The Legend of the Emerald Cross

By James Brewer

Buck Sellers couldn't remember when he had not been a part of the fishing industry on Florida's southwest coast. He knew these waters like the back of his hand. When offered the chance to make some extra money by simply steering a shrimp boat for an inexperienced captain through the Placida Channel at night, he agreed. This proved to be a decision that would destroy his family and ruin his life.

Hiding on a shell mound island outside Boca Grande, Buck began plotting his revenge. As he dug one evening during a rainstorm to even out the sand under his makeshift tent, his fingers felt a strange object--a gold cross with seven green emeralds in it.

Buck had never been a religious man, but he took this as a sign from God. He tied the cross on a fishing line and hung it around his neck. For the first time in his life, Buck prayed and asked for God's help. As he sought justice for his family from the waters of south Florida to the night clubs in Miami, north to the mountains of Georgia, and back to the farmlands of Homestead, Florida, the story of the cross Buck found on that shell mound and how it protected him from all who would do him harm spread, creating The Legend of the Emerald Cross.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886549812

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The Legend of the Emerald Cross

James Brewer

Copyright © 2022 James Brewer

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 979-8-88654-971-3 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-981-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

This book is dedicated to my many friends in Southwest Florida. Their knowledge and experiences made it possible.

My deepest appreciation to Dr. Diane Nichols for her confidence in me as an author, for typing, editing, and reviewing the manuscript numerous times, and assisting me in seeking a publisher.

And finally, special thanks to Ray Telarroja and Gretchen Wills of Page Publishing, Inc. for their support and guidance through the publishing process for a first-time author.

Chapter 1

It ain't gonna be easy, Buck, but if you want to get out of this jam and want to work with us, I think I can work it out. Chief Deputy Oscar Williams was referring to Buck Sellers's late arrest for helping guide a shrimp boat loaded with pot up the Placida Channel at night.

Oscar, you know you ain't got that much on me, Buck said.

Yeah, but we caught you at the scene, and we know that there ain't but six people that can navigate that channel at night. And we accounted for five of them in Texas with the shrimp fleet. So that only leaves you, Buck. So come off it, and let's get you out of this mess!

But, Oscar… Buck stammered.

Oscar jumped to his feet and started for Buck. Two other deputies held him back.

Oscar yelled at Buck, You son of a bitch, if you had a thimbleful of sense, you'd know what will happen if I turn you over to the feds. You know they're not after the likes of you to keep their job going!

Okay! Okay! Buck mumbled. Tell me your plan and I'll see if I'll do it. But I want yours and the sheriff's words that I can go free!

Getting over his rage quickly, Oscar said, Buck, you've got my word and I'll get the sheriff's. If you just help us catch the whole crew, you can get in that old mullet boat of yours and head out!

Buck knew what this meant because he knew the West Coast of Florida better than any man. He had been raised in the middle of Charlotte Harbor Bay and knew every inch of water and the islands to Key West. He was aware that they knew when he got in his boat he would disappear forever.

Buck Sellers couldn't remember when he wasn't part of the fishing industry on Florida's southwest coast. When he grew up on Cole Island, his father fished for Gasparilla Fishery while his mother stayed home and made cast nets. There was always a new net in progress on their front porch. Buck spent his youth catching bait and guiding Yankees out to Boca Grande Pass to fish in what the Yankees called the world's greatest tarpon hole. Many times, Buck caught a ride to Cabbage Key for lunch with these wealthy anglers or over to Lacosta Island to guide some birdwatchers so they could photograph an osprey nest. There was never a day that Buck didn't explore some island, cove, or backwater creek. He knew, almost by instinct, where a boat would go or where a person would run aground. There have been many fishermen who spent a night in the bay with their boat stuck in the mud, with a host of saltwater mosquitoes and sand gnats making life miserable.

Life in this part of Florida was not a life of ease. However, a person was never unemployed unless he wanted to be. There was always some fish to catch or oysters that would bring a little money and plenty of Yankees to show around. The latter being the easiest money made.

Buck Sellers always made his wife, Emma, and daughter, Julie, a fair and comfortable living according to fisherman's standards. Buck had just made a down payment on a new twelve-by-forty house trailer and small lot at El Jobean, a small settlement fifteen miles north of the Gulf of Mexico on the Myakka River that empties into Charlotte Harbor Bay.

Buck and his family had only been living in their new home a week when he was approached by Ben Hartman, the man who financed his trailer, to do some guide work. Ben told Buck that his client wanted to fish at night, and he was willing to pay five times the going rate of $100 per day. Buck was so enthused at the anticipated wealth that he forgot to ask who the client was. He made arrangements to meet Ben and his new employer the next day. Upon arriving at the marina, Buck saw Ben talking with Harry Carlton, a man he knew very well. Harry had been down here in this area for four or five years. He was retired and moved here from New Jersey. Buck and Harry had fished and guided together many times, but Buck really didn't like some of Harry's friends. They were loud-mouthed and became very contentious and overbearing after more than a few drinks.

