The Tainted Dollar

By Chris G. Derrick

“In that time Jake covered the distance to the cowboy, drawing one of his knives from its sheath as he moved. The next thing the cowboy knew was the pommel of Jakes knife was smashing into the side of his head, knocking him onto his knees. The sharp point of the knife had also done its work, nicking the skin deep as he fell to the floor. The blood was running warm and free down his neck and soaking into the white collar of his shirt.”

Jake Base - orphaned at an early age, and now the last surviving member of his family.
Adopted and raised by the Plains Indians as one of their own for ten years and destined never to be totally accepted by either the white man or the Indian.
Now he’s a no-nonsense US marshal tracking two killers down into Texas he discovers more than he bargained for.
There are the confusing emotions of a new, and unexpected, love – which in turn puts him in grave danger.
Jake has difficult choices which will need to be made. People will be hurt in the process.
This story has it all, bar room brawls, brutal murder, cattle rustling, dusty streets and the lovely Maria Sanchez.
Throughout everything one thing remains constant, the one silver coin.
The Tainted Dollar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris G. Derrick
• Release date: Nov 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311318985

Chris G. Derrick

Chris G Derrick was born and grew up in a small town situated between the cities of Bath and Bristol in the south west of the UK. Born in 1957 his favourite genre of film has always been the Western. A birthday treat to watch The Magnificent Seven with some young friends when he was around six years of age no doubt had a hand in developing his life long appreciation of the Old West. After leaving school Chris started his working life as an accountant, with a short spell in HM Royal Marines in his early twenties. From the 1980’s onwards he earned a living as an IT professional up until the end of March 2013. Chris’s favourite part of the world happened to be the South Western states of the USA – Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Texas and Utah. He'd always enjoyed writing, creating a picture with words, and still maintained his affection for a good Western and the cowboy way of life. With this in mind Chris decided he'd combine these three things - and write a Western himself set in those states of the USA. The Tainted Dollar was written with a keen eye on western history, and there are plans for other books to follow. Each one will retain Jake Base - if not as the main then certainly as a central character within each story.

Book preview

The Tainted Dollar.

By Chris G Derrick

Copyright 2014 Chris G Derrick

Smashwords Edition.

A Jake Base Novel.

1856. Tuesday 8th July. 09:15 am.

The silver dollar had been lying in the dust, concealed behind one of the pillars supporting the boardwalk, for several hours. The flecks of crimson blood on the coins surface no longer quite as obvious as they had been. The colour no longer betrayed their source quite as easily. Now they simply resembled small speckles of rust.

Coins, by virtue of their reason for existing, tended to move around frequently, from person to person and place to place. Even so, this particular coin had been through a rather eventful weekend.

Chapter 1.

1856. Friday 4th July. 4.00 pm.

BOOM, in such a confined space there can’t have been a person in the room which didn’t hear the shot being fired.

From the way the men standing at the bar were looking down and laughing, it appeared one of the ranch hands had objected to the spittoon standing by the side of his foot. To show the extent of his displeasure he’d decided to put a bullet through it. He was so drunk there was always a better than good chance the shot might have found its way through his own, or some other unfortunates, foot. The fact he’d managed to draw the pistol, cock and aim it in the right direction was quite a feat in itself. This achievement was followed by the traditional round of back slapping and congratulations for all present. Not only for the cowboy who was still holding the smoking pistol in his hand. There was no logical reason why such a ridiculous act should warrant such an outpouring of admiration, but that was the way things were. Similar unwarranted happenings went on in saloons in each town, no matter what night of the week. It was a ritual which inebriated men everywhere felt almost obliged to go through after such a display of courage and bravado from one of their own.

