Pay the Devil (v5) Read Online Free PDF

Dennis. Show them the watch.”
    “In good time, Marteen,” Dennis said. He emptied his glass and placed it ostentatiously down on the bar. Someone immediately filled it and Dennis slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out Clay’s hunter.
    He held it up by the chain so that it sparkled in the lamplight, and an excited murmur went up from his audience. “Would you look at the elegance of it,” someone said.
    Clay moved forward slowly and stood at the edge of the group. The first person to see him was Marteen and his blue eyes widened in astonishment. Men started to turn and Clay pushed his way through them until he faced Dennis. “My watch, I think,” he said calmly.
    There was a sudden silence. For several moments, Dennis stared stupidly at Clay, and then he seemed to recover his poise. “And what the hell would ye be meaning by that?”
    Clay gazed slowly around the room. The faces were hard and unfriendly; some stupid, others with a glimmering of intelligence. Then he noticed the man who leaned negligently against the wall at the far end of the bar. He was tall and powerful, great shoulders swelling beneath his frieze coat.
    His hair was the same color as Dennis’s, but there the resemblance ended. There was nothing weak in this man’s face, only strength and intelligence. He picked up his glass and sipped a little whiskey and there was a smile on his lips. He gazed into Clay’s eyes and it was as if they knew each other.
    Clay turned back to Dennis and said patiently, “The money isn’t important, but the watch was my father’s.”
    No one moved. Dennis scowled suddenly, as if realizing his reputation was at stake, and thrust the watch back into his pocket. He picked up his shotgun, which was leaning against the bar, and rammed the barrel into Clay’s chest. “I’ll give ye five seconds to get out, me bucko,” he said. “Five seconds and no more.”
    Clay gazed steadily into that weak, reckless face, then turned abruptly and walked to the door. As he reached it, Dennis said, “Would ye look now? He’s messed his breeches for the second time this day.” For a moment Clay hesitated, and then as laughter swelled behind him, he opened the door and passed outside.
    He pushed Joshua roughly out of the way and dragged a carpetbag out onto the coach step and opened it. He was not angry and yet his hands shook slightly and there was a familiar, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach.
    “What is it, Colonel?” Joshua demanded in alarm.
    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