that the adjutant-general's sarcasm had fallen upon unproductive soil.

In his camp by the water hole Lieutenant Sandridge announced and
reiterated his intention of either causing the Cisco Kid to nibble the
black loam of the Frio country prairies or of haling him before a
judge and jury. That sounded business-like. Twice a week he rode over
to the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio, and directed Tonia's slim,
slightly lemon-tinted fingers among the intricacies of the slowly
growing lariata. A six-strand plait is hard to learn and easy to
teach.

The ranger knew that he might find the Kid there at any visit. He kept
his armament ready, and had a frequent eye for the pear thicket at the
rear of the _jacal_. Thus he might bring down the kite and the
humming-bird with one stone.

While the sunny-haired ornithologist was pursuing his studies the
Cisco Kid was also attending to his professional duties. He moodily
shot up a saloon in a small cow village on Quintana Creek [72], killed
the town marshal (plugging him neatly in the centre of his tin badge),
and then rode away, morose and unsatisfied. No true artist is uplifted
by shooting an aged man carrying an old-style .38 bulldog.

[FOOTNOTE 72: Quintana Creek is a tributary of the Nueces River
in LaSalle County, where O. Henry spent two years
on ranches.]

On his way the Kid suddenly experienced the yearning that all men feel
when wrong-doing loses its keen edge of delight. He yearned for the
woman he loved to reassure him that she was his in spite of it. He