"Is he a cur or a traitor?" McKay asked himself, and drew his
revolver to quicken the old man's movements, whichever he was.
The sight of the weapon seemed to throw the guide into a paroxysm of
fear. He fell flat on the ground, and obstinately refused to move.
All this time McKay was in the river, up to his knees, a position not
particularly comfortable. Besides, valuable time was being wasted--the
night was not too long for what he had to do. Hastily regaining the
bank, he rejoined the guide where he lay, and kicked him till he stood
erect.
"You old scoundrel!" cried McKay, putting his revolver to his head.
"Come on! do you understand? Come on, or you are a dead man!"
The gesture was threatening, not that McKay had any thought of firing.
He knew a pistol-shot would raise a general alarm. Still the old man,
although trembling in every limb, would not move.
"Come on!" repeated McKay, and with the idea of dragging him forward
he seized him fiercely by the beard.
To his intense surprise, it came off in his hand.
"Cursed Englishman!" cried a voice with which he was perfectly
familiar, and in Spanish. "You are at my mercy now. You dare not fire;
your life is forfeited. The enemy is all around you. I have betrayed
you into their hands."
"Benito! Can it be possible?" But McKay did not suffer his
astonishment to interfere with his just revenge.
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