Shanghaied;The Olympians Book One

By Ryan A. Herring

Shanghaied is the first book in The Olympians Series, a new historical fiction novel series set in the 1870's, in a wild and untouched corner of the country - the Olympic Peninsula in Washington Territory. Based on the real-life legends and tales from the early days of western settlement in the Pacific Northwest, this epic series follows a diverse cast of characters as they struggle for survival and happiness in the lawless "Far West". Love, power, revenge, betrayal, death, and rebirth shape this raw land and it's people as the modern world grows up rapidly around it. Discover the wild and mysterious land of logger-barons, old-growth giants, powerful Native Spirits, pirating crimps, and murderous wild men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan A. Herring
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370415649

Ryan A. Herring

Ryan A. Herring grew up in the isolated but picturesque small town of Homer, Alaska. Having always lived in rural areas, he very naturally developed a deep love for the outdoors. He enjoys hiking, fishing, snowboarding, mountain biking, or to just be out exploring the mountains, rivers, and beaches of the Olympic Peninsula . The rugged beauty of the Pacific Northwest has always been his main source of inspiration as a storyteller, as well as the stranger than fiction tales from the past. With a keen interest in the late 19th century history of the Pacific Northwest in particular, he also has a deep respect and passion for Pacific Northwest Native American cultures. He worked as a carpenter by trade before becoming an independent filmmaker and author. He lives in Port Angeles, Washington, in the heart of the Olympic Peninsula, with his beautiful wife and two children.

Book preview

Part One - Shanghaied

Chapter One

Gilroy, California - 1871

Hoof beats rang out across the still desert morning air, beating a staccato rhythm and stirring up a slowly curling plume of dust, as seven men on horseback raced toward a series of narrow slot canyons. The men, all armed with revolvers hanging from dusty leather belts, were wearing long brown or black duster jackets that flapped behind them, snapping in the wind as they barreled forward, bent low.

The man in the lead had a silver star-shaped badge pinned tightly to the front of his duster. It caught the early morning light and shone brilliantly as he reared up his mount, pulling back on the reins and bringing the whole group to an abrupt halt fifty yards before the lip of the canyon. The badge was stamped in the center with a large, bold type reading Sheriff.

The men silently dismounted from the horses and pulled rifles and shotguns from worn saddle bags. The sounds of dull metallic clicks and pops could be heard as the men checked their weapons and loaded shells into shotguns and revolvers. The Sheriff motioned to them to follow him as he turned toward the canyon, crouching and walking bent down low as he approached the edge. He dropped down to his knees and elbows, crawling the final few feet until he could lie flat and peer over the edge. The other men shuffled up closely behind him, all straining in turn to see.

Below was a small valley with a single gray, gnarled tree. The ancient tree was surrounded by a small straggle of greenish-brown grass. A hastily made shack of rough-hewn timber sat in the middle of the valley, with a few small out-buildings behind it. A rough open-front stable held what looked to be nine or ten horses. Their hot, steaming breath billowed out and caught the first shafts of morning light that were cutting a thin line into the canyon valley below.

A small trail wound down the canyon and into the valley beneath. The sheriff motioned behind him, and without turning to see if the others followed, he headed quickly down the trail.

 They spread out behind a handful of large boulders and a stack of firewood at the edge of the valley, where the early morning shadows were still deep. Everyone waited, looking at the Sheriff for a signal. He took off his flat brimmed hat and wiped his sweating brow. The Sheriff, John Hicks Adams, was a sturdy man of forty-three, with thick, wavy, brown hair and a large goatee and mustache. Adams was a renowned veteran of the Mexican American War, and had since become a notorious gunslinger in his own right.

  He had just taken office three months earlier after winning the election for Sheriff of Santa Clara County, California in a landslide victory. As his first order of business he had decided, in typical John Hicks Adams style, to go after the most dangerous and notorious gang in the area at the time. He was determined, it seemed, to make an even bigger name for himself as the newly elected Sheriff of Santa Clara county than he had as the heroic Confederate Captain of J Company, a command he had boldly taken after the acting Captain Niles had died tragically in battle.

