“Please,” Churchill said when he had his own glass. “Have a seat.” He indicated a small seating area which consisted of an ox-blood 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 the 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 gentleman,” 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 One
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.”
