One December in the Frio country there was a ratamatree in full bloom， for the winter had been as warm asspringtime. That way rode the Frio Kid and his satelliteand co-murderer， Mexican Frank. The kid reined in hismustang， and sat in his saddle， thoughtful and grim， withdangerously narrowing eyes. The rich， sweet scent touchedhim 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 allabout a Christmas present I got to give. I’m going to rideover to-morrow night and shoot Madison Lane in his ownhouse. He got my girl—Rosita would have had me if hehadn’t cut into the game. I wonder why I happened tooverlook 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 houseto-morrow night. I see old man Allen day before yesterday，and he says Mad is going to have Christmas doings athis house. You remember how you shot up the festivitieswhen Mad was married， and about the threats you made？
Don’t you suppose Mad Lane’ll kind of keep his eye openfor a certain Mr. Kid？ You plumb make me tired， Kid， withsuch remarks.”
“I’m going，” repeated the Frio Kid， without heat， “to goto Madison Lane’s Christmas doings， and kill him. I oughtto have done it a long time ago. Why， Mex， just two weeksago I dreamed me and Rosita was married instead of herand him； and we was living in a house， and I could see hersmiling at me， and—oh！ h—l， Mex， he got her； and I’llget him—yes， sir， on Christmas Eve he got her， and then’swhen I’ll get him.”
“There’s other ways of committing suicide，” advisedMexican. “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 wasa hint of far-away frostiness in the air， but it tingles likeseltzer， perfumed faintly with late prairie blossoms and themesquite grass.
When night came the five or six rooms of the ranchhousewere brightly lit. In one room was a Christmas tree，for the Lanes had a boy of three， and a dozen or moreguests were expected from the nearer ranches.
At nightfall Madison Lane called aside Jim Belcher andthree other cowboys employed on his ranch.
“Now， boys，” said Lane， “keep your eyes open. Walkaround the house and watch the road well. All of you knowthe ‘Frio Kid，’ as they call him now， and if you see him， openfire on him without asking any questions. I’m not afraidof his coming around， but Rosita is. She’s been afraid he’dcome 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 enjoyedand praised Rosita’s excellent supper， and afterward themen 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 himselfin magnificent white beard and furs appeared and beganto distribute the toys.
“It’s my papa，” announced Billy Sampson， aged six. “I’veseen him wear ’em before.”
Berkly， a sheepman， an old friend of Lane， stopped Rositaas she was passing by him on the gallery， where he wassitting smoking.
“Well， Mrs. Lane，” said he， “I suppose by this Christmasyou’ve gotten over being afraid of that fellow McRoy，haven’t you？ Madison and I have talked about it， youknow.”
“Very nearly，” said Rosita， smiling， “but I am still nervoussometimes. I shall never forget that awful time when hecame so near to killing us.”
“He’s the most cold-hearted villain in the world，” saidBerkly. “The citizens all along the border ought to turnout 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 ineverybody. 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 comingthrough.
“I heard what you said through the window， Mrs.
Lane，” he said. “I was just going down in my pocket for aChristmas present for your husband. But I’ve left one foryou， 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 steppedinto 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 inhere？” she asked.
“Haven’t seen anything in the way of a present，” said herhusband， laughing， “unless he could have meant me.”
The next day Gabriel Radd， the foreman of the XORanch， dropped into the post-office at Loma Alta.
“Well， the Frio Kid’s got his dose of lead at last，” heremarked 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！ TheGreaser saw him riding along past his camp about twelveo’clock last night， and was so skeered that he up with aWinchester and let him have it. Funniest part of it wasthat the Kid was dressed all up with white Angora-skinwhiskers and a regular Santy Claus rig-out from head tofoot. Think of the Frio Kid playing Santy！”