Freddy the Cowboy by Walter R. Brooks

course you look pretty foolish if you can’t tell the difference between a pig and a cowboy. They crowded round and shook hands and congratulated him on his disguise, and particularly on the way he could ride and shoot. “My gracious,” said Mrs. Balloway, “that was the most wonderful exhibition you gave us the other night. You know the rodeo is to be held next week, and I do hope you’ll be entered in some of the shooting events.”
    â€œThere’s one shooting event he’ll be entered in, all right,” said a voice from the darkness, and Jasper rode into the firelight. “Flint’s been looking for you, pig. It’s just as well for you I got to you first. Because if you run into him you ain’t going to get much warning. He’s going to shoot on sight.”
    There was a gasp from the dudes, and one of them said: “Why, he must be crazy! This man—this, er, person can shoot all around Mr. Flint.”
    â€œThat’s just what Cal thinks, ma’am,” said Jasper. “That he’ll shoot all around him and won’t hit him. Any more than he hit them cans he was shooting at so bold and free.”
    â€œBut we saw him hit them.”
    â€œYou thought you saw him hit them. So did I, till we looked at the cans, and there weren’t any bullet holes in any of ’em.”
    â€œOh, nonsense!” said Mrs. Balloway. “Why, we saw them knocked off the posts when he fired at them.”
    â€œI don’t know how he did it—maybe with strings,” said Jasper. “But he never hit one of those cans—there ain’t a hole in one of ’em.”
    It hadn’t occurred to Freddy that they might look at the cans. It would have been easy enough to puncture them just before putting them on the posts. The dudes were all looking at him. He jammed his hat back on his head and glared angrily at Jasper. “Nonsense!” he said. “You all saw me knock the cans off. How could I do that if I didn’t hit them? By magic? Maybe the cans were so scared they jumped right off the posts. Maybe—” He was thinking hard as he talked. He had to face Jasper down on this, otherwise his reputation would be gone. He realized again that a reputation was a nuisance. Here he was, trying to live up to a reputation as a marksman, and probably a gun fighter, when he had nothing but blanks in his gun, and the only time he had ever shot at a mark, he had missed it by three feet. “I wish I’d stuck to detective work,” he thought.
    â€œWell, whether he hit the cans or not,” said Mrs. Balloway, “Mr. Flint is talking a lot of foolishness. It may be all right out West where you come from to talk about shooting on sight, but if he tries out any such lawless notions around this part of the country, he’ll wind up in jail.”
    â€œMa’am,” said Jasper. “If Cal was to pull a gun on a man, without even giving him due warning, I’d agree with you. But this here feller ain’t a man, he’s a pig. And there wouldn’t be any jail sentence for shootin’ a pig. Maybe he’d have to pay the pig’s owner something. But I guess Cal would think it was worth it.” He grinned maliciously at Freddy.
    Freddy had by this time recovered himself. He had no desire to be shot up by Mr. Flint, but Mr. Flint was not present. Of course, whatever he said about Mr. Flint would be reported to him, but nothing could make things any worse: Mr. Flint was going to shoot him on sight anyway. So he said boldly: “Jasper, yo’ can tell that long-nosed pickle-faced boss of yours that he ain’t going to have to hunt for me. I’ll be up to the ranch, lookin’ for him, and if he comes out, he’d better come out a-shooting. Not that I think he will come out—I reckon I’ll have to come in and get him, which I aim to do just that, and I’ll pull him out like a robin pulls a