Pay the Devil (v5) by Jack Higgins Read Free Book Online Page A

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 cliff top, 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