Gib and the Gray Ghost

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  It wasn’t until a Saturday morning early in April, one of the first days that really felt like spring, when Mr. Morrison showed up again at the Rocking M. Gib and Hy were both out in the barn at the time. Gib was shoveling out stalls and Hy was pushing the wheelbarrow out to the manure heap every time it got full, and sitting on a feed bin the rest of the time, telling stories about the olden days.

  He was telling one about a ranching family named Higgins who used to do some small-time rustling by branding early calves with their sign, no matter what brand their mamas were packing. “Them Higgins brothers,” Hy said, “were countin’ on them calves bein’ weaned by roundup time, like as not. But most of them little fellers didn’t see it that way. So roundup comes along and all the reps from other outfits begin to notice all them half-grown Lazy-H calves trailing around after mamas who belonged to other outfits.”

  Hy was just telling how the whole Higgins clan made a speedy out-of-state migration just before the sheriff got around to paying them a visit, when Morrison loped into the barnyard. But not on Ghost. On that April day he was still riding his big old buckskin.

  Mr. Clark Morrison was duded up pretty good in silver-studded chaps and a brand-new Stetson, but he wasn’t looking particularly cheerful as he tied Bucky to the hitching rack and came on into the barn. Gib leaned his shovel against the side of the stall, wiped his hands on his trousers, and came out to say howdy.

  Morrison was grinning as he shook hands with Hy and thumped Gib on the shoulder. But the grin faded when Hy asked, “How’re things shapin’ up out at that fancy spread of yourn?”

  “Not too well, I’m afraid,” Morrison said. “Seems like I had an awful lot of winter kill during that big storm. And then there were a bunch of early calves who didn’t make it through.”

  And when Gib asked about Ghost, Morrison looked even more down in the mouth. Shaking his head, he said that the gray was still making a real nuisance of himself.

  When Hy asked what kind of a nuisance Morrison said, “Oh, throwing his head and rearing. Still bolts too. Gets the bit between his teeth and takes off.” He was looking a little bit sheepish as he went on, “And not just when I’m riding him. He gives everybody else as much trouble as he gives me.” He looked at Gib for a moment. “You know, Gibson, I think you said that he seemed to be settling down pretty well when you were riding him. Isn’t that right?”

  When Gib agreed that it was, Morrison went on, “So—I was just wondering if you might ... He turned and looked at Hy. “And you too, Hy, if you’d like to. If the both of you could come over and size up that rascal, I’d really appreciate it.” And that was how it happened that the very next morning, a sunny Sunday morning in April, Gib met up with the Gray Ghost again.

  Chapter 24

  RIGHT AT FIRST HY turned down Morrison’s invitation to visit the Circle Bar, even though he hadn’t been over that part of the range since Mr. Thornton sold it. “I surely would like to ride out and see your spread,” he told Morrison. “Gib’s been telling me what a fine layout you got there. But I promised the ladies I’d drive them in to church tomorrow.” He put his hand on Gib’s shoulder. “But Gib here could ride over if he’s a mind to.”

  But the next morning Missus Julia wasn’t at breakfast and Miss Hooper said her cough was worse and she wasn’t feeling well enough to ride that far. So there’d be Bible reading in the library instead, the way there was in bad weather. And Hy was free to ride to the Circle Bar with Gib after all.

  When Gib headed for the barn that Sunday morning it was to saddle both Silky and Lightning, and right after breakfast he and Hy started off. Even now, when mud and slush had replaced ice and snow, the ride seemed like a long one. On the way Gib’s mind kept going back to January, when he’d last seen Ghost, and even farther back to when the wild-eyed, bloodied-up dapple gray had shown up in the midst of that awful storm. And now, Gib realized, right now in April, he had no idea what to expect where Ghost was concerned. Halfway talking to himself, he said, “Wouldn’t be too surprised if Ghost’s gone back to being as bad-acting as he was when he first showed up.”

  “Bad-acting?” Hy asked. “What kind of bad you talking about, boy?” Gib had almost forgotten that Hy had never been told what Ghost had really been like back then. When he started trying to explain Hy interrupted him. “Why didn’t I know about that?” he demanded. “I’d never have give you the say-so to handle a bad actor like that all by yourself.” Hy’s voice was getting louder and angrier. So angry that Lightning turned his head to look back at his noisy rider, flicking his ears and showing the whites of his eyes.

