CASINO SHUFFLE (44 page)

Her only change, more of a nuance, was an upward curve to each side of her lips.

Antonio arched an eyebrow.
 
“Do you require anything else?”

“Yes.”
 
She drained the last of her champagne.
 
“Take off that fucking tuxedo.”

Note From J.Fields,Jr.

Hello!
 
Thank you very much for reading Casino Shuffle.
 
I hope you liked spending the weekend with Antonio Cruz and Mark Ford.
 
If so, please let me know on Twitter @jfieldsjr.

For those interested, the cover was done on Corel Painter X by yours truly.
 
The original painting that I did is included here after you’re done reading my rambling.

Next up are some excerpts from author friends of mine that I highly recommend.
 
After that is a list of books I would suggest checking out.
 
I’ve read them all, and enjoyed them all.
 
I read a lot of different genres, and also have written two other short stories on Amazon that I think you’ll like if you’re open to horror and adventure.
 
Check them out and let me know what you think!

The sequel to Casino Shuffle is in the works.
 
I’ve ran it past a couple Antonio fans and they give it their stamp of approval so far.
 
He seems to have a little group of admirers that are less crazy than Bran Fans but just as loyal.
 
Look for
Bad Beat
to come out in 2012.

Until our next weekend at the Native Sun Casino, take care and best of luck.

www.jfieldsjr.com

A SAMPLE INTRODUCTION

(CHAPTER ONE)

Copyright 2006, all rights reserved

This sample is used with the permission of the author

May 30, l848

Dear Uncle Virgil and Aunt Martha,

    
I write to you from four days trek west of
Fort
Kearney
.
 
I am in the
Indian
Territories
now, near the
Platte
River
.
 
It is better this sad news come from me than by a traveler from these parts.
 
I have to tell you of the death of Mother and Father.
 
It was from the cholera which was present In St. Jo when we left and has been with many emigrant parties on the trail.
 
Father showed first signs about the time we made afternoon camp on Saturday the twenty fifth and was quickly consumed by fever and the purging of the sickness.
  
He was gone before the sun arose on the Sabbath.
 
Mother tended to him well during the night and was with him at the end.
  
On Sunday afternoon Mother became ill and I feared the worst.
 
Mrs. Gresham, who you may know, tended her along with a Dr. Bingham from a
Missouri
train encamped nearby with sick people of their own.
 
He gave her barberry and an opium pill and it seemed she rested comfortable and that the malady would spare her.
 
Our party remained at camp as two other wagons also took sick with the cholera.
 
Mother stayed quiet till Monday afternoon when she awoke in a delirium for about a hour and then quickly slipped back and soon died.
 
I was with them the whole time but thankfully am not sick.
 
Mr. and Mrs. Hampton along with their boy James died from the disease, too.
 
I didn’t know this until they were gone.
 
I was with my own kin as would be fitting.

    
They was buried near a cold water spring next to the river along with the
Hamptons
. All except the father from a family of the
Missouri
party, name of Cooper, perished.
  
There was a mother, a daughter, and a baby boy.
 
All were given Christian rites by a Missouri Methodist preacher name of
Clark
.
 
It was as pretty a resting place as any at home.
 
There were some willow trees within a glade where we laid them down and green grass all around.

     
Elizabeth Hampton survived without affliction.
 
She will travel on with the Clark preacher and his wife at least as far as
Fort
Laramie
cause there is no one on the trail going east who she could safely travel with.

     
The
Hamptons
were from south of town near you and you may know their people and can tell them of their loved ones' passing.
 
Please let the Greshams of Cairo know that theirs are all right and how Mrs. Gresham was an angel to all the stricken.
 
Mr. Gresham was not so Christian as he feared for the cholera coming to him and his.
 
Their people maybe shouldn't know this as he was always liked about town but is much changed after only a month on the trail to
Oregon
.

     
I am left now with our hand Jubal and our stock and wagon.
 
I have thought this well and have chosen to stay on the path to
Oregon
.
 
