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.
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