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.

Forty against seven are long odds. The seven fell back, and Zete, though injured by a gunshot, was released and carried off by his Negro partisans.

On Tuesday morning Sheriff De Witt rode out with half Gonzales at his side. As they approached the ranch where Zete was lying, they looked and listened for sign and sound-none came; the ranch was silent as a tomb. On peering through the door, De Witt perceived two corpses, and on touching the bodies he found they were still warm. One corpse was that of Zete Fly; the other that of an unknown Negro. Both bodies were riddled with shots, so were the wall and door. A short and bloody fight had evidently taken place, but who the combatants were no sign remained to tell. The work of death was done-the ministers of doom were gone.

Later in the day, some Negroes who had aided in the fight and rescue came before De Witt and told him that a party of White men had come that morning to the ranch and summoned the Negroes to surrender Zete Fly. The party being too strong for the Negroes to fight, many of them ran away; but one man, braver than his crew, had raised his gun, and standing in front of Zete, had challenged his enemies to come on. A White volley struck them dead.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE THREE RACES.

SUCH conflicts are the curse of Texas; yet one sees no end of them till the country has been settled, the roads have become safe, and the courts have been purged of party spirit. The White settlers are gaining ground, but they are still too near the Indian lodges for security, and too near the day of Negro rule for peace and confidence.

Our blood is hot,' says an English settler, who tells me he has learned to like the country very much, but we are mending day by day, especially in the towns. We drink less liquor, and invoke more law. Remove the whisky-shops, and we shall show as few white crimes of violence in Texas as they show in Georgia and South Carolina. Whisky is cheap and every one drinks hard. Such crimes as stain our name, apart from drunken rows, are the results of fear, and have their source in our

unsettled state. We are not strong enough to overlook offences. Why do we carry arms? From fear of an attack. Why do we fire so readily? In order to forestall a blow. When people feel secure, they cease to shoot each other in the street.'

But in the country-in the cattle-runs, and on the cotton plantations ?'

'In the cattle-runs we are rather wild; knowing hardly any ministers of justice save the hatchet and revolver. But remember where the cattle-runs lie: within an easy ride of Kickapoo tents. The cotton-yards are better than the cattle-runs; the Negro being less brutal, if more vicious, than the Kickapoo. I cannot say that in Texas a fellow thinks it wrong to kill his creditor, his wife's seducer, and his tipsy comrade.'

It will be long ere Austin and Indianola are as tame as Norwich and Yarmouth, but the AngloSaxon blood is there, with all its staying power. A few English ladies would assist the progress of refining much. A lady never feels her sceptre till she finds herself the empress of some frontier State. At Dallas, a gentleman from Missouri is good

enough to offer me a fine estate, if I will only take it off his hands. My land,' he says, with a sad humour, lies on the upper reaches of the Brazos, in a lovely country and a healthy climate. There are woods and pastures, water rights and fisheries. It is not so large a place as Kent, yet a swift rider would hardly cross it in a day.'

This fine demesne is the owner's big elephant: a source of cost and trouble which destroys his life. He has to pay the public tax on land. He has to hire men to guard his timber. Yet the place has

never yet yielded him a cent.

The ruin of the

war,' he says, 'added to the raids of Kiowas and Kickapoos, prevents the march of settlers towards

the

upper Brazos. But for the Negroes and Indians, Brazos would be a paradise. When these two plagues are gone, all parts of Texas will be as free from marauders as the neighbourhood of Dallas.'

My friend has reason to believe that Kiowas and Kickapoos hunt game in his preserves, that Mestizo herdsmen crop his grass, that White foresters cut and sell his wood. Yet how is he to charge them rent? His title to the land is perfect; but once, on going to see his place, he tells me, he received a notice to