  Gib grinned. “That’s why you never heard about it,” he said. “Because you’d have been out there in the barn in a minute, no matter how sick you were. Miss Hooper told me I wasn’t to tell you anything that would get you upset, so I didn’t. Besides, Ghost isn’t an outlaw. It was just the beating that ...

  Gib bit his tongue. He’d done it again. This time Hy pulled Lightning to a stop and right there, halfway to the Circle Bar, Gib had to tell all about the bloody whip marks that had streaked across Ghost’s silvery hide the day he drifted in out of the storm. As he listened Hy kept muttering under his breath and when Gib finished the telling he just sat there steaming like a hot teakettle. At last he said, “Any man who’d take a bullwhip to a poor critter like that ... He fumed some more before he went on, “Like I been sayin’, that Lou Dettner shoulda been strung up years ago.”

  They went on riding, but every few minutes Hy went back to scolding Gib for not telling him the truth about what was going on out there in the barn back in December.

  “I didn’t take any chances,” Gib kept telling him. “I figured out how to take care of him without letting him get at me. I took it real slow and easy with him, and in just a few days he began to quiet down.”

  But Hy went on looking at Gib squinty-eyed for quite a while longer before he began to nod and grin. “Well, guess I can believe that part of it. If anybody could talk some comfort into a poor fear-crazy piece of horseflesh it just might be a little feller I know name of Gibson Whittaker.” Then he touched his heels to Lightning’s flanks and took off at a sudden run. So sudden it took Gib’s speedy Silky a minute or two to catch up.

  When they trotted down the driveway onto the Circle Bar, Morrison came out to meet them, his long, sharp-edged face split into a friendly grin. He kept saying how glad he was to see them and how much he appreciated their coming all that way to take a look at his good-for-nothing horse.

  Hy didn’t say a whole lot as Morrison showed him around, but Gib thought he liked the looks of what he was seeing. At least he did until he caught sight of some of Morrison’s hired hands. Two of them were sitting on a corral railing. They hollered howdy as Hy walked past, but his answering howdy didn’t seem too enthusiastic. When Gib asked, quiet-like so Morrison wouldn’t hear him, Hy only shrugged. “Couple of good-for-nothing drifters,” was all he said. “Worked for me once a long time ago. But not for long.”

  They were inside the stable by then and, as they approached his stall, Ghost came to the door nodding and nickering, friendly-like. Gib was relieved to see that he was looking fat and sassy, and that he’d been groomed until his dappled hide shone like silver-spotted moonlight. As he reached out to rub the gray’s nose and pat his neck Gib heard a long, low whistle. It was Hy who’d done it. He whistled and then just stood there for a long spell, shaking his head wonderingly, before he said, “Now that there is one of the best-put-together pieces of horseflesh I ever laid eyes on.”

  Morrison laughed and said, “I thought the same thing when I first saw him, but if you go by the saying ‘pretty is as pretty does ... ” He didn’t finish but his meaning was clear as could be. Right at that moment, though, the gray didn’t show signs of being any kind of troublemaker. Instead he went on snorting softly and reaching out to nudge Gib with his satiny nose. But when Gib said he looked pretty settled down to him, Morrison laughed. “Oh, he’s friendly enough nowadays, except w
hen he has you up there on his back. That’s when you have to look out.”

  “Have trouble saddling him?” Hy asked.

  “Not saddling. But he’s still hard to get a bridle on.” He turned to Gib. “Did you have that kind of trouble with him?”

  Gib nodded. “Right at first he was real head-shy,” he said. “But after I started using a hackamore he quit fighting it altogether.”

  “A hackamore?” Morrison looked shocked and even Hy seemed a bit surprised. “Can’t imagine riding a bolter like Ghost with only a hackamore,” Morrison said. “How’d you manage to stop him when he decided to run? Were you using a hackamore that day I saw you riding him?” He looked embarrassed when Gib said he was. “Must have been too upset to do much noticing,” Morrison said. “And I can’t imagine how you managed it. I’ve been using a curb bit with a long shank and even then he’s hard to convince.”