I do not want to return to
Cairo
and be the orphan Bonner boy.
 
My Father said this trip will make a man of me and that is a part of my reason for going on.
 
I want to make my fortune like my brother Ned.
 
Perhaps I will meet him in
Oregon
as he has shipped on a steam packet out of
New Orleans
and is destined to stop for trade in
California
and
Oregon
.

     
I send this back with a family who has also suffered and has given up.
 
I hope this letter reaches you and I will try to write again from
Fort
Laramie
.
 

Your nephew in sorrow,

 
Josh Bonner

     
Josh Bonner wasn't tired of walking.
 
He was just tired of looking.
 
For over an hour he had been staring only at his feet as they trudged through the new grass of the plain beneath him.

    
For the last ten minutes or so he had been concentrating on a white pebble picked up between the sole and toe of his boot.
 
It wasn't that his boots fascinated him; it was just that he dreaded looking up again at the endless vista of shifting green buffalo grass against the constant horizon and eye-stunning blue sky.
 
Nothing ever seemed to get any closer.

     
It had been seven days since he had buried his parents near the spring on the
Platte
.
 
He was glad for the copse of trees near the gravesite.
 
It was a peaceful place and made a landmark in this changeless sea of waving green and the occasional stunted tree.
 
It was almost time for the afternoon camp and he would be grateful for the respite despite how despondent his evenings had become.

     
The dreg ends of the days were the worst.
 
With them he had the dragging hours of the evenings to think about his parents and to entertain doubts of his decision to push on.
 
Sometimes, it seemed every step was a chance to turn about.

     
The mornings, strangely, made everything seem right.
 
Each day he was thrilled by the bustle of having breakfast in the open and by the breaking of the night's camp.
 
Packing, getting the mules from the picket line, and helping Jubal hitch the team to the wagon renewed him.
 
Best of all the affairs of the new day took him away from off his misery and his doubts.

     
Jubal watched Josh from his perch on the wagon.
 
He held the reins loosely and let the mule team plod along.
 
The river was just out of earshot to the right and Josh walked aimlessly abreast the wagon about five rods distant.
 
There wasn't much for Jubal
  
to do in driving the wagon.
 
The mules had steadied to their task in the past few days.
 
Still, at night he picketed all the animals lest they get a notion to return to their old homes along the
Missouri River
.
 
Other than an occasional flick of the reins he had little to do but watch the miles roll under the wheels and wonder about the young man pacing alongside.

     
Josh Bonner had changed more in the past month than in the seven years since Jubal
 
had fled slavery and become a part of the Bonner household.
 
When they first set out for
Oregon
from their home in
Cairo
,
Illinois
, Josh had been just a boy, all full of himself and brimming with jump for the venture ahead.
 
Since the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Bonner he had seemed still a boy but one changed beyond the pain he must feel.
 
Jubal was surprised that Josh decided to continue on.

     
After burying his folks Josh sat for near a whole day by the bank of the river and wouldn't brook any company.
 
Everyone knew he was crying but striving to behave as what he thought a man should.
 
He wouldn't let anyone see his grief and turned away if any of the party tried to approach.

     
At that day's end he returned to the wagon camp to eat a sparing meal in silence.
 
After an hour or so of poking the fire with a stick he quietly announced they would go on.
 
Surprisingly neither the captain nor any of the other emigrants questioned Josh nor tried to dissuade him.
 
They just passed glances around, shuffled about, and that was it.
 
Nobody looked to Jubal
 
as they wouldn't pay any attention to a black man anyway.
 
Even if any one had bothered to ask for his opinion he probably wouldn't have been able to tell them how he felt about the casual way the whites allowed even a boy to decide what to do with his own life.
 
Perhaps it was the offhanded way Josh spoke up or the determined set of his features that discouraged comment.
 
As for Jubal turning back on his own, that wasn’t even a consideration.
 
Jubal had nothing to return for or go back to.
 
Worse, some of the emigrants were from slave states and might not take well to him walking away like a free nigger.