It certainly was a repulsive looking wet mess, and one which was now spreading eagerly across the wooden floor as if trying to make its escape from the room. Some unfortunate was going to have to get down on their hands and knees to begin a clean up at some stage. Unless of course it was simply left for the customers to walk through - a course of action that was always an option. The clientele weren’t noted for being particularly fussy and the spittoons weren’t known for ever being regularly emptied. It was a deeply unpleasant task, usually undertaken only when the deep metal bowls began to show the all too obvious signs of being full. While the cow hands were used to getting dirt on their boots in their line of work, most of them appeared to draw the line at standing in another mans tobacco and whiskey laden spit for too long. At least that seemed to be the way they viewed life when they first arrived to begin their evening’s enjoyment. After an hour or so of being bellied up to the bar with their alcohol of choice it seemed they could have been stood knee deep in anything at all – and would have been wonderfully oblivious to the reality.

The Red Eye saloon in Laredo Texas was already noisy and boisterous, even at this comparatively early hour. It was a Friday afternoon. Several of the local ranches always let their cow hands start their weekends early after the day’s important ranch chores were taken care of.

Jake had always assumed the reasoning behind this decision wasn’t the cattle bosses or their foremen being particularly kind hearted to their men. More likely they simply realised as soon as the supply of money in the cowhands pocket ran dry they’d be back to the ranch bunkhouse and sleeping off their good times. Looking ahead already to the next weekend when they could it all over again. The sooner the men returned to their accommodation the better, as far as the ranch owners were concerned. So in some respects the earlier they began their drinking the more beneficial it was for the ranchers that paid the wages. The bosses probably hoped to have a pretty full bunkhouse by late afternoon on the Sunday. That way the men would hopefully be sober enough to start work at the crack of dawn on the Monday morning. There were always a few men - usually the same ones - who were the exceptions to the rule, and managed to eke out their wages until the early hours of every Monday morning. Or maybe these were simply the ones who were unusually lucky at the games of chance, such as Faro and poker, which were frequently on offer in these establishments. Their luck at the table games was able to supplement the money they’d ridden into town with.

Jake Base was a US marshal who, on this occasion, was working a fair ways from home. Usually his stomping ground consisted of the Territory of New Mexico. His peace officer endeavours hadn’t previously taken him this far away from Tucson, the town he was now happy to refer to as ‘home’. Jake was born back east in the state of Virginia twenty six years earlier, and moved out west along with his family when he was twelve years of age.

Sixteen days before this he’d left home and headed east into New Mexico. Once there he turned south, down through the state of Texas before arriving two days earlier in the border town of Laredo.

Two no-good brothers by the name of Hughes were wanted back in Tucson on a warrant for shooting a man dead. According to the few people who knew the background to the incident the brothers seemed to suspect the deceased gambler of cheating them out of money during a few games of poker. For them suspicion was all the reason they needed. The city of Tucson wasn’t beginning to get soft on card cheats. No Sir! Usually public opinion dictated they got exactly what they deserved. The difference here was the Hughes brothers had followed this particular card trickster from the saloon. They waited until he was walking down a narrow alley between two buildings then shot him several times in the back, then proceeded to take anything of any worth he was carrying on his person. The value of which amounted to considerably more than the one hundred or so dollars witnesses said he‘d probably taken from the two brothers across the table over the course of the evening. They also took his gun belt, and what he’d apparently always referred to as his lucky silver dollar - which he was well known to always carry in a pocket of his waistcoat.

One of the first people on the scene of the shooting was a dancing girl from the saloon where the final card game in question had taken place. It seemed the dead gambler had spent the past few nights in this ladies company – and it was her observation which drew the Tucson sheriff’s attention to the now missing silver dollar.

According to the young lady the coin carried a couple of obvious and unique cut marks on one side, almost replicating the shape of the letter ‘Y’. If the story the gambler recounted to her on more than one occasion was correct it seemed the marks had been left behind by an oriental gentleman who was attempting to ascertain the coin’s true silver content.

Apparently the dead man had a habit of continually move his lucky silver dollar across the top of his knuckles with his fingers when he was playing cards - something he claimed helped him to relax. Not that the coin proved to be exactly lucky for him - certainly not in the way the man met his eventual end!

The following day the same dancing girl was able to tell the Tucson marshal she’d seen the two Hughes brothers proudly showing a silver dollar to several associates of theirs just before she finished work the previous evening. While making a fuss of one of the brothers she was even able to get a good look at the coin herself. According to her it carried exactly the same gouge marks etched into its surface as the coin favoured by the recently deceased gambler.

