A Chaparral Christmas Gift

by O. Henry
(1862-1910)

The original cause of the trouble was about twenty years in growing.

At the end of that time it was worth it.

Had you lived anywhere within fifty miles of Sun- down Ranch you would
have heard of it. It possessed a quantity of jet-black hair, a pair of
extremely frank, deep-brown eyes and a laugh that rippled across the
prairie like the sound of a hidden brook. The name of it was Rosita
McMullen; and she was the daughter of old man McMullen of the Sundown
Sheep Ranch.

There came riding on red roan steeds -- or, to be more explicit, 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 he had not earned the honours of special nomenclature- His
name was simply Johnny McRoy.

It must not be supposed that these two were the sum of the agreeable
Rosita's admirers. The bronchos of a dozen others champed their bits at
the long hitching rack of the Sundown Ranch. Many were the sheeps'- eves
that were cast in those savannas that did not belong. to the flocks of
Dan McMullen. But of all the cavaliers, Madison Lane and Johnny MeRoy
galloped far ahead, wherefore they are to be chronicled.

Madison Lane, a young cattleman from the Nueces country, won the race.
He and Rosita were married one Christmas day. Armed, hilarious,
vociferous, mag- nanimous, the cowmen and the sheepmen, laying aside
their hereditary hatred, joined forces to celebrate the occasion.

Sundown Ranch was sonorous with the cracking of jokes and sixshooters,
the shine of buckles and bright eyes, the outspoken congratulations of
the herders of kine.

But while the wedding feast was at its liveliest there descended upon it
Johnny MeRoy, bitten by jealousy, like one possessed.

"I'll give you a Christmas present," he yelled, shrilly, at the door,
with his .45 in his hand. Even then he had some reputation as an offhand
shot.

His first bullet cut a neat underbit in Madison Lane's right ear. The
barrel of his gun moved an inch. The next shot would have been the
bride's had not Carson, a sheepman, possessed a mind with triggers
somewhat well oiled and in repair. The guns of the wedding party had
been hung, in their belts, upon nails in the wall when they sat at
table, as a concession to good taste. But Carson, with great promptness,
hurled his plate of roast venison and frijoles at McRoy, spoiling his
aim. The second bullet, then, only shattered the white petals of a
Spanish dagger flower suspended two feet above Rosita's head.

The guests spurned their chairs and jumped for their weapons. It was
considered an improper act to shoot the bride and groom at a wedding. In
about six seconds there were twenty or so bullets due to be whizzing in
the direction of Mr. McRoy.

"I'll shoot better next time," yelled Johnny; "and there'll be a next
time." He backed rapidly out the door.

Carson, the sheepman, spurred on to attempt further exploits by the
success of his plate-throwing, was first to reach the door. McRoy's
bullet from the darkness laid him low.

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 mis- demeanour 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 be 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 what- ever 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 aW 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 foolish- ness. 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."

"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 after- ward 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 Christ- mas 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 0 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 bv 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!"

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