Freddy Rides Again by Walter R. Brooks

for changing into any of the disguises. But there was one chance and Freddy took it. There was a wig of black hair that reached to his shoulders, and there was a thin rattail moustache; he had bought them earlier in the year to disguise himself as a Western bad man. He stuck them on hurriedly, pulled his hat over his eyes, and went to the door where he lounged in plain sight against the doorpost.
    The Margarines separated and rode up to him, one on each side, covering him with their shotguns. “Keep your hands away from that gun,” Mr. Margarine said. “You’re under arrest.”
    Freddy looked up and stroked his long moustache with a fore trotter. “Shucks, pardner,” he said lazily, “you want to be careful with them popguns. I could ’a knocked you both out of your saddles with this little old six-gun while you was makin’ up your minds to pull the trigger.”
    The Margarines looked at him doubtfully. This tough-looking character, facing them so boldly, couldn’t be Freddy, Mr. Margarine thought. Like most people who are very sure of themselves, he was rather dumb. He said to Billy: “This isn’t the pig we’re after.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” said Freddy sharply. “Don’t try none of your smart cracks on the Comanche Kid, friend, if you don’t want your ears blowed off.”
    â€œNo offense,” said Mr. Margarine. “We’re looking for a pig named Freddy. And that certainly looks like his horse.” He pointed to Cy who stood near them.
    â€œMeanin’ to imply that it ain’t mine? ” Freddy said, trying to make his voice as menacing as possible. He moved his right hand down towards his gun butt. “Those are fightin’ words, mister.”
    â€œDon’t be so touchy,” said Mr. Margarine. “This Freddy rides a buckskin pony, too. Finding you here, where he lives, and wearing the same kind of Western outfit—well, naturally, we thought we’d found him. We’ve got a warrant for his arrest.” And he flashed his deputy’s badge.
    â€œYou’re the law, hey?” said Freddy sourly. “I don’t have no truck with the law. I got a score to settle with this here Freddy myself, but I’ll settle it in my own way.” He patted his holster. “I come all the way from Spavin Creek, Texas, to settle it. Can’t no lally gaggin’ long-nosed Eastern rhymeslinger compare himself with the Comanche Kid.”
    â€œHow do you mean—compare himself?” Mr. Margarine asked.
    â€œHe said in one of them poetry pieces of his’n that we looked alike,” Freddy growled. He tugged angrily at his moustache—tugged so hard that the still wet mucilage he had attached it with gave way and it nearly came off. He pressed it back quickly, pretending to yawn behind his fore trotter.
    Mr. Margarine looked at him thoughtfully. “How would you like to take a job with me? Now wait a minute,” he said quickly, “before you refuse.” He pulled out a copy of the ad that Jinx had shown Freddy and held it out. “I need someone to help me find this pig, and I think you’re just the man. And if you’ve got a score to settle with him, you’ll settle it more quickly this way, and you’ll be getting a salary from me at the same time.”
    Freddy thought a minute. He didn’t see how he was going to get away with it: sooner or later Mr. Margarine was bound to find him out. But he realized that very few detectives have ever had such a case offered to them. To be hired to find himself, to disguise himself from himself in order to follow his own tracks—there was something complicated about it that tickled his sense of fun.
    â€œDetective job, hey?” he said. “And a pig, you say? He ain’t got no hair.”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with it?” Mr. Margarine asked.
    â€œI’m the Comanche Kid, friend. You