According to Jakes sources the two Hughes brothers were now cow punching on a ranch a mile or so outside of Laredo, and he hoped to be very soon making their acquaintance.

As far as the other clientele of the Red Eye were concerned Jake was simply another cowhand, they had no inkling of his real occupation. Even if he appeared to be someone who certainly dressed a little unusually and who preferred his own company. Sat, as he was, alone on a table at the end of the bar. Being a solitary drinker wasn’t enough to make him exactly unique - even in a saloon. There were several other regular customers that preferred to enjoy their bottle without having to communicate on any level with others. Quite possibly these men simply didn’t feel the need to share their bottled pleasure.

Any of the saloons regular customers who took the time out to observe this particular stranger a little more closely, might have decided there were a few details which set him apart from the usual cow hand.

He was wearing a double holstered rig, not exactly a rare sight in itself within a border town. The right hand 1851Colt Navy was hanging in what would be considered the orthodox fashion. The left hand revolver though was hanging with its butt facing forward, also ready to be drawn using the shooters right hand.

On each side of the leather belt secured around his waist there hung a big bladed, sheathed, knife. The long sleeves of his animal skin jacket were carefully decorated with the turquoise blue Indian symbols for ‘peace’ on one arm and the ones for ‘victory in battle’ on the other sleeve. On the inside of the jacket, so it wasn’t obvious, was pinned a US marshal’s badge.

Jakes hair was worn long, and tied back behind his head in a ponytail using a strip of brown leather. He’d been wearing it the same way for the past thirteen years, and thought no more of it.

Only on the very rare occasion when someone, usually in a saloon and normally drunk, might take to calling him ‘Breed’ he’d remember he didn’t look a whole lot like the usual ‘run of the mill’ cowboy. The majority of men, regardless of how much alcohol they’d consumed, seemed to realise verbally abusing Jake was likely to lead them into a whole new world of pain. For that reason physical altercations were not such a regular occurrence as some might think.

Jake Base had spent ten years of his life living with, and fighting alongside, the Cheyenne. He’d been taken captive with his Ma and little brother in the Dakota Territories when he was only twelve years of age. In 1852, only four years before he rode into Laredo, Jake finally left the only family he’d known for the last ten years and returned to the white mans way of life. Behind him he left two Cheyenne Dog Soldiers - men who were now his blood brothers. It created a bond between the three of them which, to the Plains Indian, was stronger and more compelling than the one existing between birth brothers.

Life was never going to be either easy or straight forward for a man born of a settler family back east, but who’d then spent the largest proportion of his formative years living as a Cheyenne warrior. White people usually shunned him, as he appeared too Indian looking for their liking. Something which meant they were automatically suspicious of him from the outset. Apart from the Cheyenne he’d actually lived with the other native people also looked upon him with disdain - as someone that would never truly belong. As he was born a white man, he could never be a ‘true’ Plains Indian. This was regardless of the fact that he knew almost everything there was to know about their way of life, their spiritual beliefs and the language.

All of a sudden there was the sound of a loud voice from further along the saloons wooden bar. It appeared one of the cowboys wasn’t getting served another drink quickly enough for his liking. He was doing his best to attract the barkeeps attention by being the loudest voice in the room.

After a while the man doing all the shouting quietened down. A minute or so later the noise of his bawling was replaced with a completely different sound. One which managed to make itself heard above the other men’s voices. It was the unmistakeable ‘swish’ of a large heavy glass moving at speed across a wooden surface.

As he looked up, and in the direction of the sound, Jake caught just merest glimpse of the almost full glass of beer as it came hurtling off the end of the bar towards him. There was barely time enough for him to push back from the table and stand up. While the glass itself missed hitting Jake, the beer it contained covered the right arm of his jacket all the way from cuff to shoulder.

Now the full attention of the Red Eye’s customers was all on him – like it or not. Each man wondering what the stranger’s reaction to this event was going to be. As Jake was deciding exactly how best to deal with the situation the need to make any decision was wrested from him.

