The original cause of the trouble was about twenty yearsin growing.
At the end of that time it was worth it.
Had you lived anywhere within fifty miles of SundownRanch you would have heard of it. It possessed a quantityof jet-black hair， a pair of extremely frank， deep-brown eyesand a laugh that rippled across the prairie like the soundof a hidden brook. The name of it was Rosita McMullen；and she was the daughter of old man McMullen of theSundown Sheep Ranch.
There came riding on red roan steeds—or， to be moreexplicit， on a paint and a flea-bitten sorrel—two wooers.
One was Madison Lane， and the other was the Frio Kid.
But at that time they did not call him the Frio Kid， for hehad not earned the honours of special nomenclature. Hisname was simply Johnny McRoy.
It must not be supposed that these two were the sum of theagreeable Rosita’s admirers. The bronchos of a dozen otherschamped their bits at the long hitching rack of the SundownRanch. Many were the sheeps’-eyes that were cast in thosesavannas that did not belong to the flocks of Dan McMullen.
But of all the cavaliers， Madison Lane and Johnny McRoygalloped far ahead， wherefore they are to be chronicled.
Madison Lane， a young cattleman from the Nuecescountry， won the race. He and Rosita were married oneChristmas day. Armed， hilarious， vociferous， magnanimous，the cowmen and the sheepmen， laying aside their hereditaryhatred， joined forces to celebrate the occasion.
Sundown Ranch was sonorous with the cracking of jokesand sixshooters， the shine of buckles and bright eyes， theoutspoken congratulations of the herders of kine.
But while the wedding feast was at its liveliest theredescended upon it Johnny McRoy， bitten by jealousy， likeone possessed.
“I’ll give you a Christmas present，” he yelled， shrilly， atthe door， with his .45 in his hand. Even then he had somereputation as an offhand shot.
His first bullet cut a neat underbit in Madison Lane’sright ear. The barrel of his gun moved an inch. The nextshot would have been the bride’s had not Carson， asheepman， possessed a mind with triggers somewhat welloiled and in repair. The guns of the wedding party hadbeen hung， in their belts， upon nails in the wall when theysat at table， as a concession to good taste. But Carson，with great promptness， hurled his plate of roast venisonand frijoles at McRoy， spoiling his aim. The second bullet，then， only shattered the white petals of a Spanish daggerflower suspended two feet above Rosita’s head.
The guests spurned their chairs and jumped for theirweapons. It was considered an improper act to shootthe bride and groom at a wedding. In about six secondsthere were twenty or so bullets due to be whizzing in thedirection of Mr. McRoy.
“I’ll shoot better next time，” yelled Johnny； “and there’llbe a next time.” He backed rapidly out the door.
Carson， the sheepman， spurred on to attempt furtherexploits by the success of his plate-throwing， was first toreach the door. McRoy’s bullet from the darkness laid him low.
The cattlemen then swept out upon him， calling forvengeance， for， while the slaughter of a sheepman has notalways lacked condonement， it was a decided misdemeanourin this instance. Carson was innocent； he was noaccomplice at the matrimonial proceedings； nor had anyone heard him quote the line “Christmas comes but oncea year” to the guests.
But the sortie failed in its vengeance. McRoy was onhis horse and away， shouting back curses and threats as hegalloped into the concealing chaparral.
That night was the birthnight of the Frio Kid. Hebecame the “bad man” of that portion of the State. Therejection of his suit by Miss McMullen turned him toa dangerous man. When officers went after him for theshooting of Carson， he killed two of them， and enteredupon the life of an outlaw. He became a marvellousshot with either hand. He would turn up in towns andsettlements， raise a quarrel at the slightest opportunity， pickoff his man and laugh at the officers of the law. He was socool， so deadly， so rapid， so inhumanly blood-thirsty thatnone but faint attempts were ever made to capture him.
When he was at last shot and killed by a little one-armedMexican who was nearly dead himself from fright， the FrioKid had the deaths of eighteen men on his head. Abouthalf of these were killed in fair duels depending upon thequickness of the draw. The other half were men whom heassassinated from absolute wantonness and cruelty.
Many tales are told along the border of his impudentcourage and daring. But he was not one of the breed ofdesperadoes who have seasons of generosity and even ofsoftness. They say he never had mercy on the object ofhis anger. Yet at this and every Christmastide it is well togive each one credit， if it can be done， for whatever speckof good he may have possessed. If the Frio Kid ever dida kindly act or felt a throb of generosity in his heart itwas once at such a time and season， and this is the way ithappened.
One who has been crossed in love should never breathethe odour from the blossoms of the ratama tree. It stirsthe memory to a dangerous degree.