The cattlemen then swept out upon him, calling for vengeance, for, while the slaughter of a sheepman has not always lacked condonement, it was a decided misdemeanour in this instance.  Carson was innocent; he was no accomplice at the matrimonial proceedings; nor had any one heard him quote the line “Christmas comes but once a year” to the guests.

But the sortie failed in its vengeance.  McRoy was on his horse and away, shouting back curses and threats as he galloped into the concealing chaparral.

That night was the birthnight of the Frio Kid.  He became the “bad man” of that portion of the State.  The rejection of his suit by Miss McMullen turned him to a dangerous man.  When officers went after him for the shooting of Carson, he killed two of them, and entered upon the life of an outlaw.  He became a marvellous shot with either hand.  He would turn up in towns and settlements, raise a quarrel at the slightest opportunity, pick off his man and laugh at the officers of the law.  He was so cool, so deadly, so rapid, so inhumanly blood-thirsty that none but faint attempts were ever made to capture him.  When he was at last shot and killed by a little one-armed Mexican who was nearly dead himself from fright, the Frio Kid had the deaths of eighteen men on his head.  About half of these were killed in fair duels depending upon the quickness of the draw.  The other half were men whom he assassinated from absolute wantonness and cruelty.

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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow 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.”