Freddy the Cowboy Page 2

  “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?”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Freddy said. “But if I hadn’t talked I couldn’t have bought you. Why does he want to sell you, anyway?”

  The horse grinned. “There ain’t anybody can stay on me if I don’t want ’em to. I played fair with Cal after he first bought me. He had a dude ranch up in Maine, and when he put on a rodeo he’d offer fifty dollars for anybody could stay on me ten seconds, and I’d throw ’em right off. But he’s an awful mean man. If you do something he doesn’t like, he doesn’t get mad and yell at you—he just quietly hauls off and hits you with a club. Or maybe you haven’t done anything. Like cats for instance. He hates cats, and whenever he sees one he’ll kick it. I ain’t got any special love for cats myself, but I don’t kick ’em just for fun. And that’s the way he treated me. So naturally I tried to kick him back.

  “I thought maybe he’d sell me. But he isn’t afraid of me, I’ll say that for him, even though I’ve put a number of horseshoe marks on him in different places. And I was too useful to sell. Well, this morning a couple of riders blew in, and they were braggin’ about how good they were, and Cal says there’s this standing offer of $50 for anybody that can stay on me ten seconds. The dudes all came out to watch, and Cal held my head while one of the riders got into the saddle. Then he let me go, and the rider began yelling and digging me with his spurs and whacking me with his hat like they’re supposed to do when they ride a bucking horse.

  “But I didn’t buck. I just trotted around as meek as a mouse with a headache. That boy looked awful foolish, carrying on that way. So I waited till the time was up. Then—well, then I let him have it and he landed on his nose. But he’d stayed the time, so Cal had to hand over the money.

  “I did the same with the other rider. It cost Cal a hundred dollars. That’s why he was beating me. And that’s how I made him want to get rid of me. He isn’t sure any more that I can be counted on to buck a rider off when he wants me to.” He stopped and looked sharply at Freddy. “What you want to buy me for?” he asked. “I never heard of a pig buying a horse. Of course if you’ve really got the fifty dollars, I can tell you you’re getting a real bargain.”

  “You’re no bargain to me!” Freddy snapped. He was a kind-hearted pig, and to buy the horse had seemed the only way to stop the man from abusing him. But he was beginning to wonder if fifty dollars wasn’t a good deal to spend for something he couldn’t use. And he thought, too, that it would be nice if the horse seemed a little grateful. “I’m not so sure I want to buy you after all.”

  “Hey now, wait a minute!” said the horse. “I’m only trying to tell you that you aren’t going to lose that fifty dollars. You and me can make money together, pig. Have you ever ridden horseback?”

  “No, and I’m not going to try,” said Freddy.

  “O.K., suit yourself,” said the horse. “We could have a lot of fun riding around the country together and picking up a dollar here, a dollar there. I wouldn’t let you fall off even if you wanted to. The folks that got thrown off horses, they haven’t made friends with the horses—that’s the trouble. If a stranger climbs on your back and hollers ‘Giddap,’ what do you do? Why naturally you bounce him off, and maybe even kick him to teach him better manners. But you and me—Hey, here comes Cal. We’ll talk about this later.”

  The man—his name was Cal Flint—came up in his car, and Freddy got in, and they drove off, leaving the horse looking after them. Freddy kept his trotters out of sight and his cap well pulled down, and there was really nothing to show that he was a pig but his long nose. Mr. Flint didn’t seem to notice anything. But when they reached Centerboro and Freddy told him to drive right on through, he looked around curiously.

  “Thought we was going to get your money from the bank,” he said.

  “The Centerboro Bank isn’t my bank. Mine is on a farm a few miles west of town.”

  “A bank on a farm?” Mr. Flint said. “Never heard of such a thing.”

  But he kept on as Freddy directed, and pretty soon up ahead of them they saw the Bean farmhouse, and a little way before they reached the gate Freddy told him to pull up at the right side of the road. Then he pointed to a shed that stood just inside the fence. “Here’s the bank,” he said.

  Mr. Flint looked at the sign over the door of the shed.

  “First Animal Bank of Centerboro,” he read. “Say, who you tryin’ to kid? Nobody’d keep money in that place.”

  “Come on,” said Freddy, and got out and climbed the fence, and after a minute Mr. Flint followed him.

  Nowadays the First Animal was only open for business on Tuesdays, but there were always a couple of small animals on duty, guarding the trap door in the floor which was the entrance to the vaults where the money and other valuables were kept. These vaults were a series of underground chambers which had been dug by woodchucks, and added to from time to time until now, as Freddy said, y
ou really needed a map to find your way around in them.

