Jack Higgins - Pay the Devil

He leaned down and gently rubbed the mare’s ears. ‘You beauty!’ he said softly. ‘You little beauty!’ And the mare tossed her head and rolled her eyes as if understanding what he said and liking it.

A horse whinnied from somewhere nearby, and as the mare replied, he hastily turned into the trees and dismounted. Several horsemen appeared over a small rise no more than twenty or thirty yards away. They paused and he heard one of them say quite clearly, ‘It was a horse, I tell you, and not far from here.’

Clay placed a hand over the mare’s muzzle and waited. One of the men laughed. ‘You’re jumpy tonight, Patrick, and that’s the truth of it. What’s there to be worrying about, with Burke and his men waiting at the north end of the estate for poachers who’ll never turn up?’

They moved forward and a string of pack animals followed them from behind the rise. Clay waited until they had disappeared over the skyline a quarter of a mile away before following them.

As he topped the rise, a strong wind started to blow in his face and he ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the salt and knowing that he must be very near to the sea. The string of horses had disappeared and he paused and examined the landscape.

The moor itself was clearly exposed in the bright moonlight, but a narrow valley cut through it, dark with shadow, and he realized that this was the route they had taken. He started to move forward again and reined in sharply as a stone rattled somewhere behind him. He turned in the saddle, but there was no one there.

He waited for a little while, but nothing moved and he shrugged and took the mare down the slope, her hoofbeats silent on the turf, and entered the valley.

A well-defined path lay clearly before him and he urged his mount into a canter, eyes probing the darkness ahead. Ten minutes later, the track started to drop steeply and he stopped. Somewhere below, the sea surged against rocks and he heard voices.

He took the mare straight up the sloping side of the little valley and emerged onto a flat spread of turf that ran gently down to the cliff edge a short distance away. He dismounted and walked forward cautiously.

The bay was crescent-shaped and beautiful in the moonlight. A schooner lay a hundred yards offshore, sails furled, the tracery of her rigging like black lace against the night. He flung himself down on his face and peered over the edge of the cliff. It dropped cleanly to the beach below, the valley path appearing to be the only route down.

The horses were standing at the water’s edge and several men were unloading a longboat with a skill which argued a long experience at the task. They appeared to be enjoying themselves, and there was some horseplay as two of them waded through the surf to the boat. A laugh drifted up, clear in the night air.

‘At least we now know where Cohan obtains his excellent brandy,’ Clay mused softly, and at that moment, the cliff edge started to crumble beneath his weight.

A shower of stones and earth rattled down the face of the cliff to the beach below and the men grouped round the boat turned in the same second and looked up toward him. A piercing whistle cut through the night, and as he scrambled to his feet and turned to run, someone fired a shot, the bullet droning into the night.

Obviously the operation was not being as carelessly conducted as he had imagined, for, as he swung a leg over the mare’s back, three horsemen appeared over the rim of the valley and galloped toward him.

He gave the mare her head and she responded well. As they reached the first swell of the moors, he leaned low over her neck, urging her on with coaxing words. He could hear the cries of his pursuers behind him, and the mare hardly faltered as she scrambled up and over the rise.

He was now passing over unfamiliar ground, and as the moors started to lift on either hand, he realized that he had entered a narrow valley. He glanced back over his shoulder. The first horseman was no more than fifty yards behind him and he urged the mare forward, allowing her to pick her own way over the boulder-strewn ground.

A moment later, he cursed and reined in sharply. He had reached a dead end, a blank wall of stone that lifted forty or fifty feet into the night, with a stunted thorn tree growing at the top if it. On either side, the valley slope was as steep as a house roof.

He was not afraid as he heard the first of his pursuers enter the valley, simply annoyed that violence should be forced upon him. He drew the Dragoon Colt, moonlight glinting on its brass frame, and waited as he had waited so many times in the past, with no fear in him now that the moment was at hand.

A gay mocking laugh that was somehow familiar floated down from the clifftop, and he turned in the saddle, arm extended to fire. The rider he had first seen from his bedroom window no more than an hour earlier, had appeared beside the thorn tree.

‘Let the mare try the slope if you want to save your skin, Colonel,’ a clear voice called. ‘She can do it, I promise you.’

Clay didn’t hesitate. His pursuers were almost upon him. He fired once into the air to hold them and urged the mare toward the steep side of the valley.

She responded magnificently. He leaned low over her neck, placing his weight forward. A few feet from the rim of the valley, she started to slip on the wet turf. He jumped from her back, grabbed the bridle in one hand and scrambled up, pulling her after him. A moment later, they were over the top.

‘This way, Colonel,’ the rider called, turning away, and Clay swung into the saddle and galloped after, ignoring the cries of rage which came from below as his pursuers realized that he had eluded them.

The moor stretched before them in the moonlight, sloping gently up toward the hills, and the mare crossed it at a dead run. Clay looked back over his shoulder and saw the three riders appear over a rise several hundred yards in the rear. There was a familiar hollow feeling of excitement in his stomach and he concentrated on overhauling his companion.

The mare covered the ground effortlessly, and slowly the gap narrowed until the two horses were almost abreast. The unknown ally wore an old tweed jacket and broad-brimmed hat pulled low over the eyes. Clay caught a sideways glance and heard a laugh and then they were plunging down into a wide, tree-filled valley following a sandy track.

The rider swerved into the trees and Clay followed, twisting and turning, receiving a thorough soaking as wet branches whipped against him. They emerged into a broad meadow, took a low fence together, landing in a spatter of mud on the other side, and reined in before a ruined stone hunting lodge.

Clay slid to the ground and stood beside the mare, running a hand gently over her heaving side. ‘I’m obliged to you, sir,’ he said.

The other held up a hand in warning and motioned him to silence. They could hear hoofbeats approaching rapidly as their pursuers followed the track. Within a few moments they passed, and after a while there was silence.

The rider still sat motionless, head forward, listening to the hoofbeats die away into the night, then turned to Clay with a gay laugh. ‘The poor fools will run for a mile before it occurs to them that we might not be out in front after all.’

The voice was clear and sweet like a ship’s bell across water. Clay frowned and took a step forward. As he did so, his unknown rescuer turned towards him, uncovering with a flourish and allowing a long switch of dark hair tied with ribbon near the crown of the head, to fall freely to shoulder level and beyond.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Clay said softly.

The face that smiled impishly at him in the moonlight was that of a young girl of no more than eighteen years. She was small and slightly built, the man’s riding coat too big for her. The eyes were unusually large and set too far apart for conventional beauty, the nose tilted above a wide, generous mouth. There was about her an irresistible appeal, an attraction that was as immediate as it was compelling.