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The Way the Cards Fall

by O.K. Williams

453 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); illustrated; catalogue #04-0117; ISBN 1-4120-2289-4; US$34.00, C$39.00, EUR28.00, £19.50

This is a gripping novel about a Tennessee farm boy in the 1860s. He learned to kill in the war, then he learned to love, then he learned to learn.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts       catalogue info

About the Book The term "THE WAY THE CARDS FALL" is not a tutorial on playing poker, but a philosophy for life. In this book a Tennessee farm boy, who comes from a family of superior marksmen, survives the Civil War, and the reconstruction period, with the assistance of a beautiful Creole women who helps him evolve into manhood. She convinces him that, although he is intelligent, he could only utilize that intelligence by increasing his education. Then, for reasons known only to her, she forces Jason to leave. He decides to go west to seek his fortune. While passing through Fort Smith, Arkansas, his talent with firearms brings him into contact with Al, a friend of his army Sergeant. Al puts Jason into training to be a gunsmith and together they build a successful business around a pistol that Al has modified from "cap and ball" to a cartridge fed weapon. Jason's capacity to be a friend, gains him the love and help of many, in his quest to build his life, including some of the prominent men of the day such as Confederate General P.T.G. Beauregard and others. While in Fort Smith Jason meets a young girl with a past. He becomes very fond of her but he cannot forget the beautiful Creole woman. He has the misfortune to love two women. The girl's past brings Jason to the brink of disaster as he plays the cards the way they have been dealt to him, in the best way he can. The book contains twelve illustrations by the author.

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About the Author The author grew up in East Saint Louis, Illinois, where he graduated from high school in 1957. He spent twenty years in the U.S. Navy, as an aircraft Structural Mechanic/Flight Engineer on the Navy's P3V aircraft. While in the Navy he shot on the Navy rifle and pistol teams, and has been affiliated with shooting programs, off and on, ever since. After retiring from the Navy he worked as an Industrial Mechanic, where he continued his education at local colleges and latter went into business installing gas appliances. After retiring again from business, he took a writing course to help him complete this book that he started some years before. He has written one book entitled The Stone Orchid, A Sailing Adventure, which he hopes to get published soon. His quote: "I'm not a great author, in the classic sense, but I tell damn interesting stories." He has recently sold his home and is living in a motor home with his dog "Missy", and is planning on buying a sailing yacht, which he intends to live on.

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Excerpts

Al strapped on the odd looking holster. He positioned it so the handle of a 'Conversion Pistol' was directly over his belly button. He had function tested this pistol, so he was sure it worked perfectly.

It was Friday evening, and Al knew that Bobby always come to town on Friday evenings to one saloon or the other.

Al started making the rounds of the saloons. If Bobby wasn't there, he left. He found Bobby in the Donnetaus' Saloon, a long thin building with the bar running down the left side. Bobby was sitting at a table about midway to the back, with two other soldiers.

Al walked to the bar, opposite Bobby's table. He ordered a whisky. He drank half of it, and waited. His hand slipped down to the pistol. He unhooked the leather thong from the hammer spur and thumbed the hammer back to full cock.

Soon Bobby noticed him. "Well. If it ain't, old man Waggoner. Where's your pal Waggoner, hiding in a hole somewhere?"

Al leaned his back against the bar, facing Bobby. "He sure as hell ain't hidin' from the likes of you, Bobby. I doubt if you'll see him hide from any man, let alone a piece of hog shit like you."

"You better watch your mouth old man, I'll come over there and slap it for you."

"Have you got enough whisky in you. It appears to me, the only time you got enough guts to actually try anything is when you are drunk." Then with a grin he said, "Of course, even then, you ain't very good at it, are you? Jason handled you like you was a baby."

"Keep it up old man, an I'll kick your ass, no matter how old you are."

A hush settled over the room. Tension was as thick as the smoke, everyone watching the drama unfold. Al turned to the rest of the men in the bar and said in a loud voice, "Any one here know the difference between Bobby Karry, and a catfish?" Al looked around the room. Everyone looked. No one said anything. "Well, one of them is a slimy, low life, bottom feedin', scavenger." He paused, "The other one is a fish!"

Bobby had to think about that for a minute. When everyone in the saloon started laughing at him, he stood up so fast; his chair fell over backwards. "You asked for this, old man." he started toward Al.

Al turned his left side toward Bobby. In doing so the muzzle of the pistol protruding from its strange holster, was pointing directly at Bobby's belly.

Bobby kept coming, when he got almost to Al, the room shook with the sound of the big .44/40 pistol. Al fired without removing the pistol from the holster.

Bobby was thrown back violently, shot in the lower part of the abdomen. He fell almost back to the table he had been sitting at.

Al slid the big revolver out of the holster and cocked it. He looked around the room. The pistol followed his eyes. He said, "Anyone here lookin' to back his play?" No one said a word.

Al stood there waiting for Bobby to find his tongue. Finally Bobby's hand reached for his Colt, .44 service revolver.

Al said, "Go on! Reach for it, you coward."

Bobby said haltingly, "Ya got tha drop on me." His hand stopped.

Al knew that Bobby would die from that belly shot. Maybe not right away, but for sure. He thought, "That's the first part, done."

Al put the pistol back into the holster, and held his hands over his head. "There you slimy coward, ya got your hand on your pistol, my hands are up in the air. If you got any guts left in ya, go for it!"

Bobby pulled his pistol and shot Al three times in the chest. Each time Al rocked back against the bar, but he remained standing, with his hands still over his head. Bobby stopped shooting.

It was so quiet you could hear the sucking sound from Al's wounds.

Al thought, "Second parts done."  He brought his right hand down, slowly and deliberately taking the pistol from its holster again and emptied the weapon into Bobby, taking his life.

Barely audible, he said, "I fold." and his knees buckled under him.

The men of the saloon were all amazed at how Al was able to remain standing and finish Bobby, after taking three bullets in the chest.

Dr. Spring had been passing by when he heard the shots. He waited until the shooting stopped and some of the men came out, telling of the shooting. He went in to see if he could be of assistance. After examining the two men he said, "Nothing I can do here."

While Dr. Spring was examining Al, a small, flat, wooden box fell out of his inside coat pocket. Dr. Spring, recognizing it as a medical implement, examined it.

A man was telling the Doctor about how Al had just stood there after taking three rounds to the chest, then slowly and deliberately emptied his pistol into Bobby, before falling to the floor. Dr. Spring held up an almost empty hypodermic syringe, and the bottle labeled 'Morphine'. He said, "I don't think Al was feeling much pain."

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Catalogue Information

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