Freddy Rides Again (11 page)

Yip, yip, yippee! O my! O my!

O saddle up the pinto and saddle up the grey, For I ain't goin' to stay here—no, I ain't goin'

to stay

Where the skies are dreary and the folks ain't

gay.

O my!

Yip, yip!

O my!

I'm goin' back home now: I'm going back home,

Where I never use a toothbrush, never use a

comb.

Yip, yip, yippee! O my! O my!

Goin' back to the prairie, for the only sound

that'll

Make me happy again is the rattlesnake's rattle

As he sidewinds along, a-chasin' of the cattle.

O my!

Yip, yip!

O my!

The Horribles, who had come up to listen, were much affected and some of them broke right down and cried. Freddy realized that this was a great compliment to his singing, and so he put as much sadness into his voice as he could. He put so much in that he began to feel the tears coming to his own eyes, and a lump get into his throat, and then all at once a big sob cut the song short and he had to stop.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “This song—it always makes me want to cry. I'm sure I don't know why it should. I don't know why I should get so sad longing to get back to somewhere I've never been. Funny how you can cry about wanting something that you don't want at all.”

No. Eleven said: “It was your voice—it was so sorrowful it made us all cry.”

“Yeah,” said Freddy, “and then I saw you crying and that made me even sadder. My goodness, it's a good thing I stopped—we'd have all ended up crying ourselves into fits. I better sing something lively.”

He took up the guitar again, but before he could begin, Bill, with Jinx on his back, came galloping into the clearing. The cat leaped from the saddle and bounded up the sagging porch steps. “Bad news, Freddy,” he said. “Last night that Margarine rode over and told Mr. Bean that if any of us animals were found on his land, we'd be shot, and then he and the boys, they went up to the pig pen and searched it. Guess maybe they thought you were hiding there. Anyway they threw things around quite a lot. Mr. Bean couldn't stop 'em. Margarine had a deputy's badge or star or something.”

“Oh, golly!” said Freddy. “I hope they didn't lose any of my papers. My poems—all my poems; I've been selecting the best ones to be published in a book. The Poetical Works of Frederick Bean, Esq. I must go down there right away.”

“You can't, you dope,” said Jinx. “Margarine's watching the place day and night. And he's advertised for a detective. Look here.” And he handed Freddy an advertisement clipped from the Centerboro
Guardian
.

WANTED
—
Man for light detective work. Able to ride horse. Good pay. Must provide own disguises
. Phone Margarine,
Centerboro 884
.

“Well, he hasn't got his detective yet, if that was just in this morning's paper. Hey, Cy!” he shouted. And as the pony came up, he leaped into the saddle and in spite of the protests of Charles and Bill and Jinx and all twenty-five Horribles, he galloped off through the trees.

Chapter 10

Freddy knew that he was running into danger, but the thought that his precious poems might be strewn about and trampled into the dirt made him reckless. He rode straight down to the pig pen. He saw nobody, but for safety's sake he had Cy come inside with him, although when both of them had crowded into the little room they couldn't look around much or see anything but each other. Finally Freddy had Cy go outside again.

As far as he could see, his papers hadn't been disturbed. He was looking them over when the four mice came out from under the desk. “Hi, Freddy,” said Eek. “We came to kind of look after things for you. We thought we'd better when we heard the Margarines had been here. We sort of picked up after 'em. Your papers were all over the floor.”

“Crumbs, too,” said Eeny. “Peanut butter cookie crumbs. When did you sweep last? Mrs. Bean hasn't made any peanut butter cookies since last spring.”

“We wouldn't have dared come up if the snake had been here,” said Quik. “But when we heard—”

“The snake? What do you mean?” Freddy exclaimed. He dashed into the other room where he kept the disguises he used in his detective work. The box was there, but the glass was pushed aside and the rattlesnake was gone.

The mice had followed him in. “The Margarines let him out,” said Quik. “They thought you were in the box I guess, and they shoved the glass off and poked a flashlight in to look. You ought to have heard 'em yell! Mrs. Wiggins came to the barn door and saw 'em galloping off as fast as they could lick.”

“Where'd the rattler go?” Freddy asked. “That's the important thing.”

“Nobody saw him go. But we had the Pomeroys scout ahead of us when we came up, and the wasps had been in here and said he wasn't inside, so we knew we were safe coming up.”

Freddy thanked them warmly, and then went through his poems. One was missing. It was one of a series on “The Features” and it was about the eyes. Freddy couldn't find it anywhere.

He was looking for it under the bed when Cousin Augustus who had been posted as a sentinel at the window, gave a loud shout of warning. At least it was loud for a mouse. Freddy looked out and saw Mr. Margarine and Billy on their tall horses, cantering down across the pasture. They were headed straight for the pig pen.

Escape was cut off; there was no time for changing into any of the disguises. But there was one chance and Freddy took it. There was a wig of black hair that reached to his shoulders, and there was a thin rattail moustache; he had bought them earlier in the year to disguise himself as a Western bad man. He stuck them on hurriedly, pulled his hat over his eyes, and went to the door where he lounged in plain sight against the doorpost.

The Margarines separated and rode up to him, one on each side, covering him with their shotguns. “Keep your hands away from that gun,” Mr. Margarine said. “You're under arrest.”

Freddy looked up and stroked his long moustache with a fore trotter. “Shucks, pardner,” he said lazily, “you want to be careful with them popguns. I could 'a knocked you both out of your saddles with this little old six-gun while you was makin' up your minds to pull the trigger.”

The Margarines looked at him doubtfully. This tough-looking character, facing them so boldly, couldn't be Freddy, Mr. Margarine thought. Like most people who are very sure of themselves, he was rather dumb. He said to Billy: “This isn't the pig we're after.”

