caught him high in the right shoulder, spinning him half-around as his gun hand lost it's grip, and the pistol fell to the floor.

Don't make me kill you, Blaine! Logan yelled, but it was too late. He had known Rawlings was not the kind of man to be taken alive, and wasn't surprised when Blaine dived to the floor, his left hand groping for the gun. He never even came close. Logan's second shot caught him square in the forehead, and snapped his head back like a rag doll. He sagged,