Freddy the Cowboy (12 page)

Bannister answered. Bannister was Mr. Camphor's butler, a very tall man in a tail coat with a very high bridge to his nose which he held so high in the air that unless you were an important personage, he could almost never see you over it. Freddy, however, was pretty high up in the air, too, being on horseback, so after Bannister had said: “Sorry, sir, Mr. C. Jimson Camphor is not at home,” he caught sight of the pig. “My word,” he said, “it is Mr. Frederick! Happy to see you, sir.”

“Thank you, Bannister,” said Freddy. He pointed to two mice who were peeking out of his pockets. “You remember Cousin Augustus. And this is my friend, Howard. And this pony is another new friend, Cy.”

“Happy to see you, gentlemen,” said Bannister. “Mr. Camphor is in Washington. He will be sorry to have missed you. But come in, come in. Your room is always kept ready for you, you know, Mr. Frederick. And we can put these two gentlemen in the blue room, I think. As for Mr. Cy—” he looked doubtfully at the horse.

“Cy's a Western pony—never sleeps indoors,” said Freddy.

“We'd rather sleep in the kitchen if it's all right,” said Cousin Augustus, and Howard said: “We don't feel at home in bedrooms. No crumbs usually.”

“Dear me,” said Bannister, “two mice with but a single thought.” Then he looked startled. “Ha!” he said. “Ha, ha! I seem to have made a joke!”

Cousin Augustus was offended. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, it doesn't seem very funny to me.”

“He's not making fun of you, mouse,” said Freddy. “It's just a quotation he's twisted around. It's two
minds
with but a single thought, you know.”

“No offense meant,” said Bannister.

“O.K.,” said Cousin Augustus grumpily, for he was still a little seasick from the ride. “O.K., O.K., O.K.. Well, let him mind his manners and not go throwing his quotations at me.”

So they spent a quiet night at Mr. Camphor's, and in the morning they held a council of war, with Bannister's help. There was a good deal of arguing, particularly between Bannister and Cousin Augustus, who still seemed to hold a slight grudge against the butler. But at last a plan was decided on.

That afternoon they paddled across the lake—all but Cy who refused (and I think, on the whole, sensibly) to get into the canoe—and had a picnic at their old camp site on the north shore. And the following morning Bannister drove them into Centerboro, where Freddy bought a number of things. He bought a false moustache and a wig with long hair, that made him look like pictures of General Custer. He bought a green shirt with a design of yellow pistols on it, and a new gun belt studded with what looked like diamonds but probably weren't; and he bought a great many packages of red Easter egg tint. After that they spent nearly a whole day tinting Cy, and turning him from a buckskin into a roan.

Both Cy and Bannister agreed that the plan that Freddy had finally adopted was a very dangerous one, because its success depended on how good his disguise was. And as a rule Freddy's disguises were interesting, but not very convincing. If his moustache fell off, or if his wig slipped sideways, he was sure to be recognized. And if he was recognized, he ran a very good chance of being shot at. But Freddy was determined. He was really quite a courageous pig. I don't mean that he wasn't scared; he was so scared thinking about it sometimes that his teeth chattered and his tail came completely uncurled. But he didn't propose to let being scared interfere with what he intended to do.

And so, after all his preparations were made, on the day of Mr. Flint's rodeo he saddled Cy and they started for the ranch.

Now a good disguise isn't just something you put on, like false whiskers, or a funny hat. You have to take all the little things that people might recognize you by, and change them. And one of the most important of these is the way you walk. For people can recognize you by your walk long before they get close enough to see your face. So Freddy, who ordinarily sat up pretty straight, slouched in the saddle and held his head on one side, and Cy trotted along with a quick little jerky step that was quite unlike his usual gait. From a distance they certainly wouldn't look familiar to Mr. Flint. And when they got closer, Cy's color, and Freddy's long drooping moustache and lank black hair hanging down over his collar, would throw him completely off the track.

