They followed at a little distance behind him, carrying lanterns, and
keeping him always in sight.
One night McKay discovered their kind intentions, and civilly, but
firmly, put an end to the practice.
Next night he was attacked on his way back to the hotel. A man rushed
out on him from a dark corner, and made a blow at his breast with a
knife. It missed him, although his coat was cut through.
A short encounter followed. McKay was stronger than his assailant,
whom he speedily disarmed; but he was not so active. The fellow
managed to slip through his fingers and run; all that McKay could do
was to send three shots after him, fired quickly from his revolver,
and without good aim.
"Scoundrel! he has got clear away," said McKay, as he put up his
weapon. "Who was it, I wonder? Not one of my own men; and yet I seemed
to know him. If I did not think he was still at Gibraltar, I should
say it was that miscreant Benito. I shall have to get him hanged, or
he will do for me one of these days."
The pistol-shots attracted no particular attention in this deserted,
dead-alive Spanish town, and McKay got back to his hotel without
challenge or inquiry.
A day or two later, as the organisation of his mule-train was now
complete, and transports were already arriving to embark their
four-footed freight, he returned to Gibraltar, meaning to go on to the
Crimea without delay.
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