Freddy the Cowboy (2 page)

“Why, it's addressed to Freddy,” said Mrs. Bean, “Wonder how it got here?”

Mr. Bean took his pipe out of his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. The pig pen was so far from the house that he couldn't call to the pig, so when the animals looked down towards him, he crooked his first finger and held it behind him like a tail. And as Freddy was the only animal there with a short curly tail he started down towards the house.

“That was right smart of you, Mr. B,” said Mrs. Bean. “What would you have done if you'd wanted the rooster?”

Mr. Bean put the tips of his fingers together and made a beak of them, with which he pecked at the railing as if picking up corn. Then he said: “Mrs. Wiggins,” and stuck his forefingers up beside his head like horns.

“Ah, but how about the mice?” said Mrs. Bean.

“Easy.” He made his hand into a mouse and ran it along the railing and up a post.

Mrs. Bean laughed, and as Freddy came up she handed him the paper. “I just found this on the floor,” she said. “I guess it's yours.”

Mr. Bean stuck his pipe back in his mouth and went indoors. He was proud of his animals because they could talk, but it always made him nervous if he heard them.

“Goodness!” said Freddy, as he unfolded and read the paper. That was a pretty weak expression, considering what was printed on it in rather shaky capitals. “Beware!” it said. “The Horrible Ten are after you. The order for your execution has been signed. Return the jewels in ten days or it will be carried out. Get smart, fat boy. Our knives thirst for your blood.

(Signed) THE HORRIBLE TEN.”

And there were ten little knives drawn at the bottom of the sheet.

“Golly!” said Freddy. Mrs. Bean had gone into the house. Most of the animals had disappeared in the directions assigned to them, but Hank was still in sight, plodding slowly eastward across the pasture, and two moving dots up towards the woods were Charles and Henrietta. There was no one to talk to about this new and terrifying development except Mrs. Wiggins' slow-witted sister, Mrs. Wogus, and she would be no help. “Golly!” said Freddy hopelessly, and went slowly back to the pig pen.

Chapter 2

Quik was waiting impatiently. He shouted to Freddy to hurry, but a mouse's voice is pretty small, and Freddy couldn't hear him until he got very close. Then he said irritably, “Oh, shut up! Haven't I got enough on my mind without you yelling at me? Look at this.” And he showed the mouse the letter.

“‘The Horrible Ten,'” said Quik. “Never heard of 'em.” “Neither did I,” said the pig.

“I suppose you could look 'em up in the phone book,” said Quik. “Whose jewels did you steal, Freddy?”

“Oh, my goodness, I didn't steal any jewels,” said Freddy crossly. “I never heard of them till five minutes ago. Or of these horrible whatever-they-are's.”

Quik gave a small sniff. “That's what
you
say,” he said. “They seem to know you all right, though.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “I don't know,” he said: “Remember all the trouble you had with the Ignormus? … and there was only one of him. If I were you I'd give the stuff back.”

“I keep telling you I haven't got any ‘stuff,'” said Freddy angrily.

“Sure, sure,” said the mouse soothingly. “But they think you have. In that case I'd just quietly leave the country.”

“That's just what I'm going to do,” Freddy said. “I mean I'm going out in search of adventure, just as we planned. Only I'm going in disguise, so if these people are after me they won't recognize me.”

He had a number of disguises that he used in his detective work, and now he put on a red and green checked suit that Mr. Bean had once bought in Paris but had never had the nerve to wear. Mrs. Bean had cut it down for Freddy. It wasn't very becoming, but at least he didn't look like a pig in it. I don't know what he did look like.

So with Quik in one side pocket and the letter from the Horrible Ten in the other, he went northeast, up through the pasture and across the upper road and through a corner of the Big Woods past the Witherspoon farm. A hill and a valley and another hill, and there was Otesaraga Lake sparkling in the sunshine before them.

“Do we have to keep straight on northeast, Freddy?” Quik asked. “Because if we do we'll have some adventures with fish.” He had climbed to Freddy's shoulder.

“This is the east end of the lake,” said Freddy. “We'll go round it and then on. That's Mr. Camphor's big house—see?—off there to the left. I guess he'd hide us there if that gang was after us.”

“What do you mean—
us?”
the mouse demanded. “It's you they're after, not me. I haven't stolen any jewels.”

“Say, look, mouse,” said Freddy. “How'd you like to walk home alone, on your own four little legs?”

“Walk home?” said Quik incredulously. “From here? Why, it would take me a couple of days.”

“That's right,” said the pig. “That's what it will take you if you don't pipe down about my stealing things.”

So Quik didn't say any more. They went on around past the cabins at the end of the lake and plunged into the woods, for this was the southern edge of the Adirondack forest. It was dark under the trees, and very still except for the queer little rustlings and whisperings that—well, Freddy couldn't help imagining that it might be the Horrible Ten creeping along after him, slipping from tree to tree, grinning and muttering and brandishing their sharp little knives.

“What you shivering for—you cold?” Quik asked.

“Got a little chill, I guess,” said Freddy. “Coming out of the sunshine into this damp shade.”

“It doesn't bother me any,” said the mouse. “Maybe if you gave those jewels back your teeth wouldn't chatter so much.”