  Freddy went in and pulled up the trap door, but as he started to get down into the hole, the edge of the door caught his cap and pulled it off. And Mr. Flint, who had been watching curiously, gave a jump. “Hey!” he said. “You—you’re a pig!”

  “Sure,” said Freddy. “So what?”

  “Me, Cal Flint,” said the man as if talking to himself. “I been driving a pig around the country. I been tryin’ to sell a horse to a pig!” And he broke into a sort of nervous hysterical giggle. It was the only time Freddy ever saw him laugh.

  “Well,” said Freddy sharply. “You want that fifty dollars or don’t you?”

  “You mean you got money down that hole?” Mr. Flint demanded.

  Freddy told him to wait and then disappeared, to return in a few minutes and hand over five ten-dollar bills.

  “Does the saddle go with the horse?” he asked.

  “The saddle,” said Mr. Flint vaguely as he tucked the money into his pocket. He acted as if he was in a daze, but Freddy saw his eyes darting inquisitively about the room, and doubted if he was as confused as he pretended. “Oh, I’ll lend you the saddle and bridle till you get one of your own. But look here, pardner; is this here really a bank for animals? I mean, animals have really got money here?”

  Freddy didn’t like the way he watched as the trap door was lowered into place. And he particularly didn’t like it when Mr. Flint’s eyes caught sight of the alarm bell cord, and followed it up to where it ran through a hole in the roof. The cord was there for the guards to pull in case of burglars, and the clang of the bell would bring every animal on the farm down to the defense of the bank.

  “Oh, the animals don’t have much money,” Freddy said. “It’s just a storehouse where they can leave nuts and acorns—stuff like that—for safekeeping.”

  “Yeah,” said Mr. Flint with a grin. “And ten-dollar bills.” He went outside and walked around the shed, traced the cord up into the tree where the bell was hung, then said, “Quite a layout; yes, sir, quite a layout. Well, let’s get back to the ranch. The horse is yours, only you got to catch him before you take him home.”

  Chapter 3

  They drove back to the ranch, and the horse was standing just where they had left him. “There he is, pig, he’s all yours,” said Mr. Flint. Freddy got out. “You act as if you thought I couldn’t catch him,” he said.

  “You sure read my mind,” said the man, and settled back comfortably to watch the fun. But the horse never moved as Freddy walked up to him and took hold of the bridle.

  Mr. Flint sat up straight. “Well, I’ll be durned!” he said. “Look out there, pardner. When he’s gentle as that he’s plannin’ trouble. You watch yourself.”

  “Tell him you’re going to ride me home,” the horse whispered.

  “How can I?” the pig asked. “I’m too short to climb up into the saddle.”

  “Lead me over to the fence and climb on from there,” said the horse.

  So Freddy called to the man that he was going to ride. But when they got over to the fence, Quik, who had been sitting quietly in Freddy’s pocket, climbed out and jumped over to a fence post. “Here’s where I get off,” he said. “So long, Freddy; let me know when you’re able to have visitors and I’ll drop in to see you at the hospital.”

  The horse turned his head and looked at the mouse. “Where’d this guy come from?” he asked. And when Freddy had explained and introduced his friend: “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Get aboard; there ain’t anything to be scared of.”

  “Ah, who’s scared!” said Quik.

  “Why, I guess you are,” said the horse. “Tain’t anything to be ashamed of; all rodents are timid.”

  “Who you calling a rodent?” Quik demanded belligerently.

  “Well, you’re a mouse, aren’t you?” said the horse with a grin. “Or do my eyes deceive me and are you a hippopotamus?”

  “Aw, quit trying to be funny!” Quik snapped. “Nobody can call me a rodent and get away with it!”

  “Why it only means that you’re an animal that gnaws,” said Freddy. “Rats and mice are rodents, just the same as all cats are felines, and all…”

  “What you waiting for?” Mr. Flint called. He was too shortsighted to see Quik on the fence post. “You scared of him?”

  Freddy climbed up part way on the fence and flopped into the saddle. “I guess we’re both scared, Quik,” he said. “But it isn’t anything to be ashamed of. He’s promised not to bounce us off. By the way, horse, what’s your name?”

  Freddy flopped into the saddle.

  “Cyclone’s what they call me around here,” the horse said. “Kind of silly name, ain’t it? Just call me Cy.”

  “O.K., Cy,” said Freddy, taking a firm grip of the saddle horn, “Let’s go. Come on, Quik. Oh, come on! Are you a man or are you a mouse?”

  This is a question which always enrages mice, because it suggests that while men are bold and fearless, mice are the most timid and cowardly creatures on earth. Of course this isn’t so. Mice are small, and they keep out of the way of larger animals. No mouse would walk right up to a man, any more than a man would walk right up to an elephant or a grizzly bear. But many heroic deeds have been performed by mice. If more people knew about them they wouldn’t be so scornful of these courageous little animals.

