Freddy the Cowboy (14 page)

“Look what's in it,” said the owl.

“Well,” said Jinx, “it hasn't got Freddy in it, so what's all the excitement about?”

“It's got two holes in it,” said Whibley. “And if Freddy was in it when those holes were put there, maybe you smart animals can figure out for yourselves where Freddy is now.”

Nobody said anything. They all gathered round and looked at the hat, and it was plain enough that a bullet had gone through the hat, and that if Freddy had been wearing it, the bullet had gone through Freddy. Bannister had told them how Mr. Flint and Jasper had chased Freddy up into the woods, shooting at him. And of course none of them knew how the shot Mr. Bean had fired at the side of the pigpen had really made the holes in the hat. Freddy hadn't told them about it, and none of them had noticed the holes.

Whibley clicked his beak irritably. “Come on, come on!” he said. “What do you expect it to do—get up and dance for you?”

But the animals were so shocked that they still couldn't do anything but stare at the hat. That their old friend, Freddy, the cleverest animal on the farm, had been shot, was news so bad that they couldn't take it in. It was Alice, the white duck, who broke the spell. She gave a weak quack and fell over in a dead faint.

Alice had come to the meeting with her sister, Emma, and her Uncle Wesley, a pompous little fat duck whom nobody liked. In an emergency Uncle Wesley was no good at all, though he always had a great deal to say. He was cross at Alice for fainting. “Now, now, my girl,” he said; “none of that. Come, come; straighten up. At least try to act like a lady—”

“She's fainted, uncle,” said Emma. “We must get her out into the air. Take her other wing.”

“And don't talk like a fool, Wesley,” put in Whibley, “even though you are one. Well now,” he said when Alice had been helped out, “I'm asking again, what are you animals going to do?”

It was at times like this that Charles usually leaped up and made a speech, but for once he seemed to have nothing to say. It was Mrs. Wiggins who spoke. “There's only one thing to do,” she said. “We're going up and tear Flint's place to pieces, and him with it.”

“Right!” said Charles. It was the shortest remark he had probably ever made. And there was a murmur of agreement from the others as they moved towards the door.

But Old Whibley hooted angrily at them. “Sure. That's the thing to do! Walk right up and ask Flint to shoot you. He's got guns. He'll accommodate you, all right. Don't be a set of dim-witted dodunks! Come back here and decide on something sensible.”

They stopped and turned around, and Mrs. Wiggins said: “I guess you're right. We can't fight him. But if he's done anything to Freddy—”

There were threatening growls from the animals—even the rabbits tried to snarl, though rabbits haven't anything to snarl with.

Whibley ruffled his feathers and stamped on the beam with irritation. “A plan, we want a plan,” he shouted. “We don't want a lot of growls. You can stand there growling at Flint for the next week and how much harm will that do him? Mr. Bean's famous talking animals!” he said sarcastically. “Sure! They can talk but they can't think. All they can do is stand around and cackle like a lot of old hens.”

Charles got angry. He strutted out under the beam and shook out his handsome tail feathers. “Sir,” he said, “are you referring by any chance to my wife?”

But Henrietta pushed him aside. “Shut up, Charles,” she said, “I'll take care of any personal remarks.” And she looked up at the owl. “You're all hoot and hustle, aren't you, old pop-eyes?” she said. “No cackle to you, is there?—just fine common sense and good judgment. Well, you're so much smarter than we are, suppose you tell us what
your
plan is?”

Whibley didn't have any more plan than the others did, but he really was smarter than they were, for he didn't mind admitting it. “Haven't any plan and you know it,” he said gruffly. “Didn't intend any personal remark. Just want to get a discussion going. Maybe we can hammer out a plan.”

“Excuse me,” said Howard, “but I have an idea!”

“Who's this little squirt?” Whibley demanded.

The owl was always offending somebody by his rough speech. Now it was Jinx who got mad. “He's a friend of mine,” he said. “And if he's a squirt, you're a moth-eaten old dust mop, and I wouldn't—”

“Now, Jinx,” said Mrs. Wiggins reprovingly. “This is just holding everything up.” She looked at the owl. “Howard is one of us,” she said, “and the only one who appears to have any ideas. Suppose we hear him.”

“Quite right,” said Whibley. “Speak up, boy, and don't mumble.”

“I don't know how to mumble,” said Howard, “but I only got as far as the second grade. I just wanted to say that—well, I know one thing that Flint is afraid of, and that's knives.” And he told them about what had happened at the rodeo and what Cy had said about it. “And you notice he doesn't wear a knife ever, or carry one.”

“That is all true,” put in Bannister. “I saw it myself. The fellow turned absolutely green.”

“H'm,” said Whibley. “His complexion is sort of green anyway. Well, young mouse, your suggestion is that we should attack Flint with knives? And what will he be doing meanwhile?”

“No, sir,” said Howard, “I was just thinking that—well, these Horribles have knives. And they don't have to stick them into Flint, if they could just catch him alone—”

“Scare him to death, that's an idea!” said Mrs. Wurzburger.

The owl shook his head. “Not much use scaring Flint,” he said. “Scare the dudes that are boarding there—that's the ticket. If they leave, Flint has to close up and go away.”

“He's shot Freddy,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “We aren't just going to drive him away.”

