They were a rough lot, these local muleteers, the scum and riff-raff
of Valencia--black-muzzled, dark-skinned mongrels, half Moors, half
Spaniards, lawless, turbulent, and quarrelsome.
Fights were frequent amongst them--sanguinary struggles, in which the
murderous native knife played a prominent part, and both antagonists
were often stabbed and slashed to death.
The local authorities looked askance at this gathering of rascaldom,
and gave them a wide berth. But McKay went fearlessly amongst his
reprobate followers, administering a rough-and-ready sort of
discipline, and keeping them as far as possible within bounds.
It was his custom to pay a nightly visit to his charge. He went
through the lines, saw that the night-patrols were on the alert, and
the rest of the men quiet.
Repeatedly the overseers next him in authority cautioned him against
venturing out of the town so late.
"There are evil people about," said his head man, a worthy "scorpion,"
whom he had brought with him from Gibraltar. "Your worship would do
better to stay at home at night."
"What have I to fear?" replied McKay, stoutly. "I have my revolver; I
can take care of myself."
They evidently did not think so, for it became the rule for a couple
of them to escort him back to town without his knowledge.
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