Sorry Breed. Seems you’ve got your fancy jacket with the pretty little Indian symbols a bit wet. No real harm done, your jacket was trash anyway. It’s always a shame about wasting good beer though. I would’ve felt better if it spilt over the floor.

By the time the cowboy finished speaking he’d walked around the end of the bar and was now standing directly in front of Jake. He was about the same height and size as Jake, but maybe a year or so older. Jake was at least relieved to see the man intent on causing him trouble wasn’t one of the Hughes brothers. If that had been the case it would only have served to muddy the waters.

It’s my friend’s beer you’re now wearing. You need to buy him another drink by way of an apology. In fact you need to buy everyone here a drink, as an apology for you being in the same room as decent folk. So get to it, boy.

The only people who would have been able to recount what happened next were the men who didn’t feel the immediate need to blink their eyes.

In that time Jake covered the distance to the cowboy, drawing one of his knives from its sheath as he moved. The next thing the cowboy knew was the pommel of Jakes knife was smashing into the side of his head, knocking him onto his knees. The sharp point of the knife had also done its work, nicking the skin deep as he fell to the floor. The blood was running warm and free down his neck and soaking into the white collar of his shirt.

Jake looked down at the cowboy and then at the crowd stood around the bar – none of whom were currently interested in their drinks. The whole room’s attention was still firmly focused on him.

A couple of the loud mouthed cowboy’s friends were pushing their way through the gathered throng to get to their friend.

Jake looked squarely at them.

Hold up there both of you. I’m no more a breed than any other man in this room, if that’s what this is all about. Not that it’s any of your business but just so you know. I came out west with my parents and little brother when I was twelve years of age, from Virginia. We stopped over in the Dakotas, and my Pa built us a hut against the side of a hill with his own hands. He made some money by hunting and trading in beaver pelts. I dress this way through my own choice, not because I was born into it.

The two cowboys stopped where they were.

The cowboy closest to Jake pointed to his friend, who was still sprawled at Jakes feet and looking decidedly unhappy with life.

So what ya gonna do with him then Mister? Take him to the sheriff?

Something which hadn’t even crossed my mind, said Jake. I’ll give him to you now, so long as you keep him out of trouble and well away from me for the rest of the day.

Yessir, we can do that. We’ll take him back to the King Spread with us. His Pa will have a few words to say to him about all this, and probably to us for not keepin’ a better eye on him. He don’t like him gettin’ hisself in trouble. Although this one’s always doin’ it. It seems like he can’t help it.

OK, it make’s you two responsible for him from here on. said Jake. From what you say it sounds like he’s been a disappointment to his family before. Maybe you should tell his Pa that unless his son sorts his manner out there’s a better than even chance one day you’ll be taking him back stretched stone cold across his saddle.

You may well have a good point there Mister – I ain’t gonna argue it with ya. You’re not the first person to say it either. I sure don’t want to be the man to tell his Pa though. He’d have me tied to the corral fence and whipped for even suggesting to him what he should do with his only son.

Sound like a nice man you both work for. Nothing’s ever wrong with good advice, and no man should refuse it simply ‘cause he don’t like the sound of the words that’s spoken.

The cowboy got to Jake and was bending over his boss’s son.

Quietly so none of the other men around could hear him he spoke again to Jake.

Yeah, that’s what I was always brought up to think Mister. Things at the King Spread don’t always happen the way things are supposed to. The more’s the pity. Most of the problems out there are all about this one, nodding down at the person still lying at his feet.

I’ve come across similar places before. If you and your partner are back in town later I’d like to buy you both a drink. I feel sorta guilty for cuttin’ short your drinkin’ this afternoon. I’ll either be in here or the Dropped Garter down the street. Say some time after seven.

Thanks very much Mister. Appreciate the offer. One word of advice though. People who get in the Dropped Garter make this here crowd look like a church social. You don’t seem like a man who cares much about those things – but I thought I’d warn ya, so you know what you’re goin’ into.

Jake smiled.

Thanks my friend. I appreciate the advice, but it don’t matter too much. I always expect the worst when I go into any saloon for the first time.