“What's that?” said Freddy sharply. “Don't try none of your smart cracks on the Comanche Kid, friend, if you don't want your ears blowed off.”

“No offense,” said Mr. Margarine. “We're looking for a pig named Freddy. And that certainly looks like his horse.” He pointed to Cy who stood near them.

“Meanin' to imply that it ain't
mine?
” Freddy said, trying to make his voice as menacing as possible. He moved his right hand down towards his gun butt. “Those are fightin' words, mister.”

“Don't be so touchy,” said Mr. Margarine. “This Freddy rides a buckskin pony, too. Finding you here, where he lives, and wearing the same kind of Western outfit—well, naturally, we thought we'd found him. We've got a warrant for his arrest.” And he flashed his deputy's badge.

“You're the law, hey?” said Freddy sourly. “I don't have no truck with the law. I got a score to settle with this here Freddy myself, but I'll settle it in my own way.” He patted his holster. “I come all the way from Spavin Creek, Texas, to settle it. Can't no lally gaggin' long-nosed Eastern rhymeslinger compare himself with the Comanche Kid.”

“How do you mean—compare himself?” Mr. Margarine asked.

“He said in one of them poetry pieces of his'n that we looked alike,” Freddy growled. He tugged angrily at his moustache—tugged so hard that the still wet mucilage he had attached it with gave way and it nearly came off. He pressed it back quickly, pretending to yawn behind his fore trotter.

Mr. Margarine looked at him thoughtfully. “How would you like to take a job with me? Now wait a minute,” he said quickly, “before you refuse.” He pulled out a copy of the ad that Jinx had shown Freddy and held it out. “I need someone to help me find this pig, and I think you're just the man. And if you've got a score to settle with him, you'll settle it more quickly this way, and you'll be getting a salary from me at the same time.”

Freddy thought a minute. He didn't see how he was going to get away with it: sooner or later Mr. Margarine was bound to find him out. But he realized that very few detectives have ever had such a case offered to them. To be hired to find himself, to disguise himself from himself in order to follow his own tracks—there was something complicated about it that tickled his sense of fun.

“Detective job, hey?” he said. “And a pig, you say? He ain't got no hair.”

“What's that got to do with it?” Mr. Margarine asked.

“I'm the Comanche Kid, friend. You hire me to follow this feller's trail, and you're hirin' me to lift his hair. That's how the Comanche Kid operates.”

“You mean you'll scalp him?” Billy asked.

“I don't want you to shoot or scalp him,” said Mr. Margarine. “Find him. Bring him in alive. I'll see to the rest of it.”

“'Taint my way of doing business,” said Freddy with a sneer. “But suit yourself. Generally on a job like this, I get paid by the scalp. No scalp, no pay.”

Mr. Margarine brought out a fat pocketbook. “I'll pay you the first week right now.”

“Week!” Freddy exclaimed. “It don't take a week for the Comanche Kid to do a little job like this.” He walked over to Cy and gathered up the rein and swung into the saddle. “See you around,” he said, and cantered off towards the woods.

“You're kind of getting yourself into a spot, aren't you, Freddy?” said Cy.

“Maybe. But I'm glad I don't have to scalp myself to get that money. Oh, I can't get away with being the Comanche Kid. Up there I was standing in the doorway with all that bright sky behind me—he couldn't get a good look at me. But they'd have caught me if I hadn't bluffed them.”

“What are you going to do about that rattler?” Cy asked.

Freddy said: “Darn those Margarines. All that work we had catching him, and they had to let him out. I wish I'd turned him over to Whibley.”

“You ought to have taken him down to that dentist in Centerboro and had his fangs pulled.”

“I understand they just grow back in again,” said Freddy. “Anyway, he'd scare everybody to death rattling even if he didn't have any fangs. H'm, that's an idea. Wonder if the rabbits could handle it.”

He rode up to the Grimby House and had a long talk with the Horribles, and with Georgie and Charles, and having warned them to keep a sharp eye out for the escaped rattler, he circled around to the north and came down out of the woods on to the Margarine farm.

The sun had set; it was dark and beginning to get chilly. As he came down towards the Margarine house he saw lights in the dining room; evidently the family was still at dinner. He rode around to the front of the house and up to the front door and banged on it with the butt of his pistol.

A maid in a little white apron opened the door, saw Freddy, gave a screech and slammed it shut again.

So Freddy banged on it harder.

There were voices calling inside and a bustle of movement, and then the door opened again and Mr. Margarine stood there with a shotgun in his hands. Behind him was Billy and a man in a chauffeur's cap.

“Oh, it's you,” he said. “What do you mean, making such a disturbance?”

“If you want that pig,” Freddy drawled, “stop yapping at me and go saddle your horse.”

“You mean you've found him?”

“I know where he is,” Freddy said.

Five minutes later, Mr. Margarine and Billy followed Freddy down the drive. He led them at a trot up along the wall to the Big Woods, then turned in among the trees. Here Freddy said they must leave the horses and proceed on foot.

From this side there was no path to the Grimby house. Though they had flashlights, there were roots to fall over and witch hopple to tangle their feet and low boughs to whip their faces. They stumbled along for a few minutes, then Mr. Margarine stopped.

“This is all nonsense,” he said angrily. “I'm paying you to catch this Freddy, not to break my neck looking for him. What is this place?”

“The Big Woods,” said Freddy. “Some folks call it Snakeville, on account of the rattlers.”

“Say, Dad,” said Billy, “That was a rattlesnake in the pig pen this afternoon, wasn't it?”

“You mean there are rattlers in here?” Mr. Margarine demanded.