Читать книгу Freddy the Cowboy - Walter Rollin Brooks - Страница 4

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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.

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?”

“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, you 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.”