Freddy the Cowboy (9 page)

These are the cups that have a little flat sort of a china guard built into them just inside the rim, which is supposed to press against your moustache—if you have one—and keep it from getting into the coffee. Mr. Bean was very much pleased with the cup, although in spite of having such bushy whiskers he was a very neat drinker and seldom got his moustache even damp.

The woman who kept the antique shop had tried to push Mrs. Wiggins out when she first went in, but when she saw that the cow had money she let her look around, although some other customers left rather hurriedly. But later they sat on the porch and talked and got quite friendly, and Mrs. Wiggins stayed on for a week and tended the shop every day when the owner went to visit her sick aunt in the hospital.

When Freddy told his story and they heard that there was danger that Mr. Flint might try to rob the bank, the animals began to look worried. Many of the smaller animals—the squirrels and rabbits and mice—had their entire next winter's supply of food in the vaults, and nearly all the animals on the farm had brought money to the bank for safekeeping. It may surprise many people to learn that animals have money since they never work for wages, and have no pockets to carry money in if they did. But animals, when they are walking along, keep their eyes on the ground more than people do, and it is surprising how many coins they find. Even the woods animals often find money and valuables that hunters and hikers have dropped. I know one fox who has a large cameo brooch set with diamonds, and there is a black snake down on the flats who owns two wrist watches which he wears when he goes to parties. Alice and Emma, the two ducks, have some very handsome jewelry which they found when rummaging around for food in the mud at the bottom of their pond. And a lot of money rolls behind baseboards and is found by mice. Many mice have piggy banks.

Naturally the animals were worried, and they demanded to know what precautions Freddy had taken to safeguard their property.

“I've put on extra guards at the bank,” he said, “and I'm keeping an eye on things. Don't you worry; your stuff is safe.”

“That's what
you
say,” said Bill, the goat. “I've got a dozen pairs of fine old well-aged boots down in your bank vaults. I've been saving them for when my folks come to visit, so we can have a real high-class banquet. It took me two years to get that lot together, and I'm not going to lose them now just because you want to spend your time galloping around in a monkey suit yelling ‘Yippee!' instead of tending to your business.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the other animals, and Mrs. Wiggins said, “You can't blame Bill, Freddy. All of us have got valuables in the bank, and you're responsible for them. That Flint is no better than a bandit, and until he's out of this country, nothing will be safe.”

“All right, all right,” said Freddy irritably. “I'll do something—I promise I'll do something about him.”

“Yeah?” said Bill. “When?”

Freddy of course had no idea what he could do, much less when he could do it. But he knew that he had to act as if he was doing something. Otherwise the animals would take all their valuables back into their own keeping, and the First Animal Bank would have to close its doors and go out of business. So he put a look of great determination on his face, got up, jammed his ten-gallon hat down over his ears and buckled on his gun belt, which he had laid aside during the meeting; and then he said: “Come on Cy, we'll settle this,” and followed by the pony, went out into the night. It came near being one of the worst mistakes of his entire career.

Freddy stopped at the pig pen to saddle Cy, then rode up through the pasture towards the woods. Cy said, “You can't shoot Flint with nothing but blanks in your gun.”

“Who said I was going to shoot Flint?” Freddy asked.

“That's where your friends think you're going,” said the pony. “The way you said you'd settle things. They think you're going up to challenge him to a pistol fight. And if I'm not mistaken—” He stopped and looked back. “Yes, they're coming after you. They're coming to back you up, Freddy.”

The moon was just rising, and by its light Freddy could see several figures moving across the barnyard; yes, they were following. “Oh, my goodness!” he said. “What'll we do, Cy? When I said we'd settle things, I didn't mean I was going to fight Mr. Flint; I just meant—well, I don't know what I did mean. I guess I was just putting up a bluff. I figured maybe I'd think of something before we got to the ranch.”

“In that case,” the pony said, “the best thing to do is go back and tell them it was just a bluff. Or no, you can't do that—that'll ruin you. Tell 'em—lemme see—tell 'em you've been thinking it over and you don't think it would be right to shoot Mr. Flint, because after all, he hasn't really robbed the bank yet.”

“I wish I'd never got into this cowboy business,” said Freddy. “If you're going to be a cowboy, you can't back down once you've started something like that. If I've let 'em think I'm going to fight Flint, I'll have to go through with it. Is Flint a good shot?”

Cy said: “Flint's sure of himself with a gun, because now he knows you can't shoot. He's a coward, though in some ways. He hates hatchets and knives—anything that cuts. If you was to go after him with a knife he'd get right down on his knees and beg for mercy. Funny thing different folks are afraid of. Now me, I'm deathly afraid of barns at night. The inside of 'em, I mean. All black and there's noises—things scurryin' around. Wow! It gives me the—”

“Sure, sure,” said Freddy; “very ghastly. But how good a shot is he?”

“Look, Freddy,” said Cy, “even if you mounted a machine gun on your saddle you wouldn't have a chance with him. He has a regular stunt he does: sets up tin cans on the posts of the corral fence, and then rides past 'em at a gallop and he'll plug three or four right off the posts.”

“I'm a lot bigger than a tin can,” said Freddy.

“Maybe he wouldn't hit a vital spot,” Cy suggested.

By this time Freddy's friends had nearly caught up with him. “Hey, Freddy,” Jinx called; “come on give it up and come back. We'll think of something better than you going up there and getting yourself shot full of holes.”

“Good land, Freddy,” said Mrs. Wiggins, “we didn't mean for you to get into a fight.”

