Freddy the Cowboy (4 page)

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.

Chapter 4

When the animals set out in search of adventure, Jinx went west. Neither business nor pleasure ever took the Bean animals in that direction. To the north beyond the Big Woods was Zenas Witherspoon's farm, and beyond that Mr. Camphor's estate on the lake. To the south across the valley was the Macy farm, and down the road to the east lay Centerboro. So when Jinx turned right out of the gate and headed west up the road he was soon in strange country.

On stretches where he could see some distance ahead he walked in the middle of the road, but when he came to a bend he stepped off into the bushes and approached it cautiously. For you never knew what might be hidden by the turn and more than one careless cat has spent a week or two in the hospital by stepping around a corner too quickly. All small animals have to be careful about such things.

For a mile or so nothing happened. The sun was hot and Jinx began to get cross. “If I'm going to have adventures, why don't I
have
'em?” he grumbled. “I'm not going to walk to California! I might better have stayed home under the porch and had a nice comfortable snooze.”

Pretty soon a farm truck came up behind him, and as it went past, he waved to the driver. The man looked pretty startled for a minute but then he waved back. Jinx felt better after that. It wasn't exactly an adventure, but probably the man had never had a cat wave to him before, and Jinx could tell by the way he kept turning around and looking back that he was wondering if it had really happened.

A little farther on a fat squirrel was sitting on the stone wall, and Jinx made a dash for him. Rather to his surprise he caught him.

The squirrel was pretty upset. “You wouldn't have caught me if I hadn't got a sprained ankle,” he said. “Do you intend to eat me?”

“I don't think so,” said Jinx. “Squirrels disagree with me. It's the fur, I think. Tickles going down.” He grinned at his captive.

“You interested in mice?” said the squirrel. “I could put you on to a splendid thing in the mouse line. There is a barn over here full of them. Only you have to look out for traps. That's how I sprained my ankle—got caught in one yesterday.”

“I don't eat squirrels and I don't eat mice,” said Jinx severely. “Some of my best friends are mice. I hope I've got
some
decent feeling.”

“I hope so too,” said the squirrel. “So how about letting me go?”

“O.K.,” said the cat. “Only first tell me where this barn is. I might look into it. Lot of traps, you said? I don't believe in traps.”

So he let the squirrel go and followed him down a lane past an old farmhouse to a dilapidated barn which seemed to be half full of hay. The door was open, but the squirrel said: “Better go in the back way; not so many traps,” and led him around to the side where a board had been pulled off just above the foundation.

Jinx crouched close to the ground and went in very very slowly, feeling the way with his whiskers, for it was dark in the barn. His whiskers touched something to the left, and as he crept to the right they brushed something on that side too. He crouched down to wait until his eyes got used to the darkness. And pretty soon they did, and he saw that he was in a dangerous spot. He was lying under a heavy wooden crate, one end of which was propped up with a small stick. It was this stick that his whiskers had touched, and if he had hit it, it would have slipped aside and the crate would have come down with a bang and trapped him.