“You don’t have to tell me anything more about Matt Jensen, either,” Eisenhower said. “I have read enough books about that gentleman to know what a stalwart and heroic career he had.”
Churchill held up his finger. “General, I have something I would like to give you.”
“Oh?”
“I have kept it for lo, these many years. But because it is truly American in origin, by rights, it should belong to an American. And not just any American, but to one who is worthy. Wait here for a moment.”
Churchill left the cabinet room for fully a minute while Eisenhower lit a cigarette, wondering what this was all about. When Churchill returned, he was holding a small silver box.
“This is for you,” he said, handing the box to Eisenhower.
Eisenhower looked at the box in curiosity.
“Not the box—what is inside,” Churchill said.
Eisenhower opened the box and saw inside a single bullet. He removed the bullet, then held it out to look at it, his curiosity still not satisfied.
“It is a bullet,” Eisenhower said.
Churchill chuckled. “Yes. But not just any bullet. This, my dear General, is a forty-four caliber bullet that Matt Jensen personally removed from the cylinder of his pistol. He gave it to me as a keepsake. But now, on behalf of a grateful nation for what you have done for us, I take tremendous pleasure in giving to you.”
“Mr. Prime Minister, I don’t know what to say,” Eisenhower said. “I appreciate this, very much.”
“I thought you might,” Churchill said. “Us ‘cowboys’ are simpatico that way. Oh, there is one way I would let you get rid of it, though,” he added.
“How is that?”
“If you could find a Colt .44 pistol and use it to personally put a bullet in Hitler’s head.”
Churchill laughed, and Eisenhower laughed with him.
In the car on the way back to 20 Grosvenor Square, Eisenhower opened his hand and looked at the bullet Churchill had given him. The thought that Matt Jensen had personally held this bullet, and now he was holding it, gave him a sense of connection to one of the heroes he had read about.
“Kaye?”
“Yes, General?” his driver replied.
“Next time you order a batch of Westerns for me, see what you can find about Matt Jensen.”
Turn the page for an exciting preview of the
MACCALLISTER, THE EAGLES LEGACY:
A family of Scottish warriors.
A stranger in a new land ...
From the bestselling authors
William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone,
the blazing saga of Duff MacCallister,
heir to a legacy of courage.
Duff MacCallister fled the Scottish Highlands for a new world in Wyoming Territory. Betrothed to a good woman, Duff has the bad luck to be standing in the Chugwater Bank when a violent robbery explodes around him. With one man dead by Duff’s gun, and another under arrest, a team of bandits swarms outside of town. As witnesses, Duff, a banker and a beautiful barmaid are whisked into the town’s hotel for safekeeping as the outlaws threaten the defenseless town with a bloodbath if their fellow bandit isn’t set free.
Except no MacCallister has ever run from trouble. With a scoped Creedmoor rifle, he goes after the Taylor gang, one bad guy at a time ... But Duff doesn’t know that fate—and a little twist of frontier justice—will give the Taylor Gang one last chance for a shocking, treacherous act of revenge ...
MACCALLISTER, THE EAGLES LEGACY:
Prologue
Eight men had come to kill Duff MacCallister, and eight men now lay dead in the streets of Chugwater, Wyoming Territory. Before he headed back home, the entire town of Chugwater turned out to hail Duff as a hero. Duff had a few people of his own to thank: Biff Johnson for shooting the man off the roof who had a bead on him, Fred Matthews for tossing him a loaded revolver just in time, and Meghan Parker, who risked her own life to hold up a mirror that showed Duff where two men were lying in wait for him. Meghan also reminded Duff that Chugwater held a dance, once a month, in the ballroom of the Dunn Hotel.
It was about a ten-minute ride back home, and as he approached, he saw a strange horse tied out front. Dismounting, he was examining the horse when Elmer Gleason stepped out onto the front porch.
“Mr. MacCallister, you have a visitor inside. He is a friend from Scotland.”
Duff smiled broadly. Could it be Ian McGregor? He stepped up onto the front porch, then went inside. “Ian?” he called.
It wasn’t Ian; it was Angus Somerled. Somerled was standing by the stove, holding a pistol which was leveled at Duff.
“Somerled,” Duff said.
“Ye’ve been a hard man to put down, Duff Tavish MacCallister, but the job is done now.”
Duff said nothing.
“Here now, lad, and has the cat got your tongue?”
“I didn’t expect to see you,” Duff said.
