affection and partly because he was so tired it felt good to have someone to lean on.
Sago said, “We’ll all pitch in and clean up that mess on the other side of town, Colonel.”
The Kid looked in that direction. Some of the Rurales had fled, but a number of them were dead.
Suddenly, at the far end of town, a rider moved into the light that spilled through an open window. The Kid tensed as he recognized Mateo. He hadn’t seen the Yaqui during the fighting. Mateo appeared to be unharmed, and he had a rifle in his hand. For a second The Kid thought he might lift the gun and take a last shot.
Mateo raised the Winchester. Holding it above his head for a second, he wheeled his horse and vanished into the gathering darkness.
Had that been a salute? The Kid thought it was. Mateo was done with this fight.
But if their trails ever crossed again, The Kid mused, he suspected he would have himself one more deadly enemy.
“Come on,” Jess said softly. “The others want to see you and thank you.”
The Kid nodded and let her lead him away.
Other than a bit of lameness that disappeared with rest, the dun hadn’t been injured in the fall. The Kid was grateful for that. He and the horse made a good team.
Two weeks later, he and Jess sat in the luxurious lobby of the Camino Real Hotel in El Paso. A couple of years earlier, Conrad Browning had met with Frank Morgan at that hotel, to ask for Frank’s help, and that was the beginning of the growing friendship and respect between father and son. The Kid hadn’t been back since.
The saber cut on his hand was healing. Luckily, he hadn’t needed to use his gun during the past two weeks.
The skirmish at Sago had been brushed under the rug, as far as The Kid knew. Maybe there had been a few angry letters exchanged between Washington and Mexico City. Maybe not. None of that mattered to him.
With a smile, Jess said, “I can’t help but wonder how a drifting gunfighter can afford to stay in a fancy place like this, let alone pay for four women to start new lives. It wouldn’t do any good to ask, though, would it?”
The Kid shrugged. “Everybody has secrets.”
“You know just about everything there is to know about me, Kid. The good and the bad.”
“I don’t know anything bad,” he told her with a shake of his head.
“Most people wouldn’t see it that way.”
“Most people are damned fools in one way or another.”
She smiled. “I suppose you’re right about that. Speaking of damned fools ... are you sure I can’t talk you into going to Dallas with me?”
“Leah’s going to be staying with you for a while. The two of you will do fine.”
“I know,” Jess said. “But if you ever change your mind ...”
“I’ll know where to find you,” The Kid promised. He got to his feet, holding a black Stetson in his hand. The Rurales uniform was long gone. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and string tie. And the Colt on his hip, of course. He was never without it.
Jess came into his arms and hugged him, resting her head against his chest for a moment. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’ve said that plenty times already. No need to say it again.”
“Never enough.” She tipped her head back to look at him. “Come see me sometime.”
“Count on it,” The Kid told her, although he didn’t know if that promise would ever be fulfilled.
The dun was waiting outside, and the trail to ... somewhere ... beckoned.
Kid Morgan was ready to answer that call.
Turn the page for an exciting preview of the
MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN
The year is 1884. A ten-year-old British boy has come to visit his uncle’s Wyoming spread, just as the vicious Yellow Kerchief Gang has the ranch under siege. Outgunned and outmatched, a British rancher is willing to pay $5,000 for help. That is more than enough money to bring Matt Jensen into the fray. A huge, bloody gunfight, fueled by betrayal, erupts at the Powder River. But Matt has to shoot carefully. The Yellow Kerchief Gang has a hostage— the British lad named Winnie. And Matt has history on his hands, because Winnie Churchill must survive. Fifty years later Winston Churchill will fight a war of his own—carrying a Matt Jensen .44 shell in his pocket and a gunfighter’s spirit in his soul.
MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN
by William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone
Coming in February 2012
Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.
Prologue
Overhead the distinctive buzzing sound of the approaching V-1 bomb grew silent and the guards around General Eisenhower’s headquarters looked up to the east to watch a small, pulse-jet-powered, square-winged flying bomb tumble from the sky. It was followed by a heavy, stomach-shaking blast as the missile exploded, sending a huge column of smoke roiling into the air.
A few moments later an olive-drab Packard glided to a stop in front of the American headquarters. The car was festooned with three small flags attached to the hood ornament: a U.S. flag, a British flag, and the four star flag denoting it to be the car of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. Captain Kay Summersby, the general’s female driver, hurried around to open the back door as the general came out of headquarters. Before Eisenhower got into the car his chief of staff stepped outside.
“We just got the all clear, General,” General Walter Bedell Smith said. “No more buzz bombs are headed this way.”
“Thanks, Beetle,” Eisenhower said as he climbed into the backseat.
General Smith and the guards saluted as the car drove away.
Fifteen minutes later the Packard drew to a stop in front of Number 10 Downing Street, and Kay Summersby hurried around to open the door for General Eisenhower.
“Thank you, Kay.”
He was met at the curb by Phyllis Moir, Winston Churchill’s private secretary. “This way, General. The PM is in the cabinet room.”
General Eisenhower followed the secretary through the labyrinthine halls of the residence of the Prime Minister of Britain, and past the two pairs of Corinthian columns that led into the cabinet room. Churchill, with the ever-present cigar protruding from his mouth, was standing at a small bar, pouring whiskey.
“Tennessee mash for you, right, General?” Churchill said. “I prefer Mortlach, which is an excellent single-malt Scotch.”
He handed Eisenhower a glass. The whiskey in the glass caught a beam of light that passed through one of the enormous windows, causing the liquor to glow as if lit from within.
