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."
"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.
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