Many tales are told along the border of his impudent courage and daring. But he was not one of the breed of desperadoes who have seasons of generosity and even of softness. They say he never had mercy on the object of his anger. Yet at this and every Christmastide it is well to give each one credit, if it can be done, for whatever speck of good he may have possessed. If the Frio Kid ever did a kindly act or felt a throb of generosity in his heart it was once at such a time and season, and this is the way it happened.
One who has been crossed in love should never breathe the odour from the blossoms of the ratama tree. It stirs the memory to a dangerous degree.
One December in the Frio country there was a ratama tree in full bloom, for the winter had been as warm as springtime. That way rode the Frio Kid and his satellite and co-murderer, Mexican Frank. The kid reined in his mustang, and sat in his saddle, thoughtful and grim, with dangerously narrowing eyes. The rich, sweet scent touched him somewhere beneath his ice and iron.
I don't know what I've been thinking about, Mex, he remarked in his usual mild drawl, to have forgot all about a Christmas present I got to give. I'm going to ride over tomorrow night and shoot Madison Lane in his own house. He got my girl-Rosita would have had me if he hadn't cut into the game. I wonder why I happened to overlook it up to now?
Ah, shucks, Kid, said Mexican, don't talk foolishness. You know you can't get within a mile of Mad Lane's house tomorrow night. I see old man Allen day before yesterday, and he says Mad is going to have Christmas doings at his house. You remember how you shot up the festivities when Mad was married, and about the threats you made? Don't you suppose Mad Lane'll kind of keep his eye open for a certain Mr. Kid? You plumb make me tired, Kid, with such remarks.
I'm going, repeated the Frio Kid, without heat, to go to Madison Lane's Christmas doings, and kill him. I ought to have done it a long time ago. Why, Mex, just two weeks ago I dreamed me and Rosita was married instead of her and him; and we was living in a house, and I could see her smiling at me, and-oh! h-l, Mex, he got her; and I'll get him-yes, sir, on Christmas Eve he got her, and then's when I'll get him.
There's other ways of committing suicide, advised Mexican. Why don't you go and surrender to the sheriff?
I'll get him, said the Kid.
Christmas Eve fell as balmy as April. Perhaps there was a hint of far-away frostiness in the air, but it tingles like seltzer, perfumed faintly with late prairie blossoms and the mesquite grass.
When night came the five or six rooms of the ranch-house were brightly lit. In one room was a Christmas tree, for the Lanes had a boy of three, and a dozen or more guests were expected from the nearer ranches.
At nightfall Madison Lane called aside Jim Belcher and three other cowboys employed on his ranch.
Now, boys, said Lane, keep your eyes open. Walk around the house and watch the road well. All of you know the 'Frio Kid,' as they call him now, and if you see him, open fire on him without asking any questions. I'm not afraid of his coming around, but Rosita is. She's been afraid he'd come in on us every Christmas since we were married.
The guests had arrived in buckboards and on horseback, and were making themselves comfortable inside.
The evening went along pleasantly. The guests enjoyed and praised Rosita's excellent supper, and afterward the men scattered in groups about the rooms or on the broad gallery, smoking and chatting.
The Christmas tree, of course, delighted the youngsters, and above all were they pleased when Santa Claus himself in magnificent white beard and furs appeared and began to distribute the toys.
It's my papa, announced Billy Sampson, aged six. I've seen him wear 'em before.
Berkly, a sheepman, an old friend of Lane, stopped Rosita as she was passing by him on the gallery, where he was sitting smoking.
Well, Mrs. Lane, said he, I suppose by this Christmas you've gotten over being afraid of that fellow McRoy, haven't you? Madison and I have talked about it, you know.
Very nearly, said Rosita, smiling, but I am still nervous sometimes. I shall never forget that awful time when he came so near to killing us.
He's the most cold-hearted villain in the world, said Berkly. The citizens all along the border ought to turn out and hunt him down like a wolf.
He has committed awful crimes, said Rosita, but-I-don't-know. I think there is a spot of good somewhere in everybody. He was not always bad-that I know.
Rosita turned into the hallway between the rooms. Santa Claus, in muffling whiskers and furs, was just coming through.
I heard what you said through the window, Mrs. Lane, he said. I was just going down in my pocket for a Christmas present for your husband. But I've left one for you, instead. It's in the room to your right.
Oh, thank you, kind Santa Claus, said Rosita, brightly.
Rosita went into the room, while Santa Claus stepped into the cooler air of the yard.
She found no one in the room but Madison.
Where is my present that Santa said he left for me in here? she asked.
Haven't seen anything in the way of a present, said her husband, laughing, unless he could have meant me.
The next day Gabriel Radd, the foreman of the X O Ranch, dropped into the post-office at Loma Alta.
Well, the Frio Kid's got his dose of lead at last, he remarked to the postmaster.
That so? How'd it happen?
One of old Sanchez's Mexican sheep herders did it! think of it! The Frio Kid killed by a sheep herder! The Greaser saw him riding along past his camp about twelve o'clock last night, and was so skeered that he up with a Winchester and let him have it. Funniest part of it was that the Kid was dressed all up with white Angora-skin whiskers and a regular Santy Claus rig-out from head to foot. Think of the Frio Kid playing Santy!
The Whirligig of Life
Justice-of-the-Peace Benaja Widdup sat in the door of his office smoking his elder-stem pipe. Half-way to the zenith the Cumberland range rose blue-gray in the afternoon haze. A speckled hen swaggered down the main street of the settlement, cackling foolishly.
Up the road came a sound of creaking axles, and then a slow cloud of dust, and then a bull-cart bearing Ransie Bilbro and his wife. The cart stopped at the Justice's door, and the two climbed down. Ransie was a narrow six feet of sallow brown skin and yellow hair. The imperturbability of the mountains hung upon him like a suit of armour. The woman was calicoed, angled, snuff-brushed, and weary with unknown desires. Through it all gleamed a faint protest of cheated youth unconscious of its loss.
The Justice of the Peace slipped his feet into his shoes, for the sake of dignity, and moved to let them enter.
We-all, said the woman, in a voice like the wind blowing through pine boughs, wants a divo'ce. She looked at Ransie to see if he noted any flaw or ambiguity or evasion or partiality or self-partisanship in her statement of their business.
A divo'ce, repeated Ransie, with a solemn nod. We-all can't git along together nohow. It's lonesome enough fur to live in the mount'ins when a man and a woman keers fur one another. But when she's a-spittin' like a wildcat or a-sullenin' like a hoot-owl in the cabin, a man ain't got no call to live with her.
When he's a no-'count varmint, said the woman, without any especial warmth, a-traipsin' along of scalawags and moonshiners and a-layin' on his back pizen 'ith co'n whiskey, and a-pesterin' folks with a pack o' hungry, triflin' houn's to feed!
When she keeps a-throwin' skillet lids, came Ransie's antiphony, and slings b'ilin' water on the best coon-dog in the Cumberlands, and sets herself agin' cookin' a man's victuals, and keeps him awake o' nights accusin' him of a sight of doin's!