  Gib was beginning to understand the problem. “I think that’s it, Mr. Morrison,” he said. “I think Ghost has a real tender mouth. Using a rough bit like that probably hurts him so much he kind of goes crazy. Like as not that’s why he starts running.”

  Morrison didn’t seem convinced but Gib could tell that Hy was paying attention. “You rode him with a hackamore?” he asked. When Gib assured him that he had, Hy said, “Well, let’s see you do it again, then.” He turned to Morrison and asked, “That all right by you?”

  “Well, all right, if you say so,” Morrison told Hy, but he was still shaking his head as he said it.

  Morrison was right about Ghost and saddling. Once he’d finished frisking Gib’s pockets looking for carrots, he accepted the saddle and the cinching with no protest at all. The trouble began after that. Morrison had sent his fence-sitting cowhands to look for a hackamore, and after a bit they turned up with a top-notch store-bought one, made of horsehair rope and strips of braided leather. It was one of the fanciest hackamores Gib had ever seen, but Ghost didn’t like the look of it one little bit. He was throwing his head and threatening to bite, and outside the stall Morrison and Hy, and even the two cowhands, were telling Gib he’d better back off. But Gib kept on talking and showing Ghost how there wasn’t any bit there at all. It took a while before the gray was ready to listen but when his head lowered and his ears began to flick Gib knew he had his attention. And sure enough, it wasn’t long before he sniffed the hackamore, snorted, sniffed again, and then, real uncertain-like, let Gib put it on his head.

  All four of them, Hy, Morrison, and the two cowhands, followed along as Gib led the gray to the corral. Hy wanted to give him a leg up but Gib grabbed the horn and climbed into the saddle even though Ghost was tossing his head and stepping sideways. Gib let him dance for a minute before he began to sit back, using the reins and his voice to tell Ghost that he was being asked to settle down. After two or three turns around the corral Ghost’s ears began to flick back like he was listening, and Gib went on talking. “That’s it, boy,” Gib kept telling him. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just asking you to pay attention.”

  By the time Gib had taken the big gray around the corral a dozen or so times he was beginning to show the training he’d once had, probably way back when he was a colt in the bluegrass country. When Gib let him out a little he did push some to turn a lope into a run, but he never completely quit listening to what the reins were telling him. Before long he began to slow down extra quick when Gib asked him to, as if he were trying to say how grateful he was to be asked polite-like, instead of being tormented by a cruel bit.

  Now and then, as they made the turn in front of the corral gate, Gib caught sight of the four faces peering over the top railing. Right at first, Morrison and his two cowhands looked as nervous as treed wildcats, but after a while they were mostly big-eyed with surprise. But Hy’s grin started out as proud as punch and went right on having the same slant to it.

  When the workout was over Hy went into the ranch house with Mr. Morrison. Gib stayed in the stable, cooling Ghost down and grooming him, and after that taking a look at a couple of dozen spooky mustangs that he just happened to notice in the corral behind the barn.

  Hy stayed in the ranch house talking to Morrison for almost an hour. Later, when he and Gib were on their way back to the Rocking M, he began to tell Gib what they’d been discussing. For one thing, Hy said, Mr. Morrison had been asking his advice about some of the problems he’d had during the winter.

  “I told him that when that big snow hit he shoulda sent all his hands out to bring the stock in to where they could be reached by hay wagons, or sleds if the wagons couldn’t make it,” Hy said. He shook his head ruefully. “Seems like those lazy drifters he’s been supporting all winter convinced him it warn’t no use. Told him the stock were like as not blown halfway across the state by then, to where they’d never be able to find them. So then that worthless bunch holed up in front of the bunkhouse stove, and let half of Morrison’s stock starve to death.”

  Hy muttered some things under his breath for a while. Then he went on, “I told him what I’d’ve done. I told him if I’d been his foreman I’d have had that bunch of yellow-livered good-for-nothin’s out there bringin’ in cattle before they could count to three. Had ’em bringin’ in cattle, or else out on the trail lookin’ for a new place to spend the winter.”

