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murderer from his escort, strapped his legs under his horse, and placing him in their centre, struck into the open Plains.
Having lost their man, and thinking the affair over and their duty done, the two settlers jogged along the road.
Nobody at Gonzales seemed to care for Zete.
The night was Sunday, and the people were at evening service.
What was there to say?
Zete had committed murder, and a murderer's doom is death.
If he were hanged by the rescuers substantial justice would be done.
So thinking, the citizens in Gonzales drank their whisky and went to bed, giving the criminal and his captors no further thought.
Next day intelligence reached Sheriff De Witt that Zete, though sorely wounded, was still alive.
A second party had appeared.
A fight had taken place, another rescue had been made, and Zete, exalted in Negro eyes by his double crime, was lying at a ranch on the Plains, guarded by forty well-armed blacks.
This tale was true.
When the White captors, having no confidence in public justice, were about to hang the murderer, a much stronger Black party, having no confidence in public justice, were gathering to save him from the rope.
These parties met.
1875.
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