Chapter 13

The lights went out just as two horses were pulled up outside with a scraping of hoofs. There was a creak of leather, and then footsteps, and Mr. Flint came into the barn.

The animals kept still as he peered around. The moonlight coming through the door and windows was enough to show him the three cows, standing placidly chewing away on their cuds with their backs to him.

“That pig in here?” he said. And then as no one answered: “Well, speak up! You’re Bean’s talking animals, ain’t you? Let’s hear some talk.”

There was silence. The cows went on munching.

“Talk, confound you!” the man shouted suddenly. “Where’s that pig?” And he lifted the heavy Mexican quirt he was holding, evidently intending to cut Mrs. Wurzburger across the back.

Now Mrs. Wiggins had a little mirror nailed to the wall in front of her. She didn’t have it there to admire herself in, for as she said, “I know what I look like, and it’s no special pleasure to keep being reminded of it.” But she always stood with her back to the door, and this made it possible for her to see who came in before they knew she’d seen them. “And this gives me a little extra time to think up something clever to say to them,” she explained. “Not,” she added, “that I have ever really managed to do it. But I keep on trying.”

So now she saw what Mr. Flint was up to. And as he raised his arm she swung her tail around hard, so that the tuft at the end caught him smack in the face.

His arm dropped and he said “Pffffth!” and backed away. “You stupid brute!” he said, and raised the quirt again, but thought better of it and put it down.

“All right,” he said, “so you won’t talk, hey? Well, I haven’t time to make you.” He peered around, and then became aware that there were a great many animals just sitting there in the half darkness, looking at him. He didn’t like that much, and since he could see that neither Freddy nor Cy was there, he backed towards the door, dropping his hand to his gun. “No pig here, Jasper,” he called. “We’ll go on down to the bank. And if you’re smart,” he said, again addressing the animals, “you’ll stay right here and not interfere with us. Shucks,” he said, “Animals don’t need money. They ain’t got any right to money. That’s what burns me up—that pig, talking as if he was people, with money in the bank and all.” He stopped. “Well, never mind that,” he said. “And just to show you who’s runnin’ things, and what you’ll get if you monkey with Cal Flint—” He stopped and raised the quirt to slash at Mrs. Wiggins.

“All right, boys,” said Old Whibley, and he dropped from the beam and his big talons snatched the quirt from the man’s hand. At the same moment Bill and the two dogs jumped, the cows whirled round with lowered horns, and the smaller animals dodged in to do their share. In less time than it would have taken Cy to throw an experienced bronco buster, Mr. Flint had been butted by Bill, and had fallen on his face. Then while Mrs. Wogus, who was the heaviest of the three cows, held him down by sitting on him, the dogs tugged the guns out of his holsters.

Mr. Flint had been butted by Bill.

Of course the animals could have torn Mr. Flint to pieces. Had they been wild animals, they would probably have done so. But they were all domestic animals—with the exception of Sniffy Wilson, the skunk, and the rabbits and squirrels and chipmunks; and although they had no use for Mr. Flint, they couldn’t bring themselves to be very ferocious.

Mrs. Wogus jounced up and down a couple of times to flatten Mr. Flint out good, and with every jounce the air went out of his lungs with a Whoosh! Then she got up, and the Horrible Ten, who had been whispering excitedly in a corner, trooped over. They surrounded Mr. Flint, who had sat up slowly, groaning and rubbing his stomach, and went into their war dance.

They hadn’t had time to make up a song, so they just stamped around and waved their knives and gave little yelps, and now and then one of them would think of something and would sing it.

“Flint! Flint!

You’re going to be skint,”

was one of them. And another was:

“See our knives flicker and see our knives flash!

We’re going to have us some cowboy hash!”

The performance certainly terrified Mr. Flint. He lay right down on his face and covered his head with his hands and shivered. Jasper, who was beginning to wonder what was going on in the barn, stepped inside the door. “Hey, boss,” he began. And then he said: “Whoosh!” in just the same tone that Mr. Flint had said it in, only louder, and he sat down hard, for Bill had butted him square in the middle of the stomach. Then he picked himself up and got on his horse and rode off home.

After a few minutes Old Whibley said: “O.K., boys; don’t tire yourselves out,” and the Horribles stopped dancing. Then nobody said anything for a while.

By and by Mr. Flint stopped shivering. He lifted his head a little and peeked out with one eye. He saw only the cows, still standing quietly chewing their cuds. And very slowly he got up. Then he started to look for his guns, but Old Whibley’s deep voice stopped him. “Get on your horse, Flint.”

The man hesitated, but a little voice squeaked:

“Flint! Flint!

You’re going to be skint!”

He gave a start, then went straight out and got into the saddle and rode off after Jasper.

“Don’t think he’ll try the bank tonight,” said Whibley. “But just in case he does, I’ll take these guns and go down there. When Sidney reports, tell him I’m down there.”

With a gun in each strong claw, the owl, flapping hard with his wings—for they were a heavy weight for even so large a bird—flew off into the night.

“You know,” said Jinx, “Whibley’s a wise old bird, but I think he missed a bet there. We all did.”

“I agree with you,” said Bannister, coming out from behind the barrel where he had been hiding. “I hope you will not think I am intruding if I suggest that the whereabouts of Mr. Frederick, whether punctured or unpunctured, is the important fact.”

“His whereabouts?” asked Mrs. Wogus. “You mean those leather pants he wears over his dungarees? I should think it was Freddy himself we’d want to know about.”

“You can’t say ‘whereabouts is,” said Robert, the collie.

“By ‘whereabouts,’ madam,” said Bannister, “I mean merely his present location. I think therefore, Mr. Robert, that ‘is’ is the correct form of the verb.”

“Don’t agree,” said Robert shortly. “‘Whereabouts’ is plural.”

“Who ever heard of one whereabout!” said Bannister.

“Oh, quit wrangling!” said Jinx. “I don’t care whether he wore whereabouts or pink suspenders. The point is: if Flint shot Freddy, why did he come here looking for him? We ought to have tied up Flint and questioned him. But maybe the best thing anyway is to go look for him. And for Cy. How come Cy disappeared, too?”

“I just thought,” said Howard—“Excuse me, but I just thought; you know Freddy could have stuck his hat up on a stick to draw Flint’s fire. That would explain the holes. Maybe Freddy wasn’t shot at all.”

“No,” said Bannister, “that won’t work. Freddy was riding hard, and they were riding after him, shooting, when they disappeared up towards the woods. He didn’t have time to get behind something and stick up his hat.”

“Well, there’s something queer about all this,” said Mrs. Wiggins, and she backed out of her stall. “Jinx, you and the smaller animals better stay here and look after the house. You know we promised the Beans we’d take care of things, and tomorrow’s the day to wind up the clocks. And the squirrels must dust in the parlor in the morning. Robert and Georgie better come with me; we’ll see if we can pick up Freddy’s trail. Perhaps Bannister would drive us up as far as the spot where Freddy was last seen.” Mrs. Wiggins was like most cows, rather quiet and retiring. She seldom put herself forward. But when she did take charge of things, nobody ever opposed her. Probably it was because she never acted until she was sure she was doing the right thing. As I have said before, she had common sense.

Fifteen minutes later Bannister’s car, with the butler at the wheel, the dogs beside him, and Mrs. Wiggins in the back seat, was rolling out of the gate. And it would have been two minutes instead of fifteen, only it had taken thirteen minutes of shoving and pulling, of pausing for breath, and of going at it again, to get the cow through the car door.