The cowboy called his friend over, and after bidding farewell to Jake they part carried, part dragged, the still groggy cowboy out of the saloon and into the street.

You’ll be real lucky if you hear no more of this my friend.

Jake turned around to see a fairly tall man who was possibly ten years older than himself – and who was wearing a five pointed sheriff’s star on his black waistcoat, and a big smile on his weather beaten face.

He offered his right hand to Jake, who was happy to accept it.

I’m pleased to meet you. The name’s Nick Salmonist. I’m the sheriff of Laredo, the one they were worried you were going to take their friend to see.

I didn’t think it deserved being taken to the law. Can we sit somewhere a bit quieter and talk?

Sure. Over there looks as good as anywhere, and the sheriff’s head nodded towards the far wall.

Jake and the Laredo sheriff moved over to an empty table set up against the wall. As it happened to be the furthest point from the bar there was no one else sitting around them. The other customers obviously preferred to stay close to the only place where they could keep their glasses filled.

Sheriff, my name’s...

Jake Base, interrupted the sheriff, with a knowing look spread all over his face. I know only too well who you are young man.

Jake tried hard to hide his surprise at already being known by the law in a town he’d never had reason to visit previously.

Well sheriff, I can’t say I’m not surprised. Have our paths crossed before? If so I don’t have any recollection of the circumstances.

The town’s sheriff shook his head.

Can I call you Jake?

Jake nodded his agreement.

Sure.

OK, no we’ve never met, Jake. So it’s no good you thinkin’ back and tryin’ to remember when it might’ve happened. My brother is a deputy sheriff in Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. He was around when you arrested a man wanted for the murder of a store keeper in a mercantile there, and over heard someone in the crowd mention your name. The fact you’re a US marshal he found out from the local sheriff later, and then a few weeks later he gave me your description. According to him you were a person to watch out for. What with the long hair, no cowboy hat, the two long knives you carry on your waist and the two 1851’s worn in such a way – it pretty much could only be you. Sorry if you always thought you looked invisible my friend, and the sheriff laughed, good naturedly, out loud.

Jake smiled, and laughed along with him.

No sheriff, it would be nice sometimes to be able to blend in more. This is who I am though. If I dressed any differently it would be to please others - not myself.

Regardless of that. It must get you a lot of bad talk and unwanted attention Jake, dressing in such a way – even in Tucson. So why do it?

Jake went on to tell Nick all about his early life, starting with his family leaving Virginia when he was twelve, going out west and up to the Dakotas. On then to his father disappearing one day while he was out checking his beaver traps, the rifle then misfiring for his Ma and the injuries it caused her. The wounds from that accident were to eventually kill his Ma.

When Jake began telling Nick he’d spent ten years with the Cheyenne living as one of them, the sheriff stared at him open mouthed.

Holy, Jake. I’ve heard plenty of stories about such things over the years, but I always thought they were nothing more. Tall tales from a person’s over active imagination. Ones that were probably written by some newspaper man sat behind a desk trying to sell more copies. I never thought I’d ever actually meet a person who had lived through such an experience.

Well there you have it Nick. Not all the stories you read are untrue. Now you can understand why I dress the way I do. It’s who I am, a mixture of white man and Plains Indian. From the ages of twelve to twenty two I lived, thought and dressed as a Cheyenne warrior. I could no more dress like you than you dress the way I do, I guess. It can be awkward though, having a foot in both camps so to speak. Sometimes I get a very real feeling I don’t belong anywhere. When I left my Cheyenne family my Indian father told me I’d need to change the way I dress if I was to ever stand a chance of being accepted in the white man’s world. I still go and see my family every few months, and I can tell it makes him proud that I didn’t take his advice. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep everything I’ve told you here to yourself. Too many people knowing my life story won’t help me any.

Nick willingly agreed. Adding even with the way Jake dressed not too many people would actually believe him if he told them that he’d spent ten years living with the Cheyenne – and with the Indians eventually treating him as an equal.

So, how about you Nick? How long have you been sheriff in Laredo?

Nick went on to explain a bit about himself.