 He took a cigar from a pocket in his vest and lit it with a match. It flared up briefly and the yellow light glistened in his small, dark brown eyes. His face was weather worn with deep lines. Two men crouched behind him a few yards back. Both were holding shotguns and both also had star-shaped badges pinned to their jackets, but they read Deputy in the bold engraved type.

 The Sheriff turned and looked at one of the men and whispered in a rough, gravelly voice.

Jacob, get up here boy. Jacob, a handsome young man of twenty-three with fine features, hesitated for a second before coming forward and kneeling beside the Sheriff.

 The Sheriff looked at him and grunted, then spit a slimy brown gob onto the dusty ground between them. Time to earn that badge, son, he said in a throaty whisper. Sneak up close and see how many we got.

The Sheriff looked around at the other men and whispered so all could hear.

Word is they had quite a little celebration after the heist they pulled off yesterday, so if we’re lucky they’re still sleeping it off. Remember, look for Ingram and Poole. If we can get both of them two first, the rest of these vermin should scatter.

  Jacob heard grunts and a few snickers. He saw a few of the men grinning at him cruelly. He looked back at the Sheriff.

You want me to go in alone? What if they got alarms set, and I walk into an ambush?

 The Sheriff spat again and said Well you best pay attention then, and try not to get yourself killed. More quiet sounds of approval came from the others.

Jacob pulled his pistol from its holster and started to creep forward, bent down low. Under his breath he muttered,

Thanks, pa.

He moved forward, staying behind cover for as long as possible before darting to the next spot. Finally he made it to the shack and pressed flat against the side. He slowly crept forward until he was directly below a window of irregular, wavy glass. He stood up slowly and looked into the window. The glass was dirty so he quietly rubbed a spot clean and peered in. He could see what looked like five or six men and three or four women sleeping on the floor. The small cabin was a mess of empty bottles, guns, knives, and discarded items of clothing.

 He turned and looked back out to where the others were hiding. He could see a few rifle barrels sticking into the air behind various cover. He smiled to himself and started to walk quickly back toward them. As he moved he stayed low and darted from cover to cover. He ran up to the outhouse at the edge of the clearing and flattened himself against the side. He looked back briefly at the shack, then started to creep around the corner.

Suddenly the cold steel of a knife blade was pressed into his throat, and he heard a pistol being cocked behind him.

 A cold, husky voice spoke in his ear Hold it right there, sweetheart. He froze, clenching his teeth tightly.

We’re going for a little ride, you, me, and all my men. Now you hand over that sidearm, boy. The man spat the words into his ear in a slurred southern accent.

Rufus Ingram was a thick, burly man with a large flowing beard. He was a Confederate Captain and a former member of the infamous Quantrill's Guerrillas, the gang responsible for the most brutal and ghastly crimes committed by Confederate soldiers during the Civil War. Including the raid on Lawrence, Kansas where the gang killed every person in the town and burned nearly two hundred buildings. He and Tom Poole, along with other Copperheads and Knights of the Golden Circle, had formed the gang now known as Captain Ingram's Partisan Rangers. It was a bloodthirsty group headed by Ingram whose goal was to steal newly found Union wealth coming out of California, and use it to fund the New Southern Uprising. They had just recently pulled off the robbery of two Union stagecoaches filled with silver bullion near Placerville, now being called the Bullion Bend Robbery in the papers.

 Sheriff Adams had been in his office the previous day, when a rancher had burst in and excitedly told of the gang shacked up at his neighbor's ranch deep in the valley. Apparently the neighbor had become fearful for his life soon after Ingram and his boys took up residence at his secluded ranch. He had escaped to this man’s farm on the pretense of watering his horses and told his story along with a desperate plea for help. The Sheriff had wasted no time in getting men together, and they rode out that morning before dawn to bring the gang down, hoping to catch them still asleep. But now, Jacob thought, it seems that they didn't get there early enough.

