Pay the Devil

There was already a suspicion at the back of his mind that O’Hara had used him and that the package was something out of the ordinary. From what he had seen of the Rogan family already, there could be little doubt that the contents were of a dubious nature.

He dismissed the subject from his mind for the moment and gazed about him. The mountains were shrouded in mist and visibility was poor, but yet there was a freshness to everything that gladdened the heart, and the air was like new wine. He started to whistle softly between his teeth and urged his mount into a canter as the rain increased in force.

As Kevin Rogan had promised, the track ran for some three miles across the moor and then dipped unexpectedly into a wide valley. Below him in the midst of a clump of old beech trees an ancient, grey stone farmhouse was rooted into the ground.

The place seemed prosperous and in good repair, with neat, well-kept fences to the large paddock. As he cantered down toward it, a woman moved out of the porch, a pail in each hand. She paused and looked toward him, then she put down the pails and stood with one hand shading her eyes.

She was tall and gaunt, her face wrinkled by a lifetime’s care. The hair that showed from beneath the shawl which covered her head was iron grey. She gazed up at him, no expression in her faded blue eyes, and Clay touched the brim of his hat. ‘Mrs Rogan?’ She nodded and he went on, ‘My name’s Fitzgerald. Is your husband at home?’

She shook her head, and said in an unfriendly voice, ‘He’s away for the day.’

‘Might I ask when you’re expecting him?’ Clay said.

She picked up her pails. ‘He comes and goes. You’ll be wasting your time if you wait.’ Without another word, she turned away and walked across the courtyard to a cow byre.

Clay watched her until she had disappeared inside, a slight frown on his face. Then a voice said quietly from behind, ‘You mustn’t mind my mother. She doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’

The man who had spoken stood in the doorway of the stables and cleaned his hands on a rag, eyes calm in a lean, intelligent face topped by the familiar Rogan hair.

Clay walked the mare toward him, and smiled. ‘Dennis, Marteen, and Kevin I’ve met already in that order. Who might you be?’

The other smiled. ‘I’m Cathal, Colonel. The quiet one of the family. Kevin said you might drop by sometime today.’

‘Your father’s not at home, I take it?’

Cathal nodded. ‘Pressing business in Galway. He and the boys won’t be back until late tonight.’

Clay leaned forward and looked inside the stable door. There were at least thirty horses ranged on both sides in neat stalls, and he whistled softly. ‘You’ve got some good stuff there.’

‘We should have, Colonel. We breed them.’ Cathal ran a hand over the mare’s muzzle in a familiar manner and spoke softly to her. ‘But not one of them to match Pegeen, here.’

Clay raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You know the mare well, then?’

Cathal smiled. ‘The joy of your uncle’s old age. If there’s a better mount between here and Dublin, I’ve yet to see it. Miss Joanna’s taken good care of her.’

Clay resisted the temptation to ask the obvious question and there was a slight pause. Cathal Rogan made no attempt to continue the conversation, and after a while, Clay smiled. ‘Well, I’ll be moving on. Tell your father I’ll call again tomorrow.’

He wheeled Pegeen away from the stable entrance and Cathal said, ‘I understood Kevin to say you had a package for us, Colonel?’

‘For your father,’ Clay said over his shoulder. ‘And I prefer to deliver it personally.’ He cantered through the gate and followed the track back up toward the head of the valley.

When he reached the top, he paused and looked down toward the farm. Whatever else they might be, the Rogans were certainly an inhospitable clan and strangers were definitely not welcome – that much both Cathal Rogan and his mother had made plain.

As he started to turn away, there was a movement in the trees beyond the farm. He leaned forward and waited. A moment later, half a dozen horsemen galloped through the beech trees and entered the yard.

The woman came out of the cow byre, carrying her pails, and one of the men swung to the ground and approached her. They stood talking and Clay saw her shake her head vehemently and then the man pushed her so that she staggered back, dropped her pails and fell to the ground, milk spilling across the cobbles.

He wondered what had happened to Cathal Rogan, and in the same moment saw him run from the other side of the stables to the rear of the house. As the woman picked herself up from the ground, he appeared in the doorway, a shotgun in his hand. He raised it to his shoulder and one of the men rode his horse up the front steps, crowding him against the wall and kicked the gun from his grasp.

Clay didn’t hesitate. He took Pegeen down the steep grassy slope of the valley toward the farm, ignoring the track and leaning back in the saddle. They reached the bottom safely and Pegeen scrambled up out of the hollow onto the track and galloped past the paddock toward the yard.

One of the riders was still on his horse, but the others had dismounted. Cathal Rogan backed against the wall, as four of them moved in on him while the other started to turn the horses out of the stable. He fought desperately, but within seconds was sliding to the ground under a barrage of flailing fists.

One of the men lifted a heavy boot into his side and Mrs Rogan screamed and ran forward, clawing at his coat. He flung her to the ground with a curse and turned back to Cathal.

Clay arrived at that precise moment. He ran Pegeen in amongst them, scattering them to each side and lifted his boot into the man’s face. He screamed once and staggered back against the wall, sliding down to the ground without another cry.

Pegeen danced daintily on her hind legs, swirling to meet the man on horseback who moved toward them with an oath. Clay found himself facing Sir George Hamilton’s agent.

Burke’s face was dark with passion and his eyes sparked fire. ‘By God, Colonel, you go too far,’ he cried. ‘Stay out of that which doesn’t concern you. We’re here on Sir George Hamilton’s business.’

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