Freddy the Cowboy by Walter R. Brooks

up the draw, I knowed old Two-Quart Robinson had squealed. So I throwed down on ’em, and—” He stopped, for the twangle of a guitar came out of the night and a light but pleasing tenor voice sang:
    â€œWhen the moon rides high on the pine tree branch,
    Then Two-Gun Freddy of the Lone Pig Ranch (Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yip!)
    He takes his guitar, and he tightens up the strings,
    And he jumps in the saddle, and this is what he sings:
    Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!
    Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yap, yop, yowp,
    Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!
    â€œOh, the wild wind moans o’er the lone prai-ree
    But Two-Gun Freddy, oh, louder moans he;
    (Sing hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yip!)
    He shouts this song till the whole sky rings,
    As he sits in the saddle and twangles on the strings:
    Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!
    Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yap, yop, yowp,
    Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!”
    And then into the light of the campfire came walking a buckskin pony and on his back sat a small plump rider who sang and strummed a guitar.
    The dudes applauded the song heartily, and Mr. Flint said: “Light down, stranger, and set.” Then he peered across the fire at Freddy. “Seen you before somewheres.”
    â€œYou shore have,” said Freddy, trying to talk as western as possible. “Likely you’ve forgotten I bought this bronc off you the other day so’s you wouldn’t beat him to death.”
    Mr. Flint started up. “Now I know you,” he said. “Sure, you bought the horse. But I’d go kind of easy on that talk about my beatin’ him.”
    â€œWould you?” Freddy asked. “Well, you were beating him, you big bully.”
    Mr. Flint started to walk around the fire to come closer to Freddy, and then he remembered that Cy would probably take a piece out of his arm if he did and he stopped. “Out where I come from,” he said, “that’s fighting talk, pardner,” and his right hand slipped down towards his pistol butt.
    â€œWe’re not out where you come from,” said Freddy. “And even if we were, I wouldn’t fight anybody like you.” He felt pretty sure that Mr. Flint wouldn’t do any shooting, particularly in front of all the dudes who were guests on his ranch.
    â€œThat’s right smart of you, mister,” said Mr. Flint sarcastically. “No sense gettin’ your ears blown off.” He pulled out his gun suddenly. “Beat it,” he said.

    â€œBeat it,” he said.

    Freddy gave a sudden squeal and wriggled in the saddle. “Quit that!” he said. He wasn’t speaking to Mr. Flint. He had two mice in each of his shirt pockets. Quik and Howard were in one, and Eeny and Cousin Augustus in the other; Eek had had a headache and Mrs. Bean wouldn’t let him come; she had given him a sixteenth of an aspirin tablet and made him go to bed. And Freddy had squealed because Eeny and Cousin Augustus had got to scuffling in his pocket, and they tickled.
    But Mr. Flint thought he was afraid. He gave a snort of contempt. “Beat it, peewee.”
    â€œThere isn’t any—” Freddy began, and then, remembering to talk Western, he began again. “That ain’t no reason I should beat it, pardner, seein’ as I can outride and outshoot you. I wouldn’t fight you—it would be plain murder.”
    â€œOutride! Outshoot!” Mr. Flint sputtered. “Why, you—Folks!” He turned to the dudes, who were watching with interest. “This here critter—why he ain’t even a man, he’s nothing but a pig! An educated pig, from down to Bean’s place, west of Centerboro. Why—”
    â€œWhat’s the use of calling him names, Mr. Flint?” said Mrs. Balloway. “That doesn’t prove anything. Can he outride and outshoot you?”
    Freddy swung down from the saddle. “Let’s see you fork this bronc, Flint,” he said. “Stay on him