 Jacob leaned his head back to release the pressure on his neck. He slowly raised his right hand holding the pistol out to his side. Ingram snatched the pistol from his hand and pushed the cold blade tighter against Jacob's neck. Ingram tucked Jacob's pistol into his gun belt then pressed his own large revolver into Jacob's back. He dropped the knife from Jacob's throat then pushed him forward with the barrel of the gun. Jacob stumbled but stayed on his feet. Ingram walked closely behind him and they started to move forward into the open, toward the posse. The shorter, stockier Ingram was using Jacob as a shield as they walked.

He hissed in Jacob’s ear, the putrid smell of his hot, rancid breath making Jacob recoil. Ingram pulled him close.

Now you tell that sheriff of yours we ain’t going to no jail cells, not today. If he’s got any interest in seeing you alive he best take his posse back up the canyon and let us ride out of here. When we hit the Mexican border we’ll set you free. Ingram put the knife blade back to Jacob's throat, stopping him and forcing him to stand up tall before him. Jacob grunted as the blade bit and a trickle of blood ran down his neck. Sweat popped out on his forehead and he felt dizzy and sick. His legs seemed to go soft on him and his arms felt heavy. He strained but somehow managed to stand still, defiantly.

He spat. Tell him yourself.

 White light filled Jacob's vision in a blinding flash of agony, and he felt his body collapse. A moment later he was holding his bleeding scalp as he was pulled roughly back to his feet. He swayed unsteadily as he struggled to keep his legs steady beneath him. He was still blinded by the blow and a searing pain that was now tearing through his skull.

  Don’t play tough boy. It don’t suit you. Now stand up so they can see you whimper. Ingram jammed the barrel of the revolver against Jacob's head. He winced with the pain but managed to stay on his feet.

 Ingram brutally prodded him forwards a few more steps out into the open. Then he yelled loudly so everyone could hear, his voice carrying across the valley floor and echoing up the narrow canyon.

Sheriff John Hicks Adams! I have your deputy. If you want the boy back alive, take your posse back up the canyon and let me and my men ride out of here free. I give you my word we’ll let the boy go after we hit the Mexican border.

A stirring commotion was heard from the cabin behind them, and in a moment Jacob heard the sounds of glass breaking as rifle barrels were aimed out of shattered window panes and men geared up for battle.

  Jacob took a deep breath and squinted into the morning light toward the posse, waiting to see or hear something. Nothing was moving. 

Suddenly a shot tore through Jacob's shoulder and hit Rufus Ingram square in the chest. Ingram stumbled back in shock and dropped his gun for a moment, not understanding what had just happened. Jacob fell backward to the ground clutching his shoulder. A second round tore Ingram's throat out and he fell to his knees, grasping at his ruined neck as it gushed blood with every final heartbeat. Jacob gaped at his shoulder, a bullet hole torn through it and becoming slick with the blood that was flowing freely.

 At once the air erupted on both sides as the gang poured out of the cabin, firing wildly in all directions. They were met with an explosion of gunfire, from the posse which outnumbered and surrounded them, coming out from behind their cover. They pressed in and the air grew thick with black smoke and the screams of the dying.

JACOB was sitting on a table inside a small dining room. He was shirtless and a young woman was carefully cleaning his wounded shoulder with a wet rag. She dipped it into a bowl of steaming water, wrung it out and gently wiped away blood from the wound. She looked at him, her large blue eyes two deep, dark pools in the flickering light of the lantern. She dabbed again at the wound and Jacob winced softly with pain.

 Sorry Jake. I know this stings. You poor thing. I can’t believe he did this to you, she said, her eyes briefly locking with his before looking away.

 Jacob watched her as she gently wrung out the bloody rag and slowly dipped it again into the steaming water. She was an attractive young woman with long strawberry blond hair