Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [20]
Burke glared at him, hate on his face. Clay returned the gaze steadily. After a moment, a shudder seemed to pass through the man’s body and he gave the necessary order.
The men quickly rounded up the few horses which had been released and returned them to the stable. Then two of them hoisted their unconscious companion across his horse, tying him into place with a rope they produced from a saddlebag.
Mrs. Rogan was kneeling beside Cathal. He pushed her away and struggled to his feet. His face was battered and bruised, but he managed a smile as he looked up. “We’re obliged to you, Colonel. You’ll find the Rogans don’t forget their friends—or their enemies,” he added, turning to Burke.
“I’ll escort these gentlemen from the premises,” Clay told him. “I think I can promise you they won’t be coming back.”
Cathal suddenly looked sick. He swayed slightly and his mother moved forward and supported him with an arm. Together they went up the steps into the house and Clay turned and looked at Burke. Without a word, the agent led the way across the yard, and his men followed.
Clay brought up the rear, still holding the Dragoon ready. They followed the track up onto the moor and halted at the edge of a small wood.
Burke gave his men an order and they moved away. As Clay holstered his gun, the agent said, “I shan’t forget this, Colonel.”
“Neither shall I,” Clay told him simply. For a moment longer, Burke’s eyes bored into his, and then he wheeled his mount sharply and galloped after his men.
Clay watched them until they disappeared over a rise a short distance away, and as they did so, a familiar voice said, “He makes a bad enemy, Colonel Fitzgerald.”
This time she was more conventionally attired in blue riding habit and tricorn hat, with a small white feather to one side that was limp and bedraggled in the rain.
He smiled and urged Pegeen to meet her as she rode out of the trees. “I didn’t realize the Goddess of the Night rode by day. You know Burke well, then?”
“I should, he’s my uncle’s agent.” She held out her right hand in an oddly boyish gesture that somehow suited her. “I’m Joanna Hamilton, Colonel Fitzgerald. Your uncle and I were good friends.”
“That I can believe.” He held her hand lightly in his and she made no attempt to withdraw it. “It would appear that I have several things to thank you for, Miss Hamilton. A cheerful welcome at the end of a long road and the care of the finest bit of horseflesh it’s ever been my fortune to own, not to mention the saving of my fool neck.”
She laughed gaily and shook her head. “I take no credit for that at least, Colonel. I arrived at the head of the valley some twenty minutes ago in time to see you go into action. On top of that, I understand you caused something of a sensation in Cohan’s public house last night. I can now understand why it took the Yankees four years to defeat the South.”
Clay shrugged. “Don’t forget such things are exaggerated in the telling.”
She shook her head. “My uncle unfortunately takes a rather different view.”
He frowned slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.”
“It’s simple,” she said. “In the first place he’s a magistrate. In the second, he doesn’t like the Rogans. Burke told him this morning that two of them had been responsible for holding up your coach on the Galway Road yesterday.”
“A boyish prank, over and forgotten,” Clay told her. “I fail to see how it concerns your uncle.”
“It gave him a perfect excuse to send Burke and his men to Hidden Valley. They were supposed to bring Big Shaun Rogan back with them. My uncle wanted to lay down the law to him.”
“And in their natural disappointment at finding him away from home, they contented themselves with brutally assaulting his wife and one of his sons,” Clay said. “Does your uncle approve of Burke’s methods?”
“He encourages them,” she said drily. “I’m afraid he classes the Irish with the negroes—both races being naturally inferior to his own and conceived