Midnight Never Comes - Jack Higgins [34]
As they topped the hill, Chavasse saw smoke rising on the far side of the trees and heard the voices of children calling to one another at play. So--they weren't taking him to Donner, so much was evident and he realised that he had made a grave miscalculation. At the very least he could expect a bad beating and from the looks of them, neither Rory nor Fergus Munro was the type who knew when to stop.
They skirted the trees and moved down into the hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old and battered with patched canvas tilts and a depressing air of poverty hung over everything, from the ragged clothes worn by the four women who squatted round the fire drinking tea from old cans, to the bare feet of the half dozen children who played in the far meadow where three bony horses grazed.
Fergus gave Chavasse a push that sent him staggering down the hill into the hollow and the women scattered quickly. Chavasse came to his feet and turned to meet the three men as they followed him.
Hector Munro sat himself on an old box vacated by one of the women, placed his shotgun across his knees and took out a clay pipe. Fergus and Rory moved in to stand on either side of Chavasse.
'An attack on the one of us is an attack on all, Mr. Chavasse, or whatever your name is,' Old Hector began. 'The great pity you weren't knowing that before, now, isn't it?'
'It is indeed,' Chavasse said.
His right elbow sank into Fergus's stomach and he swung to the left, chopping Rory across the right forearm so that he dropped his shotgun with a startled cry of pain. In the same moment, Chavasse turned to run and stumbled headlong as one of the women stuck out her foot.
He rolled desperately to avoid the stamping feet, aware of the women's voices, the stink of their unwashed bodies, old Hector's roar rising above all. And then another voice, strangely familiar, high and clear like a bugle call, lifted into the morning and hooves drummed across the turf.
The women broke and ran and Chavasse staggered to his feet backing against the steps of one of the caravans as Asta Svensson and Max Donner rode down into the hollow. Chavasse was aware of Fergus slipping under one of the caravans, disappearing into the heather like a wraith and then Donner arrived like a descending angel, his face dark with wrath.
The hooves of his horse scattered the fire and he kicked the shotgun from Hector Munro's grasp, a blow from his mount's hindquarters sending the old man staggering. He continued across the hollow and up the other side, reining in sharply, but of Fergus there was no sign.
Asta swung to the ground and ran to Chavasse. She wore cream jodhpurs, leather jacket and white blouse, open at the neck and her hair was plaited into two short pigtails.
'Are you all right, Paul?' she said anxiously, unaware in the excitement of the moment that she had used his first name.
He grinned and held her hands. 'Just fine. I do this sort of thing most mornings. Gives me an appetite for lunch.'
Donner rode into the hollow and reined in his horse. When he looked down at Hector Munro, his face was dark and threatening. 'I told you I wanted that son of yours.'
The old man returned his stare impassively and Donner turned to Chavasse. 'I'm damned sorry about this.'
'He was fishing in the loch,' the old man interrupted. 'Trespassing. We were only obeying your orders.'
'Shut your damned mouth, you rogue,' Donner cried and his riding crop fell across the old man's face.
Munro staggered slightly and looked up with the same calm expression. 'I will remember that, big man.'
'Any more of your damned insolence and I'll have you off my land,' Donner shouted.
'I do not think so, Mr. Donner,' Hector Munro replied.
The riding crop rose again and faltered. For a moment, Donner held the old man's gaze and then he turned his horse, hauling on the bridle viciously.
'For God's sake let's get out of this kennel,' he said and spurred forward.
Chavasse gave Asta a push into the