  “Oh, so I’m scared, hey?” Quik shouted. He made a flying jump from the post and landed on the horse’s nose, and stood there, looking straight into his eyes. “O.K., you go on and do your stuff, and we’ll see who sticks on longest—me or this big hunk of fat pork here.” He ran up higher and made a safety belt of some of the coarse hair of the horse’s forelock, which he wrapped around his middle and tied. “Go on, go on; what you waiting for?”

  The horse turned his head and winked at Freddy. “Kind of a tough crowd you run with, pig,” he said. “Sounds like he comes from Texas. They breed some powerful wild mice out there.” Then he turned and walked slowly up towards the woods. “Look at Cal,” he said under his breath. “He’s hoping I’ll throw you and maybe break your neck, and then he’ll have me and the fifty dollars both.”

  Freddy was too busy holding on to pay much attention to Mr. Flint. Cy’s walk was only a gently swaying movement, but it was a long way to the ground and he held on tightly to the saddle horn. He couldn’t reach the stirrups, but when they got into the woods the horse had him get down and showed him how to shorten the straps so that when he climbed back into the saddle his feet were supported. By the time they came down past the Big Woods into the Bean pastures Freddy had been taught how to steer by drawing the rein across the horse’s neck, and how to hold himself in the saddle, and Cy had changed his gait to a sort of running walk which he called a singlefoot. “It’s the easiest gait to ride,” he said. “I’ll teach you the others later.” Even Quik began to enjoy himself, and untied his safety belt and climbed up to Freddy’s shoulder.

  During the next few days Freddy was in the saddle from early morning till long after dark. Like most fat people he had a good sense of balance so that he could sit easy and relaxed when the horse changed from a walk to a trot and from a trot to a canter, and Cy assured him that he had the makings of a fine horseman. Of course most of his friends were away on their search for adventure, and he was glad of that, for when they all came back in a week he would have something to surprise them with. To make the surprise a good one, he went down to the Busy Bee in Centerboro and bought a complete western outfit, as well as a saddle to take the place of the one lent by Mr. Flint.

  It was when he was changing the things from the pockets of his coat to those of the handsome new red shirt that he came on the letter from the Horrible Ten. He had forgotten all about it in the excitement of buying a horse, but now the ten days they had given him was half gone. He looked at the knives drawn at the bottom of the page and shivered. If he could only write to these people and explain to them that there was some mistake, that he hadn’t stolen any jew
els, but he had no idea who or where they were.

  So that afternoon after he had taken the saddle back to Mr. Flint he rode home through the woods and stopped by the big tree in which Old Whibley, the owl, lived, and rapped on the trunk. Quik, who had become very friendly with Cy, and enjoyed riding almost as much as Freddy did, had gone along, and now when there was no answer, Freddy asked him to run up and see if maybe the owl was asleep and hadn’t heard his knock. So the mouse ran up the tree trunk and disappeared.

  Almost at once there was a great scrabbling and squeaking up in the tree. Freddy could hear Quik’s voice. “Oh, please! Please let me go! Freddy sent me up to see if you were here. I’m Quik, one of Mrs. Bean’s mice. She’ll be awful mad if you don’t let me go.”

  There was a deep hooting laugh from the owl. “A house mouse, hey? Way out here in the woods? A likely story!”

  “But I am, I tell you!” Quik squeaked. “I belong to Mrs. Bean.”

  “I know Mrs. Bean,” said Whibley. “Most estimable woman. Any mouse of hers would have good manners. Wouldn’t come sneaking into my home when he thought I was out.”

  “Hey, Whibley!” Freddy called. “That’s right; he’s our mouse. I sent him up to see if you were home.”

  There was silence for a minute, then the big owl, carrying the struggling Quik in his beak, floated down soundlessly and perched on a limb above Freddy’s head. “Well, you found out,” he said crossly. “Take him and go home.” And he dropped the mouse on the brim of Freddy’s new ten-gallon hat.

  “You big bully!” Quik squeaked, and shook his clenched paws at the owl, then darted down and into Freddy’s pocket.

  “Wait a minute, Whibley,” said the pig. “I’m in trouble; I’ve come to ask your advice. Don’t you know me?” And he took the hat off and looked up.

  “Certainly I know you!” said Old Whibley. “Wish I didn’t. Each time I see you you look sillier than the last one. Well, I’ll give you the advice. Go home and take off those monkey clothes before some farmer catches you and ties you up in his cornfield to scare away the crows.”