Once, a group of gypsy-rebels approached my grandma's dad-and-sister's house, demanding quarter for their leader. The leader rudely stated that he would lay with my grandma's aunt, and stay the night. The two welcomed him into their home (not much choice on that point), and fed and watered him to his content. Once he was thoroughly drunk, they brought him to her bed, and she kept delaying until he passed out. They dragged the guy to the basement, whereupon my grandma's dad took a pickaxe and hit the guy in the forehead. They dug a grave in the dirt of the cellar, and buried him. After hiding the grave, they let the man's horse go free from the stable. Next morning, when the band of rebels showed up, the two informed them that their leader had left ahead of them. Naturally, they demanded to search the house, and upon finding neither the man nor his horse, accepted their story, and road into the horizon, never to be seen again.