Free Freddy the Cowboy by Walter R. Brooks Page B

down once you’ve started something like that. If I’ve let ’em think I’m going to fight Flint, I’ll have to go through with it. Is Flint a good shot?”
    Cy said: “Flint’s sure of himself with a gun, because now he knows you can’t shoot. He’s a coward, though in some ways. He hates hatchets and knives—anything that cuts. If you was to go after him with a knife he’d get right down on his knees and beg for mercy. Funny thing different folks are afraid of. Now me, I’m deathly afraid of barns at night. The inside of ’em, I mean. All black and there’s noises—things scurryin’ around. Wow! It gives me the—”
    â€œSure, sure,” said Freddy; “very ghastly. But how good a shot is he?”
    â€œLook, Freddy,” said Cy, “even if you mounted a machine gun on your saddle you wouldn’t have a chance with him. He has a regular stunt he does: sets up tin cans on the posts of the corral fence, and then rides past ’em at a gallop and he’ll plug three or four right off the posts.”
    â€œI’m a lot bigger than a tin can,” said Freddy.
    â€œMaybe he wouldn’t hit a vital spot,” Cy suggested.
    By this time Freddy’s friends had nearly caught up with him. “Hey, Freddy,” Jinx called; “come on give it up and come back. We’ll think of something better than you going up there and getting yourself shot full of holes.”
    â€œGood land, Freddy,” said Mrs. Wiggins, “we didn’t mean for you to get into a fight.”
    Freddy had no intention of getting into a fight if he could help it, but he had a reputation to keep up. That is the trouble with a reputation. You go and build up a reputation for bravery, and then the first thing you know, there’s a fight on your hands. And maybe you don’t feel specially brave that morning. But you’ve got to act as if you did. So Freddy sat up very straight in the saddle and slapped his pistol holster and looked noble—it is easy to look noble by moonlight—and he said: “My friends, do not attempt to turn me from my purpose. You have appealed to me, and I intend to do my duty.”
    For a minute none of the animals, who had now all come up, said anything, and Freddy was sorry that he had spoken with such determination. “They might at least put up an argument,” he thought. “But no; what do they care? Just an old friend going out to be blown to smithereens, that’s all.”
    Then Hank said hesitatingly: “Well, I dunno; seems as if—” He stopped.
    â€œYes?” said Freddy eagerly.
    â€œOh, nothing,” said Hank. “Nothing.”
    Freddy got mad. “Oh, go on back to the farm, will you,” he said.
    â€œWhy, we came up to help you,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “If there’s a fight—”
    â€œIf there’s a fight, I’ll handle it,” said Freddy. “Go on back; I know what I’m doing.”
    They shook their heads doubtfully, but they turned and started back. As soon as they were out of sight, Freddy dismounted and said: “Look, Cy, I’m beginning to get hold of the tail end of an idea. Suppose you could circle around down to the house without being seen and get the mice? They’ll all be home from the meeting by this time. Tell ’em we’re on a secret mission. And let’s see—I’ll meet you at the pig pen; I want to get some gum, and some string, and my guitar.”
    An hour later up by the ranch house the dudes were sitting around the campfire, listening to Mr. Flint who was telling stories of his experiences with cattle rustlers and outlaws. Mr. Flint was a good storyteller in spite of his creaky voice, and his stories were good stories, for he had got them all out of a book called Bad Men of the Old West. “Well sir,” he drawled, “when I see them three hombres a-sneakin’