“No,” said Old Whibley slowly. “We're going to do more to him than that. But that would be a nice start. See here, you rabbits—what do you call yourselves—Horribles?—could you do a dangerous job? I mean, tackle Flint some night at a campfire, in front of his whole crowd. Of course my niece, Vera, and I would be there—swoop down and grab his guns if he pulled 'em.”

Rabbit No. 23 stepped forward. “Brother Horribles,” he said, “you have heard the proposal. What do you say?”

There was a shout of: “Yes! Yes, Your Dreadfulness!”

“Especially if Old Whibley and Vera are there,” said No. 7. “We know they'd protect us.”

“Why, h'm—ha,” said the owl, trying not to look pleased, “good of you to say so. Ha! Where was I? Well, now—”

But a loud “Psst!” from Jinx interrupted him. “Lights out! Horses coming!”

And indeed they could all hear them now, cantering down through the pasture.

Chapter 13

The lights went out just as two horses were pulled up outside with a scraping of hoofs. There was a creak of leather, and then footsteps, and Mr. Flint came into the barn.

The animals kept still as he peered around. The moonlight coming through the door and windows was enough to show him the three cows, standing placidly chewing away on their cuds with their backs to him.

“That pig in here?” he said. And then as no one answered: “Well, speak up! You're Bean's talking animals, ain't you? Let's hear some talk.”

There was silence. The cows went on munching.

“Talk, confound you!” the man shouted suddenly. “Where's that pig?” And he lifted the heavy Mexican quirt he was holding, evidently intending to cut Mrs. Wurzburger across the back.

Now Mrs. Wiggins had a little mirror nailed to the wall in front of her. She didn't have it there to admire herself in, for as she said, “I know what I look like, and it's no special pleasure to keep being reminded of it.” But she always stood with her back to the door, and this made it possible for her to see who came in before they knew she'd seen them. “And this gives me a little extra time to think up something clever to say to them,” she explained. “Not,” she added, “that I have ever really managed to do it. But I keep on trying.”

So now she saw what Mr. Flint was up to. And as he raised his arm she swung her tail around hard, so that the tuft at the end caught him smack in the face.

His arm dropped and he said “Pffffth!” and backed away. “You stupid brute!” he said, and raised the quirt again, but thought better of it and put it down.

“All right,” he said, “so you won't talk, hey? Well, I haven't time to make you.” He peered around, and then became aware that there were a great many animals just sitting there in the half darkness, looking at him. He didn't like that much, and since he could see that neither Freddy nor Cy was there, he backed towards the door, dropping his hand to his gun. “No pig here, Jasper,” he called. “We'll go on down to the bank. And if you're smart,” he said, again addressing the animals, “you'll stay right here and not interfere with us. Shucks,” he said, “Animals don't need money. They ain't got any
right
to money. That's what burns me up—that pig, talking as if he was people, with money in the bank and all.” He stopped. “Well, never mind that,” he said. “And just to show you who's runnin' things, and what you'll get if you monkey with Cal Flint—” He stopped and raised the quirt to slash at Mrs. Wiggins.

“All right, boys,” said Old Whibley, and he dropped from the beam and his big talons snatched the quirt from the man's hand. At the same moment Bill and the two dogs jumped, the cows whirled round with lowered horns, and the smaller animals dodged in to do their share. In less time than it would have taken Cy to throw an experienced bronco buster, Mr. Flint had been butted by Bill, and had fallen on his face. Then while Mrs. Wogus, who was the heaviest of the three cows, held him down by sitting on him, the dogs tugged the guns out of his holsters.

Mr. Flint had been butted by Bill.

Of course the animals could have torn Mr. Flint to pieces. Had they been wild animals, they would probably have done so. But they were all domestic animals—with the exception of Sniffy Wilson, the skunk, and the rabbits and squirrels and chipmunks; and although they had no use for Mr. Flint, they couldn't bring themselves to be very ferocious.

Mrs. Wogus jounced up and down a couple of times to flatten Mr. Flint out good, and with every jounce the air went out of his lungs with a Whoosh! Then she got up, and the Horrible Ten, who had been whispering excitedly in a corner, trooped over. They surrounded Mr. Flint, who had sat up slowly, groaning and rubbing his stomach, and went into their war dance.

They hadn't had time to make up a song, so they just stamped around and waved their knives and gave little yelps, and now and then one of them would think of something and would sing it.

“Flint! Flint!

You're going to be skint,”

was one of them. And another was:

“See our knives flicker and see our knives flash!

We're going to have us some cowboy hash!”

The performance certainly terrified Mr. Flint. He lay right down on his face and covered his head with his hands and shivered. Jasper, who was beginning to wonder what was going on in the barn, stepped inside the door. “Hey, boss,” he began. And then he said: “Whoosh!” in just the same tone that Mr. Flint had said it in, only louder, and he sat down hard, for Bill had butted him square in the middle of the stomach. Then he picked himself up and got on his horse and rode off home.

After a few minutes Old Whibley said: “O.K., boys; don't tire yourselves out,” and the Horribles stopped dancing. Then nobody said anything for a while.

By and by Mr. Flint stopped shivering. He lifted his head a little and peeked out with one eye. He saw only the cows, still standing quietly chewing their cuds. And very slowly he got up. Then he started to look for his guns, but Old Whibley's deep voice stopped him. “Get on your horse, Flint.”