Freddy had no intention of getting into a fight if he could help it, but he had a reputation to keep up. That is the trouble with a reputation. You go and build up a reputation for bravery, and then the first thing you know, there's a fight on your hands. And maybe you don't feel specially brave that morning. But you've got to act as if you did. So Freddy sat up very straight in the saddle and slapped his pistol holster and looked noble—it is easy to look noble by moonlight—and he said: “My friends, do not attempt to turn me from my purpose. You have appealed to me, and I intend to do my duty.”

For a minute none of the animals, who had now all come up, said anything, and Freddy was sorry that he had spoken with such determination. “They might at least put up an argument,” he thought. “But no; what do they care? Just an old friend going out to be blown to smithereens, that's all.”

Then Hank said hesitatingly: “Well, I dunno; seems as if—” He stopped.

“Yes?” said Freddy eagerly.

“Oh, nothing,” said Hank. “Nothing.”

Freddy got mad. “Oh, go on back to the farm, will you,” he said.

“Why, we came up to help you,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “If there's a fight—”

“If there's a fight, I'll handle it,” said Freddy. “Go on back; I know what I'm doing.”

They shook their heads doubtfully, but they turned and started back. As soon as they were out of sight, Freddy dismounted and said: “Look, Cy, I'm beginning to get hold of the tail end of an idea. Suppose you could circle around down to the house without being seen and get the mice? They'll all be home from the meeting by this time. Tell 'em we're on a secret mission. And let's see—I'll meet you at the pig pen; I want to get some gum, and some string, and my guitar.”

An hour later up by the ranch house the dudes were sitting around the campfire, listening to Mr. Flint who was telling stories of his experiences with cattle rustlers and outlaws. Mr. Flint was a good storyteller in spite of his creaky voice, and his stories were good stories, for he had got them all out of a book called
Bad Men of the Old West.
“Well sir,” he drawled, “when I see them three hombres a-sneakin' up the draw, I knowed old Two-Quart Robinson had squealed. So I throwed down on 'em, and—” He stopped, for the twangle of a guitar came out of the night and a light but pleasing tenor voice sang:

“When the moon rides high on the pine tree branch,

Then Two-Gun Freddy of the Lone Pig Ranch (Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yip!)

He takes his guitar, and he tightens up the strings,

And he jumps in the saddle, and this is what he sings:

Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!

Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yap, yop, yowp,

Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!

“Oh, the wild wind moans o'er the lone prai-ree

But Two-Gun Freddy, oh, louder moans he;

(Sing hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yip!)

He shouts this song till the whole sky rings,

As he sits in the saddle and twangles on the strings:

Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!

Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yap, yop, yowp,

Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!”

And then into the light of the campfire came walking a buckskin pony and on his back sat a small plump rider who sang and strummed a guitar.

The dudes applauded the song heartily, and Mr. Flint said: “Light down, stranger, and set.” Then he peered across the fire at Freddy. “Seen you before somewheres.”

“You shore have,” said Freddy, trying to talk as western as possible. “Likely you've forgotten I bought this bronc off you the other day so's you wouldn't beat him to death.”

Mr. Flint started up. “Now I know you,” he said. “Sure, you bought the horse. But I'd go kind of easy on that talk about my beatin' him.”

“Would you?” Freddy asked. “Well, you
were
beating him, you big bully.”

Mr. Flint started to walk around the fire to come closer to Freddy, and then he remembered that Cy would probably take a piece out of his arm if he did and he stopped. “Out where I come from,” he said, “that's fighting talk, pardner,” and his right hand slipped down towards his pistol butt.

“We're not out where you come from,” said Freddy. “And even if we were, I wouldn't fight anybody like you.” He felt pretty sure that Mr. Flint wouldn't do any shooting, particularly in front of all the dudes who were guests on his ranch.

“That's right smart of you, mister,” said Mr. Flint sarcastically. “No sense gettin' your ears blown off.” He pulled out his gun suddenly. “Beat it,” he said.

“Beat it,” he said.

Freddy gave a sudden squeal and wriggled in the saddle. “Quit that!” he said. He wasn't speaking to Mr. Flint. He had two mice in each of his shirt pockets. Quik and Howard were in one, and Eeny and Cousin Augustus in the other; Eek had had a headache and Mrs. Bean wouldn't let him come; she had given him a sixteenth of an aspirin tablet and made him go to bed. And Freddy had squealed because Eeny and Cousin Augustus had got to scuffling in his pocket, and they tickled.

But Mr. Flint thought he was afraid. He gave a snort of contempt. “Beat it, peewee.”

“There isn't any—” Freddy began, and then, remembering to talk Western, he began again. “That ain't no reason I should beat it, pardner, seein' as I can outride and outshoot you. I wouldn't fight you—it would be plain murder.”

“Outride! Outshoot!” Mr. Flint sputtered. “Why, you—Folks!” He turned to the dudes, who were watching with interest. “This here critter—why he ain't even a man, he's nothing but a pig! An educated pig, from down to Bean's place, west of Centerboro. Why—”

“What's the use of calling him names, Mr. Flint?” said Mrs. Balloway. “That doesn't prove anything. Can he outride and outshoot you?”

Freddy swung down from the saddle. “Let's see you fork this bronc, Flint,” he said. “Stay on him ten seconds and I'll admit I'm a liar.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Mr. Flint said. “When you got him trained to throw anybody off but you? What'll that prove?”

“O.K.,” said Freddy. “Then it's shooting. Set up your tin cans. I understand you're right accurate with your little old popgun.”

“Can't see to shoot by moonlight,” put in Jasper. He was one of the two cowboys Mr. Flint had working on the ranch as horse handlers.