About five years previously his wife had unfortunately given birth to a still born child after a very difficult pregnancy.

Every damn day, Jake, right up to the day of the actual birth I told her everything was going to be just fine. It could only end well, because actually carrying the baby had been such an ordeal for her. For the whole nine months she was carrying what was to be our first born child the poor lady had been sick. Time after time, it seemed almost every hour of each and every single day. There was no break in it. It continued month after month after month. At times I thought she was likely to turn herself inside out with it. When it all went so wrong at the very end I felt like I was partly responsible.

According to Nick it succeeded in ripping the very being from his wife. Three months later he’d gone home early one afternoon for lunch to find his wife sat at the table in the dining room with one of his spare pistols lying there in front of her.

That was it, from that moment it was decision time.

They packed their worldly belongings, headed out west and ended up in Laredo – with no home and no job between them.

Within a couple of weeks Nick managed to get a try out as deputy sheriff, and since then he or his wife hadn’t looked back. They built a nice little wooden house together on the outskirts of town. When the then sheriff was shot under mysterious circumstances, apparently trying to apprehend some cattle thieves about six or so miles outside town, the town council didn’t think twice about promoting Nick into the now vacant job. After all he’d already proved himself capable as a deputy. No one was ever brought into custody for the sheriff’s murder – and there were never any witnesses willing to talk about it either. Maybe there simply weren’t any. The new sheriff always put it down to the cold hearted murderers leaving the area immediately after committing their terrible crime.

Two years ago it seemed Nick’s wife gave birth to their first child, a girl, so their little family was now complete – and once again their lives were happy.

Eventually the conversation worked its way around to why Jake was in Laredo. When Jake mentioned the Hughes brothers name the sheriff nodded in recognition.

Yeah. I know them. I’ve had some dealings with those two already. It didn’t take them long to get acquainted with the law in town very soon after they’d arrived. It was their first night here if my memory serves me right. A case of starting as you mean to go on I guess. I haven’t seen either of ‘em as yet today. Their poor Ma must have despaired raising those two bad-uns under her roof. I guess it proves though you can get pretty much used to anything in life.

Jake was pleased to share with Nick what he’d been able to find out from his various sources about the two brothers.

Apparently they originally came from the state of Alabama, and since then they’d been almost everywhere known to man – or so it seemed. No doubt wearing out their welcome wherever they stayed for long enough for people to get sick and tired of the trouble which went along with them. According to what Jake heard about them they didn’t even know their father, he’d left the family home before the youngest son had even seen the light of day. Their mother had succeeded in drinking and whoring herself to death before the second born son was even nine years of age. Every week or so they found themselves either being moved on, or having to leave the town they were in before the law came callin’. Originally there had been three brothers. The third one managed to get himself cut open from his gun belt to his throat after trying to take a Fort Union soldier’s woman in Albuquerque for himself. Since then the other two had taken it upon themselves to keep the family tradition of mayhem and murder going as best they could.

Nick was happy enough when Jake ran through his plan to get the two brothers into his custody. He was also glad Jake’s proposal was to take them both back to Tucson alive to stand trial for the gamblers murder. Not simply to shoot the men down and save him self the potential difficulties of the long trip back home to their trials before a dozen of their peers.

I don’t suppose you know where I can find them, Nick?

Yeah, I sure do. Last I heard they were both working out on the King Spread. It’s the biggest ranch around these parts. Or any other part of Texas, pretty much. If you wanna find it go right out the door there, head out of town for about a mile and you’ll come to the entrance gate. You really can’t miss it – it’s got a big ol’ wooden sign saying ‘King Spread’. The cowboy you got earlier with both ends of your knife is the boss’s son – Manuel Sanchez. His fathers Lupe, or as some call him Loopy - because of his brutality and his fondness for using the whip. He’s never been seen using one on a horse though – only men apparently. Mind you, no one’s ever called him Loopy to his face as far as I know – or certainly they’ve not lived to boast about it afterwards.

Does my friend Manuel Sanchez have any other brothers I should know about Nick?

"No other brothers - you’re safe there. But there’s a sister – Maria. She’s as