Several times, Buck had seen Joe Tatum, a small but wiry man, pick a fight at the local bar, only to find that he was overmatched in fighting capabilities. Then, as a last resort, he'd take out his knife, which he kept razor sharp, and cut his victim, leaving him needing fifteen to twenty stitches to close the wound. All these things passed through Buck's mind as he walked down the dock toward Ben and Harry.

Hello, Harry, Ben. How's it been going with ya? Buck said.

Fine, Buck. Just fine. I been knocking down pretty good the last couple of weeks, and that's what I need to talk to you about, replied Harry.

Well, you tell me where they are and we'll catch 'em, said Buck, not realizing they weren't talking about fish.

No, Buck, I got something better than that, Harry answered. Let's get on my boat and run out in the pass, and I'll tell you about it. With that, Harry turned toward a new twenty-foot Mako with a 200 HP Mercury engine.

This your boat? asked Buck.

Sure is! said Harry.

Damned if you ain't doing good! answered Buck.

Harry, as if he didn't hear, said, We'll see ya, Ben. Be good now.

See ya, yelled Ben as the big Merc started up.

The boat seemed to glide across the placid waters of the bay. Buck took a deep breath of the clean salt air and looked back to the beautiful wake the boat was making. He thought, God, I would love to have a boat like this!

Then, stepping up to the console beside Harry, he reached for the plug of tobacco lying there, at the same time whipping out his folding knife and opening it with one smooth motion. Buck cut off one corner of the plug and slipped it into the corner of his mouth.

Nice tobacco, Harry, Buck said.

Yeah, it's Black Maria, said Harry. Can't get it here. I have to get John to get it for me in North Carolina when he hauls up a load of fish.

By this time, they were passing the phosphate docks at Port Boca Grande and entering Boca Grande Pass.

Damn, Buck, look at the boats in the pass, Harry yelled over the noise of the engine.

Sure, it's the third of June and nearly every tarpon in 500 miles of here will visit this pass sometime this month, replied Buck. Hold up, Harry. That sports fisherman over there has one on, Buck said.

He hardly had the words out when the surface of the water exploded, and a great silver fish leaped into the air. The tarpon cleared the water four or five feet, at the same time whipping his body and shaking its great head trying to lose the hook.

You know, Harry, I've been here all my life and I still can't get enough of this, said Buck.

I know, Buck. It's a thing about them tarpons and what they do to a man I can't explain, answered Harry. But let's get going. We got money to make! finished Harry.

Harry guided the boat in and out of the nearly fifty boats of all sizes in the pass. When he came to the first outside channel marker in the Gulf, he turned hard left toward Captiva Island. They had been running wide open for about forty minutes when Harry cut the throttle back and headed for a small pass. Just as they passed between the islands, Buck saw an ocean racer, or a cigarette boat, as most people call them. It was tied off at one of the old fishing shacks that used to belong to the Punta Gorda Fish Company. Now, many different people owned them. These fishing shacks were built on pilings in about three to five feet of water. They had a deck and wooden shutters. Most only had the bare necessities and fit right into their surroundings. As they pulled alongside the long, sleek boat, Buck walked to the bow of their boat to get a better look at this magnificent machine.

Nice, huh, Buck? asked Harry.

You bet, Harry. It's sure out of mine and your class, answered Buck.

Maybe and maybe not, said Harry. By now, Buck, seeing that Harry intended to tie up here, was on the deck with a bow line. The deck cleats had long ago disappeared, so Buck chose a piling near the racer to tie too. As he did, he had the opportunity to look over into the cockpit. The keys were left in the switch and there, lying on the seat, was an Uzi or one of the new machine guns now so popular with the drug traffic.

Buck thought, What the hell has Harry got us into?

By that time, Harry was alongside him on the deck. Come on in, Buck, said Harry. I got somebody you need to meet.

As they approached the door, a tall young man, about twenty-five and dressed in white shorts and a sports shirt, opened it for them.

Greetings, my house is your house!

Buck, not having much diplomacy about him and used to saying what he thought, as most crackers do, said, Ain't much of a damn house if you ask me.

Harry gave Buck a hard look and said, Aw, Buck, Mr. George was just trying to be nice.

As they entered the room, Buck noticed that the shack hadn't been used much. There were a couple of chairs, some crab traps, a kerosene lamp, and a few odd items used for fishing. What was missing was the usual kerosene stove, pots and pans, beds, and normal living essentials.

Harry started the conversation. Mr. George, meet my good friend, Buck Sellars. He's the best guide on the West Coast. He knows these waters as good as a conch knows the inside of his shell.

Sticking out his hand, the young man said, Glad to meet you, Buck. I think you'll fit my needs just fine.

About this time, an older man, fifty years old, more or less, came out of the only other room in the shack.

Shelley, come over here and meet Buck.

Shelley wore dirty khaki pants that were too big for him and a tee shirt that matched, no shoes and a three-day old beard that had turned white around the edges. Also, he carried the mate to the machine gun left in the boat.

Hi, Buck. Glad to meet ya, was all Shelley had