Mr. Flint's rodeo was of course a small one, but he had brought along a few animals for the steer-wrestling and calf-roping events, and a few horses that would buck mildly when teased. The prize money he was offering wasn't large, but several riders who had been making the rounds of the eastern rodeos dropped in to try to pick up a little of it. Some bleachers had been knocked together and when Freddy got there there was a good-sized crowd filling the bleachers and strung out along the fence surrounding the arena. A lot of his friends from Centerboro were there. He saw Judge Willey and the sheriff, and Mr. Weezer and old Mrs. Peppercorn.

Freddy rode up to the gate through which the contestants entered just as the calf-roping was over. Mr. Flint had won with a time of twenty seconds, and the audience applauded him as he came out. He stopped as he caught sight of Freddy. I guess you can't blame him, for Freddy, though small, was a pretty tough-looking specimen as he sat there pulling at his long black moustache. He didn't of course pull it very hard, for it was only fastened on with mucilage. One of the dudes, who was familiar with the pictures of the old-time Western bad men, said that he looked like Wild Bill Hickok, seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

“Howdy, mister.” Freddy made his voice as hoarse and rough as he could. “You the boss here?”

“That's right,” said Mr. Flint. “You want to get in the show?” Suddenly he turned away from Freddy, to look towards Jasper who had set up a target on one of the corral posts, and was about to give an exhibition of knife throwing. “Jasper,” he called, “lay off that till I get around back of the pen.”

“I forgot, boss,” said Jasper. “Can't stop now; you look the other way.” And he pulled out a sheath knife and balanced it on his palm.

Freddy started to say something and then stopped, for Mr. Flint seemed to have been taken suddenly sick. He reached up and took hold of Freddy's saddle horn and supported himself by it as he leaned against Cy. Big drops of sweat ran off his forehead and he shut his eyes and began to tremble. Cy looked around and raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but Freddy shook his head at him warningly. It was a nice chance to take a good bite out of Mr. Flint, but it would spoil their plan.

Jasper held the knife flat, on his open hand, point towards him; then tossed it underhand with a flip, and it turned over twice in the air and went plunk! into the center of the target. And Mr. Flint jerked as if it had gone into him.

“You shore look sick, mister,” said Freddy. “Likely you ought to get in the bunkhouse.”

Plunk! went another knife, and Mr. Flint jerked again and moaned faintly, and then Jasper came running over to them. “Get him out of here,” he said disgustedly, “I've got to finish this now I've started it. He can't stand knives—makes him sick to see 'em. I guess he cut his finger when he was a little boy or somethin'. Hey, you—Slim!” he called to another puncher, “Get the boss out of here.”

Slim came over and said: “Come on, boss,” rather contemptuously, and then he hooked Mr. Flint's arm over his shoulder and led him around behind the bleachers.

Freddy watched the knife throwing. Jasper was good. He threw mostly underhand and could make the knife turn over one, two or three times before it hit the target. His final stunt was to throw at a can tossed in the air. He pierced it on the third try.

Freddy waited around. He watched some fancy riding, and after a while Mr. Flint came back. He looked all right.

“Must have et something that disagreed with me,” he said. “Now, was you aimin' to get into the show? Good chance to make a little prize money, if you can beat the time of some of these other boys.”

Freddy shook his head. “Your money don't interest me none, pardner. Maybe you heard of me; I'm Snake Peters. Come from Buzzard's Gulch, Wyoming. I been sort of sashayin' round mongst these rodeos, tryin' to find somebody could stay on this little horse of mine more'n thirty seconds. You got any good riders?”

“He don't look very tough,” Mr. Flint said. Cy certainly didn't. He stood awkwardly with his front feet crossed, and everything about him drooped—his tail, his eyelids, his head; and his mouth was open. He looked worn out and sort of half-witted, if there is such a thing as a half-witted horse. Mr. Flint went up and stroked his neck, then he poked him in the ribs. Cy didn't move.

