Читать книгу Freddy the Cowboy - Walter Rollin Brooks - Страница 5

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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?”

“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 jewels, 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.”

“Oh, listen, will you?” Freddy pleaded, and pulled the paper out of his pocket. “Look, did you ever hear of the Horrible Ten?”

“I suppose you’re one of ’em,” said the owl. “Well, you’ve proved it.” He gave a hoot of laughter.

Freddy stared at him for a minute without saying anything. Then slowly he put his hat on, reined the horse around, and started back the way he had come.

But he had only ridden a few yards when the owl drifted past him and lit on a branch ahead. “Come, come,” he said gruffly, “hurt your feelings, did I? Don’t be so touchy. It’s just your coming up here in a fireman’s shirt and a hat as big as a washtub—” He stopped. “Well, well, never mind. What’s your trouble?”

When Freddy had told him and shown him the letter, he said, “Horrible Ten, hey? They can’t be so horrible or they wouldn’t make such a fuss about it.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him all along,” put in Cy. “I bet if he was to meet ’em and give a good deep growl, they’d just faint right away.”

“I guess I’m the one that would faint away before I gave the deep growl,” said Freddy. “If I only knew who they were—”

Old Whibley had been holding the letter down on the branch and examining it. He raised his head and stared at the pig with his fierce yellow eyes. “You’re a detective, ain’t you?” he said. “Or used to be. Don’t know why I should have to teach a detective his business. Here.” He handed the letter back. “Take that piece of paper home and look at it.”

“But I have,” Freddy protested. “I’ve read it fifty times.”

“I said look at it; didn’t say read it. That piece of paper’s got a lot to tell you besides what’s written on it.”

Freddy looked at it hopelessly. “Well, it’s—it’s just an ordinary sheet of paper. And the writing—well, it isn’t even written; it’s printed in capitals.”

“Why?” the owl asked.

“Why what?”

“Why is it printed, stupid?” the owl snapped. “Why isn’t it written?”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” said Freddy. “Whoever sent it printed it so I wouldn’t recognize his handwriting. Why, then it must be someone I know!”

“Take the paper home and look at it,” Old Whibley repeated. “I’m not going to do your work for you.” And he flew back up into his nest and disappeared.

“Kind of a cranky old bird,” said Cy.

“He isn’t, really,” Freddy said. “He grumbles a lot, but he’s helped me out of some bad holes. And he’s right: I guess I just got so scared of this Horrible Ten that I forgot about doing any detective work on the letter. But now I look at the paper—Quik, you take a look; isn’t this a sheet off the pad Mrs. Bean writes letters on?”

“Looks like it,” said the mouse.

“There’s a corner missing where it was torn off the pad,” said Freddy. “Maybe it’s still on the pad. And if it is—”

“You mean Mrs. Bean is the Horrible Ten? Golly, maybe she and Mr. Bean are the head of a band of robbers, and—”

“Oh, sure!” said Freddy sarcastically. “Probably they’re planning to murder you mice for your money. For that ten cents Eeny claims he can’t pay back to the bank. Well, let’s go home and find out.” He reined Cy around and started down through the woods.

Mrs. Bean was sitting on the back porch shelling peas. “My land, Freddy,” she said as he jumped off the pony and came up the steps, “You certainly made me think you’re the Lone Ranger, the way you career around on that horse. Only I hope you haven’t got as many enemies as he has; in that red shirt you’re an awful bright target for a gunman.”

“I’ve got an enemy all right,” said the pig, and handed her the letter.

After she had read it she went in the house and got the pad, and sure enough the missing corner of the sheet of paper was still attached to it. “And somebody’s been using my pen,” she said, “Because they left the ink bottle uncorked. So I know it’s not Mr. Bean who’s the Horrible Ten, because he would no more think of leaving the cork out of the ink bottle than he would of going to bed without his nightcap on. So that leaves me and the mice and Jinx as suspects, since we’re the only ones that have been in the house today.”

“Well,” said Freddy, “None of the mice can handle a pen, and you would never have written anything as slangy as ‘Get smart, fat boy.’ That kind of narrows it down.”

“And remember what Jinx said when he left the meeting,” put in Quik.

“I was just thinking of that,” Freddy said. “He could give us excitement—leave it to him; wasn’t that it? Well, I suspected him all the time. Yes, sir, I said to myself: That’s just the sort of joke Jinx thinks up. Horrible Ten! Pooh, who’d be fooled by anything as silly as that?”

“Yeah,” said Quik solemnly, “Who would? Whose teeth chattered up there in the woods so’s’t he could hardly talk?”

“Why, I was just scaring myself for fun,” said Freddy. “You know, the way you do when you read a ghost story? I’ve got a lot of imagination, and I just got to thinking, if the Horrible Ten were real, and if they were after me with knives—And you know, Quik,” he said interrupting himself, “I’m really kind of disappointed that they’re just Jinx. Because—well, there’s something in what Charles said about danger being the spice of life. Yes, sir, if—”

“Oh, baloney!” said Quik rudely. “You’ve got a lot of imagination all right if you can pretend you were just playing at being scared up there in the woods. Look; I was in your pocket, pig; I could hear your heart jump like a frog in a barrel every time a leaf rustled.”

“Now, now, animals,” said Mrs. Bean calmly. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in being scared. You’re wrong, Quik, to blame Freddy for it. But you’re wrong, too, Freddy, to pretend you weren’t. Now shake hands nicely and make up.”

The mouse and the pig looked at each other and they both winked. It was no use trying to explain to Mrs. Bean that their argument wasn’t serious. They never could make her understand that Quik had just been riding Freddy, and that Freddy was defending himself half in fun. She was pretty apt to think that when the animals were kidding one another they really meant everything they said. So they shook hands solemnly, and Freddy rode off to the pig pen, and Quik went in to take a nap in the cigar box under the stove.