“Please,” Churchill said when he had his own glass. “Have a seat.” He indicated a small seating area which consisted of an oxblood leather couch and two facing saddle-leather chairs. Eisenhower chose the couch. A coffee table separated the sofa and chairs. Churchill flicked the long white ash from the end of his cigar into the crystal ashtray on the table before he settled his rather large frame into one of the chairs.
“Any word on the buzz bomb attack?” Eisenhower asked.
“Six killed at Waterloo Station,” Churchill said.
“That’s a shame.”
“Better than last weekend, when we lost two hundred to the attacks. What’s our status with the invasion?”
“We’re advancing toward Cherbourg,” Eisenhower said. “I expect we will have it within a few days.”
“Good, good, that’s wonderful news. Oh, by the way, I want to thank you for that pile of Western novels you sent over last week.”
“I’m glad I had them.”
“You enjoy reading Western novels, do you?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I keep a stack of them on my bedside table, and probably read about three a week.”
“Outstanding,” Churchill said. “I’m a fan of the American Western novel as well. Who is your favorite Western author?”
“I’m fairly eclectic. I like Zane Grey of course, Owen Wister, Max Brand, and Andy Adams.”
“Wonderful,” Churchill replied enthusiastically. “I like them as well.” He held out his glass. “Shall we drink to the American West?”
“It would be an honor.” General Eisenhower held his glass to Churchill’s. The men drank; Eisenhower took but a sip, while Churchill took a large swallow.
“Tell me, General”—Churchill wiped his lips with the back of his hand—“have you ever read anything about a Western hero named Matt Jensen?”
“Yes, of course.” Eisenhower smiled. “In fact, I even know a bit of trivial information about him. His real name wasn’t Jensen, it was ...” Eisenhower paused for a moment, as if trying to recall.
“Cavanaugh,” Churchill said, supplying the name. “Matthew Cavanaugh, but after he was orphaned, he took on the name of his mentor, Smoke Jensen.”
“Whose real name was Kirby Jensen,” Eisenhower said. “And he was quite a hero himself. But, tell me, Mr. Prime Minister, how is it that you know so much about Matt Jensen?”
“I have what you might call a vested interest in that gentlemen,” Churchill replied.
“All right, now you have me hooked. Why do you have a vested interest in one of America’s Old West heroes?”
Churchill took another swallow of his scotch. “I have piqued your interest, have I?”
“I must confess that you have,” Eisenhower replied.
“If it had not been for Matt Jensen I would not be the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and I would not be sitting here before you, discussing the greatest invasion in the history of warfare.”
“How is that so?”
“Matt Jensen saved my life.”
Chapter 1
When Jarvis Winslow returned home from the city council meeting, he wondered why the house was dark. His wife and daughter should be there, and supper should be on the table.
“Julie?” he called. “Julie, are you here?”
Winslow walked over to a nearby table, then lit a lantern. Light filled the room as he turned it up. “Julie?”
“Hello, Mr. Winslow,” a man said, stepping into the living room from the hallway. He was a smallish man, with black hair, and a large, hooked nose. He had a big red spot on his cheek and a gun in his hand.
“What?” Winslow gasped. “Who are you? What’s going on here?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter,” the gunman said. “And what is going on is a bank robbery.”
“A bank robbery? Are you insane? I’m the president of the bank, but I don’t keep any money in my house. Wait a minute, I know who you are. You are Red Plummer, aren’t you?”
Two other men came into the room then.
“If you know who I am, then you know I am someone you had better listen to. Let me introduce my associates, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy. You don’t want to get them angry, either.”
“Where is my wife? Where is my daughter?” Winslow asked.
“They are safe. For the time being,” Plummer said. “Would you like to see them?”
“Yes.”
“They are back in the bedroom. Bring your lantern.”
“Julie?” Winslow called, grabbing the lantern and hurrying into the bedroom. When he stepped through the door he saw his wife and his daughter, both stripped absolutely naked and tied to the bed. They had gags in their mouths, and terror in their eyes.
“What the hell have you done to them?” Winslow shouted angrily.
“We ain’t done nothin’ yet.” Plummer looked over at the other two men. “But I have to tell you, I’m havin’ a hard time keepin’ Sullivan and McCoy off of ’em.”
“I want the young one,” Sullivan said, rubbing his crotch.
“You bastard! She is only twelve years old!” Winslow said.
“Maybe so, but she’s comin’ along real good.”
“You see what I’m having to deal with?” Winslow said. “Now, the only way I’m goin’ to be able to keep them away from your women is if you do exactly what I tell you to do.”
“What do you want?” Winslow asked. “I’ll do it.”
“I want you to go to the bank, get every dollar the bank has, then bring it here. Once we have the money, we’ll be on our way.”
“I’ll get the money. Just—just don’t do anything to hurt my wife and daughter.”
Plummer smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked and broken teeth. “I thought we might be able to work something out.”
Winslow took one last look at his wife and daughter, then hurried out of the house and over to the bank, which was just one block away. Inside the bank he emptied the safe, taking out twenty-three thousand dollars, and stuffing the money into a bag. He started to leave, but before he did, he scribbled a quick note.
When he got back to the house, he hurried into the bedroom. “I got the money. Let them go.”
Then, looking toward the bed, he gasped. Their throats had been cut and blood was all over the bed. His wife and daughter were looking up with glazed, sightless eyes.
“You bastards!” he shouted, throwing the money bag toward Plummer.
“Really now, Winslow, you didn’t think we were going to let you live after you knew our names, did you?”
So shocked by the sight of his wife and daughter, Winslow didn’t realize McCoy was behind him until he felt the knife thrust into his back.
Matt Jensen walked into the Gold Nugget Saloon in Fort Collins, twenty miles south of Livermore. On the wall was a sign:
Card cheats will not be allowed in this establishment.
Please report any cheating to the Management.