Mr. Flint shook his head, “We can't use horses like that in our show, friend. Even if you put up money for any rider that could stay on him. We got to give the customers some excitement, and there ain't enough excitement in that animal to put in a bug's ear.”

“I've got five dollars for anybody can stay on him thirty seconds,” said Freddy.

“Move along, move along,” said Mr. Flint irritably. “And take that hunk of crowbait away from here. Go on; beat it.”

A number of the onlookers had edged up to listen, and among them was Bannister, who now pushed forward. “I say, hold on a minute,” “I'll ride this creature for five dollars. I have never ridden a horse, but if someone will help me up into the saddle I am sure I can stay on thirty seconds.”

Mr. Flint started to object, but some of the crowd had begun to laugh, and he hesitated. “Well, O.K.,” he said. “We need a good clown act. Get down you, Peters; and Jasper, get that megaphone and give 'em an announcement.”

So Jasper went out in front of the bleachers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “Mr. Snake Peters, the gentleman with the wind-blown bob and the soup strainers, has offered five dollars to anyone who can stay on this here wall-eyed roan horse of his for thirty seconds. His offer has been took up by the gentleman in the claw-hammer coat. This gentleman—what's your name? Bannister?—this Mr. Bannister claims he's never rode anything livelier than a wooden horse on a merry-go-round, but in spite of the way Mr. Peters' horse is a-rarin' and snortin' fire, he's going to try for the five dollars.”

The bleachers laughed and applauded, and Mr. Flint hoisted Bannister into the saddle, and shoved Cy through the gate. It certainly wasn't much of a show. Cy walked slowly up to the fence, leaned against a post, dropped his head and went to sleep. When Mr. Flint called, “Time!” he woke up, walked back, and Bannister was helped down.

Freddy handed over the five dollars. Then he grabbed the megaphone and before Mr. Flint could stop him, he addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am now offering Mr. Flint himself fifty dollars if he can stay on my horse thirty seconds.” Then, remembering that he was supposed to be a wild and wooly Westerner, he continued: “This here horse, gents and ladies, has got a kind nature. He knowed that this Bannister wasn't a fair match for him, and he let him off easy. But Cal Flint here, he's good, he's—”

“Oh, dry up and get out of the arena,” Mr. Flint interrupted. But there were shouts from the bleachers: “Go on, Cal. See if you can wake the old nag up. Ride him, cowboy!” He turned to Freddy. “Let's see the color of your money.”

So Freddy pulled out some bills. Mr. Flint looked at them, then swung into Cy's saddle. Jasper held the watch, and when he yelled, “Time!” Mr. Flint jabbed his spurs in and whacked Cy with his hat. But Cy didn't start anything. He just ambled off around the arena, and when Mr. Flint realized that he looked rather foolish yelling and jumping around on such a quiet animal, he relaxed and sat easily in the saddle, dropping the reins and folding his arms. It was then—at the twentieth second—that Cy stumbled. His forefeet stumbled, and at the same time his hindquarters twisted sideways. And Mr. Flint somersaulted right over his shoulder.

His hindquarters twisted sideways.

He was up in an instant. He paid no attention to the crowd which was staring open-mouthed, but ran after Cy who had trotted back to the gate. “Hey!” he shouted to Freddy. “That wasn't fair—it was an accident! It was a trick! I demand another trial.” He grabbed Cy's bridle.

“You're a poor sport, Flint,” said Snake Peters, smoothing his long moustache. “You had your trial. You ain't earned your money. 'Tisn't my fault if you can't ride a horse without being tied to the saddle. Stand away from that pony.” He dropped his right hand to the butt of his gun.

Freddy was sure that Mr. Flint would not care to put himself in the wrong with the crowd by shooting, and he was right. The man took his hand from the bridle. “That was a trick,” he said angrily. “I don't want your money. But I ain't going to have it said that Cal Flint can't ride a half-dead old plug that ought to be shipped off to the boneyard.”