“Say, look,” Freddy said. “I keep telling you that I don't know any more about that business than you do. I—” He stopped suddenly, for somewhere off to the right a man had started shouting angrily. “Wonder what that is?” said the pig, and turned towards the sound.

After a short distance the trees thinned, and then he was standing at the edge of an open pasture. Beyond was a long low house and, beyond that, other fields stretched for half a mile or so before the woods enclosed them again. There were barns and other buildings, and near the house a fenced-in space with a dozen horses scattered about in it. And just outside the fenced-in space—which from the Western movies he had seen Freddy knew must be a corral—a man was holding a horse by the bridle and beating him over the head with a heavy whip.

Freddy forgot all about the Horrible Ten. “Hey!” he shouted. “You quit that.” And he started across the pasture.

“Hey!—You quit that.”

The man paused with the whip raised and looked round. He was dressed like a cowboy, in blue jeans, boots, a bright-colored shirt and a ten-gallon hat. Freddy couldn't imagine what he was doing there, in the middle of New York State. Probably the man had just as much trouble trying to account for Freddy, for what he saw come stumbling towards him was a little man about four feet high in a suit of a plaid so bright that most people would be scared to wear even a necktie made of it.

“You quit beating that horse!” Freddy shouted again.

The man just looked at him. He didn't smile and he didn't glare angrily. He was tall and thin and sour looking, and that's really about all you can say about him. And all the times that Freddy saw him his face never changed; it had no more expression on it than a pickle.

He spoke in a low creaky drawl, as if his voice needed oiling. “What you aimin' to do about it, pardner? He's my horse.”

“What are you licking him for?” Freddy asked.

“Not that it's any of your business,” said the man, “But this horse is one of the meanest, orneriest critters I ever—Hey!” he shouted, and ducked as the horse jerked back on the bridle and then snapped at his arm with long vicious-looking teeth.

“Well, if he's dangerous, why don't you sell him?” Freddy asked.

The man, who had raised his arm to hit the horse again, paused. “You want to make me an offer for him?” he asked.

Freddy had quite a lot of money in the First Animal Bank. As a detective he had earned several good-sized rewards for capturing criminals wanted by the police. He could certainly afford to buy the horse, and he was willing enough to do it, to save it from being abused by a cruel owner. But if the horse really was vicious, it would be foolish to buy him.

He looked at the horse. He was small—a cow pony, Freddy supposed; a buckskin, and he had on a heavy Mexican saddle, with a rope coiled over the high horn. And just then the pony turned his head and looked Freddy right in the eye and winked.

“What do you want for him?” Freddy asked.

“Why, friend,” said the man, “I could let you have him for—oh, say a hundred and fifty dollars.”

The horse looked at Freddy and shook his head slightly.

“Don't be silly,” Freddy said. “Why should I pay that much for a bad-tempered horse that would probably buck me into the middle of next Thursday afternoon if I tried to ride him?”

“I'll tell you why,” said the man. “There can't anybody stay on that horse for more than half a minute. You see this outfit here?” He waved a hand towards the house and the corral. “I come here this spring and opened this place as a small dude ranch. Got about twelve guests here already. Along in the summer I plan to put on a rodeo, and this here horse is one of my main attractions. I offer fifty dollars to anybody that can stay on him for ten seconds. You see, there's a lot of dude ranches in the East now, and there's any number of riders from western ranches that travel round the country picking up a little money riding or roping or doggin' steers. Some of those boys'll give me a good show when they try to ride this horse. Only, I can't handle him any more. Whenever I step into the corral he goes for me, and some day he'll get me. But he wouldn't go for you, because he don't ever try to hurt anybody but me, as long as they don't try to get on him. You could take him round to the county fairs and such and make good money off him.”

“I still don't see why you want to sell him,” Freddy said. “But I'm not big enough to take that whip away from you and give you a good thrashing with it, so the only way to stop you beating him is to buy him. Suppose I offer you fifty dollars?”

He glanced at the horse, who nodded approvingly.

But the man said: “That ain't any sort of an offer. I guess you ain't serious, friend. I guess…” The horse jerked back suddenly and this time got free. He trotted off, shaking his head and snorting, then circled round and came back and stood still watching them, just out of reach of the whip.

“Dratted critter!” said the man. “Last time he got loose I didn't catch him for three days. O.K., you can have him. Where's your money?”

Freddy said he'd have to go to the bank for it, and the man said he'd drive him there and went to get his car.

When he had gone, “Take off that cap, will you?” said the horse. And when Freddy had taken it off:

“Just as I thought—a pig,” he said. “That Cal is so nearsighted you could've been an alligator and he wouldn't have known it till you bit his head off. But he's too proud to wear glasses. You must be one of the animals I've just heard about, live on a farm south of here. Talking animals, folks say. Well, what's so wonderful about that?”

“Nothing,” said Freddy, “Only we aren't afraid to let people know we can talk, the way most animals are.”

The horse shook his head. “Talk causes too much trouble. Look at the wars and things these humans have got into, and all on account of talk. The minute that animals begin to talk a lot they'll be having wars too. Rabbits will declare war on chipmunks, and gangs of cows will ambush horses and—well, anyway, what's talking good for except to argue? And who wants to argue?”