Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [11]
Clay ignored him. He found what he wanted at the bottom of the bag, his Dragoon Colt, the gun which had been his sidearm ever since his escape from the Illinois State Penitentiary with General Morgan in ’63.
He hefted the weapon expertly in his right hand and then walked quickly to the pub door and opened it again. Laughter swelled to the ceiling as Dennis further embellished his story, and for the moment, Clay was again unobserved.
A stone whiskey bottle stood on the bar near Dennis’s elbow some twelve feet away. It was not a difficult shot. Clay levelled his weapon and pulled the trigger. The bottle exploded into pieces like a bomb, showering the men with whiskey and scattering them across the room.
Dennis’s face had turned sickly-yellow in the lamplight and his eyes were round and staring. His tongue flickered across dry lips as he frantically looked for assistance. No one moved and there was fear on every face, except for the tall man who still leaned against the wall at the end of the bar, but now his smile had gone and he held his right hand inside his coat.
Clay’s face was a smooth mask, inscrutable and yet in some way terrible. He moved forward and touched Dennis gently under the chin with the cold barrel of the Colt. “My watch!” he said tonelessly.
The youth’s face seemed to crumple into pieces and he produced the watch and purse and placed them on the bar top with shaking hands. “God save us, sir, but it was only a joke,” he said. “No harm was intended. No harm at all.”
For a moment longer, Clay gazed fixedly at him, and somewhere a voice said in a half-whisper, “Would ye look at the Devil’s face on him.”
Sweat stood on Dennis’s brow in great drops and there was utter fear in his eyes. Then Clay turned away, slipping the Colt into his pocket. The youth lurched to a nearby chair and collapsed into it, covering his face with his hands.
The publican, a large red-faced man, faced Clay across the bar and wiped his hands nervously on his soiled apron. “What’s your pleasure, sir?” he asked.
“Presumably you deliver liquor to local residents?” Clay said.
“I do indeed, sir,” the publican assured him. “I supply Sir George Hamilton himself.” He produced a dirty piece of paper and moistened a stub of pencil with his tongue. “What would ye like, sir?”
Clay pocketed his watch and purse and gave his order in a calm, flat voice, as if nothing had happened. “And I’ll take a bottle of brandy with me,” he added.
The publican pushed the bottle across and Clay picked it up and started to move away. “By what name, sir, and where shall I deliver it?” the publican demanded.
For the first time, a smile appeared on Clay’s face. “I was forgetting. Claremont House—Colonel Clay Fitzgerald.”
He turned away as an excited buzz of conversation broke out and, opening the door, went outside.
Joshua was standing by the open door of the coach and an expression of relief appeared on his face. “I was watching through the window, Colonel,” he said. “Next to your father, you’re the most cold-blooded man I ever did meet.”
Clay handed him the brandy and pushed him back into the coach. “I’ve got my watch back, which is more than I anticipated. All I want now is a meal and a fire. Whatever else we find at Claremont House, I hope we’ll be able to supply those things between us.”
As he moved to step up to the driver’s seat, the door opened behind him and closed again. Clay turned slowly, his hand sliding into his pocket. The tall man was facing him and he held up a hand and smiled. “No trouble, Colonel. I only came to thank you for not killing my brother.”
Clay took a quick step forward and brushed back the man’s unbuttoned coat, revealing the butt of a pistol sticking out of his waistband. “I noticed where you had your hand,” he said wryly.
The other nodded. “Sure, and I saw that you’d noticed.”
Clay shrugged. “He was in no danger. I’m not in the habit of killing boys. A whipping would be more in his line.”
“When his father hears of this day’s work, he’ll get that and perhaps more,” the big man said.