Speaker 1: A chaparral Christmas gift by O. Henry. 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 Sundown 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 mac mullen, and she was the daughter of old
Man mac mullen of the Sundown Sheep Ranch. There came
riding on red roan steeds, or or, to be more explicit,
on a paint on 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 honors of
special nomenclature. His name was simply Johnny McRoy. It must
not be supposed that these two were the some of
the agreeable Rosita's admirers. The broncos of a dozen others
champed their bits at the long hitching rack of the
Sundown Ranch. Many were the sheep's eyes that were cast
in the savannahs that did not belong to the flocks
of Dan McMullen. But of all the cavaliers, Madison Lane
and Johnny McRoy galloped far ahead, wherefore they are to
be chronicled. Madison Lane, a young cattleman from the Nuasis Country,
won the race. He and Rosita were married on Christmas Day. Armed, hilarious, vociferous, magnanimous.
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 six shooters, the shine
of buckles and bright eyes, the outspoken congratulations of the
herders of kind. But while the wedding feast was at
its liveliest, there descended upon it Johnny mac roy, bitten
by jealousy, like one possessed. I'll give you a Christmas present,
he yelled shrilly at the door, with his forty five
in his hand. Even then he had some reputation as
an offan 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 sheep man, 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 for Holly's at mac Roy,
spoiling his aim. The second bullet then only shattered the
white petals of a Spanish dagger flower suspended two 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 mister McRoy. I'll shoot better next time,
yelled Johnny, and they'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 cattleman then swept out upon him,
calling for vengeance. For while the slaughter of a sheep
man has not always lacked condonement, it was a decided
misdemeanor in this instance. Carson was innocent. He was no
accomplice at the matrimonial proceedings, nor had anyone heard him
quote the line Christmas comes but once a year to
the guests. But the sort he failed in its vengeance.
McRoy was on his horse and away, shouting back curses
and threats as he galloped into the concealing chapparal. That
night was the birthnight of the freeho kid. He became
the bad man of that portion of the state. The
rejection of his suit by Miss McMullen turned him into
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 marvelous
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 bloodthirsty,
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 Freeo Kid had the deaths of eighteen men on
his head. About half of these were killed in fair duels,
depending on the quickness of the draw. The other half
were men whom he assassinated with 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 it is at every Christmas
time 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 odor from the
blossoms of the ritometree. It stirs the memory to a
dangerous degree. One December in the Friho Country, there was
a ritometree in full bloom, for the winter had been
as warm as springtime. That way rode the Freeho Kid
and his satellite and 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 smell
touched him somewhere beneath his ice and iron. I don't
know what I've been thinking about mechs, he remarked, in
his usual mild drawl, to have forgotten all about a
Christmas present I got to give. I'm going to ride
over tomorrow 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 tomorrow night. I see old
man allan day before yesterday, and he says mad is
going to have Christmas doing 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 eyes open for a certain
mister kidd. 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, hell, mex he got her and I'll get him. Yes, sir,
on Christmas Eve he gut her, and them's one. I'll
get him. There's other ways of committing suicide, advised Mexican.
Why don't you go out and surrender to the sheriff.
I'll get him, said the kid. Christmas, you fell as
bomby 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 round, 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 and sighed. The evening went
along pleasantly. The guests enjoyed and praised Rosita's excellent supper,
and afterward the men scattered in groups about the rooms
or in 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 them before. Berkeley,
a sheep man, an old friend of Lane, stopped Rosita
as she was passing by him on the gallery where
he was sitting smoking well. Missus Lane said he. I
suppose by this Christmas you've gotten over being afraid of
that fellow mac Roy, 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 Berkeley.
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 and muffling whiskers
and furs was just coming through. I heard what you
said through the window, Missus 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's my present? That's Sata City left for me in here,
she asked. I haven't seen anything in the way of
a present, said her husband, laughing, unless he could have
met me. The next day, Gabriel Radd, the foreman of
the x O ranch, dropped into the post office at
Loma Alta. Well, look, Frio Kid's got his dose of
lead at last, he remarked of the postmaster. That's so,
how did it happen? One of Sanchez's Mexican sheepherders? Did it?
Think of it? The Frio kid killed by a sheepherder.
The raezer 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 the kid was dressed up all
with white angora skin whiskers and a regular Sandy Claus
rig out from head to foot. Think of the Frio
kid playing santy end of a chaparral Christmas Gift by O.
Henry