  Gib was so wrapped up in hearing about Morrison’s problems that it took him a minute to realize when Hy changed the subject. The new one was about Clark Morrison’s wanting to hire Gib Whittaker as a part-time wrangler. “Not full time, of course,” Hy was saying. “He knows you have to go on with your schoolin’. Seems like what he’s askin’ is just for you to sign on to do some horse handling now and then on weekends. Says he’d be willing to pay you regular wrangler wages.”

  Gib couldn’t have been more surprised if somebody had asked him to run for mayor, but he knew right away that he liked the idea a whole lot.

  Chapter 25

  THAT NIGHT AFTER GIB and Hy came back from the Circle Bar, there was a powwow in the library. At least that was what Hy called it when he asked Miss Hooper to arrange for everyone to be there. Miss Hooper referred to it as a family conference, but Gib liked powwow better. He could picture the six of them, Missus Julia and Livy, Miss Hooper, Hy, Mrs. Perry, and Gib himself, sitting around a campfire smoking a peace pipe and making plans for the next big buffalo hunt. When he whispered to Livy about it she thought it was funny too.

  Livy was in a specially good mood that night because it was her birthday and she’d gotten all the presents she wanted, including the black-and-silver saddle for Dandy. And she’d liked the present Gib had made for her too, a new saddle rack and bridle hook in the tack room, hung low so she didn’t have to climb up on a stool to get her tack down.

  After they all sat down around the big library table Livy kept catching Gib’s eye and pretending she was puffing on a peace pipe and passing it on to Miss Hooper. Nobody else noticed what Livy was up to, but every time she put the imaginary peace pipe up to her lips, Gib had a hard time keeping his face straight.

  The subject of the conference started out to be Hy’s visit to the Circle Bar and what he thought of what he’d seen there. First of all, Hy had quite a lot to say about the troubles Morrison had been having and what had caused them. “The trouble with that young feller is jist that ...

  Gib guessed what was coming and he was right. He mouthed the words to Livy and she giggled. And then Hy went ahead and said it, just the way Gib knew he would. “He’s got more money than sense,” Hy said, and then he went on to tell about how Clark—Hy was calling Morrison Clark now—didn’t know beans about running a cattle ranch. And how he’d added to his problems by hiring a couple of losers for foremen. “First he took on that miserable skunk Dettner, and right now there’s this Rafe, who’s a right nice feller but who don’t know much more about cattle ranching than Clark does. And neither one of them’s got the gumption to handle a bunch of ornery saddle bums like the ones they got workin’ for them,” Hy said. “Looks
to me like every no-good drifter who ever got hisself blacklisted by the big outfits got word that there’s a rich greenhorn in these parts who’d take them on no questions asked. And that’s pretty much what poor old Clark has got hisself stuck with.”

  But then Hy got to the serious part of the powwow. When he asked Missus Julia if it would be all right if he went to the Circle Bar on weekends to help Clark weed out the deadwood and sign up some real cowpunchers, she only smiled and shrugged and said he might as well. Gib wasn’t sure how she really felt about it, though. Missus Julia was coughing again that evening, and Gib wondered if she really didn’t care if Hy worked for Morrison on weekends, or if she was just feeling too tired to argue. This time it was only Mrs. Perry who objected out loud.

  Shaking her head, she said, “Land sakes, Hy Carter, how do you suppose we’re going to get the spring plowing and planting done if you’re off gallivanting around the county helping other people?” She looked at Gib. “This boy’s a right hard worker but there’s no way he can do it all. Specially now that he’s going to school.”

  Hy chuckled. “Now, hold your horses there, Delia. Before you start jumping down my throat wait till you hear the rest of what I have to tell you. What Mr. Morrison is offerin’ is that if I help out on his spread, he’ll have Rafe come over here to give us a hand with the plowing and suchlike. Rafe’s a sodbuster born and bred so you ought to git a lot better farm crop out of him that you’d ever get from a couple of saddle bums like me and Gib here.” He grinned at Mrs. Perry and reached over to pat her hand before she could snatch it away. “And Rafe’s wife, Liza, says she’d be glad to ride over and help with the canning and jam making when harvesttime comes.”

  Mrs. Perry was shaking her head sadly when Hy began to explain, but once she’d had time to think over what she was hearing, she cheered up considerably.