Gib and the Gray Ghost (20 page)

Gib sighed. If he had to take care of the horses and put the tack away himself, he’d surely miss the whole game. He’d just about given up on Ernie entirely, when suddenly there he was sitting on a bale of bedding straw talking to a stranger. A dusty, weather-beaten stranger, wearing a floppy old Stetson that hung down over a long beaky nose. Probably a cowboy drifting through Longford on his way to look for work, Gib thought, and for a moment it crossed his mind to mention that Hy Carter was fixing to hire some extra riders for the Circle Bar’s spring roundup. But when he noticed the stranger grab a bottle away from Ernie and stuff it into his own pocket, Gib kept his mouth shut. An early-morning drinker would not be the kind of rider Hy was looking to hire.

About then Ernie noticed Gib and, jumping up, he started to take care of business. His dusty friend stood up too and lent a hand, leading Dandy to his stall while Ernie took care of Silky. “Hey, glad to see you,” was all Gib said to Ernie. “Baseball morning. Gotta hurry.”

Gib was running by the time he reached the street, but suddenly he slid to a stop. Coming right his way, straight down Main Street, was a high-crested dapple gray carrying a tall man in an extra big Stetson. Sure enough, it was Mr. Morrison, and he was riding Ghost. Riding a calm, sensible-acting Ghost along a busy and noisy downtown street.

Hurrying to the ball game or not, Gib just had to stop for a minute to talk. To talk, and mostly to listen to Mr. Morrison telling him how well Ghost had been doing, and how, even though it was his first trip into town, there’d been no trouble at all.

“I had some business to take care of in town today. Still, I can tell you I thought twice about riding in on this fellow,” Mr. Morrison told Gib. “But thanks to you, Gibson, there’s been no trouble at all. To you, and to the hackamore, no doubt.” Mr. Morrison leaned forward and patted the gray’s neck where the hackamore’s rein crossed it. “He’s been cool as a cucumber, haven’t you, old boy?”

For a minute or two Gib forgot all about the ball game, rubbing Ghost’s nose and neck and telling him how great he was doing, while the big gray nickered and nudged at his pockets. And even turned back to nicker at Gib again as Mr. Morrison led him off toward the stable. Gib couldn’t help grinning as he watched Ghost’s sensible, head-bobbing walk for just a second longer before he set off running, hoping there was still time to see at least an inning or two before the bell rang.

He’d reached the edge of the school yard, and was trying to get a glimpse of the game over the heads of a lot of other spectators, when a buggy passed on the road and came to a stop near the turnoff to the school’s driveway. Gib recognized the driver as a Mr. Wilson who used to work at the Thornton bank, and who drove his two little daughters to school every morning behind the family’s sturdy chestnut mare. Gib watched while Mr. Wilson lifted the first little girl down to the ground, turned to get the other one—and froze, staring up the road. He whirled around then and, picking up the first child, he almost threw her back onto the seat. Grabbing for his buggy whip, he ran out into the middle of the road.

By then Gib had heard it too, shouting first, distant voices shouting, and then the rumble of running hooves. The running horse was—Ghost. Still wearing his hackamore and empty saddle, and every bit as wild-eyed and fear-crazed as he’d been back in December, Ghost passed Gib at a dead run and went on down the road, toward the buggy driver, who was now standing in the middle of the road, waving his whip.

Then Gib was running too, calling out, “No, no. No whip.” But Mr. Wilson went on flailing threateningly, trying to stop the runaway, or at least turn him back the way he’d come.

But Ghost didn’t stop. Instead he charged at full speed, ears flat, neck extended. He ran straight at Mr. Wilson, who stood his ground until, at the last possible half second, he dropped the whip and flung himself under his buggy. As Ghost shot past he lashed out violently with a hind foot, striking the right wheel with a thud that spooked the mare into a sharp lurch forward. Up in the buggy the little girls were screaming and, from under it, their father was yelling too, as Ghost swerved away into the school grounds—and straight for the ball game.

Ballplayers and spectators, boys and girls of all ages, scattered in every direction as the wild-eyed horse charged across the diamond, heading for the open fields beyond the back fence. But the fence stopped him. Reaching it, he slid to a stop and reared, snorting and pawing the air, before he wheeled and headed straight back the way he’d come.

Gib had reached the middle of the ball field by then and he stopped and stood still, calling out, “Whoa, boy. Whoa there, boy,” as Ghost charged directly at him. Head lowered and ears flat, the gray charged until, only a few feet from Gib, he veered into a quick turn and came to a wide-legged, quivering halt.

Standing perfectly still, Gib went on talking, not noticing or caring what he was saying, but aware that Ghost was now certainly listening. He was still pawing the earth and tossing his head, but his ears had started flicking forward. He looked, Gib thought, to be saying how angry and frightened he was, and asking, demanding really, that Gib help him.

At first, when Gib began to move forward, Ghost dodged away, but almost immediately he whirled and stopped again. Still quivering and with white-rimmed eyes, but definitely listening now, he stood his ground when Gib moved again, coming closer. Waiting only long enough to be sure that Ghost knew who he was, he reached out to run his hand along the sweaty gray neck, picked up the reins, and swung up into the saddle.

Ghost lunged forward, not bolting or bucking either but dancing some, tossing his head and floating his long tail. He was quieting, beginning to settle, when someone yelled, “Get down, Gibson! Get down immediately!” It was Mr. Shipley. Running down the school steps and hurrying out across the field, the principal went on yelling. “Get down! And get that horse off the school grounds immediately.”

Mr. Shipley meant well, but what he was doing didn’t help a bit. Ghost lunged away from him, whirled, reared, and bolted into a dead run. He ran headlong, refusing to listen to the pull of the reins, and was almost to the road before he allowed his plunging run to be turned. Leaning into the turn, Gib tightened it until they were going in a big circle. A crowd-scattering circle that gradually slowed to a gallop, and finally to a high-legged, head-tossing trot Ghost was moving easy, prancing but under control, when the men who’d chased him all the way from the livery stable appeared on the scene.

There were four or five of them, including Mr. Morrison, who was looking almost as wild-eyed as Ghost himself. The others were Mr. Appleton and Ernie and one or two other volunteer horse catchers. The big-nosed stranger in the floppy Stetson hadn’t come along to help out, but right at the moment it didn’t occur to Gib to wonder why.

T
HAT MORNING THE SCENE
at Longford School took a long time to straighten itself out. Gib was going to ride Ghost right back to the stable, but it seemed there had to be a good long confab between Mr. Shipley and Mr. Appleton and Mr. Morrison before they’d let him go. Sitting there on Ghost halfway down the school drive, Gib tried, without much success, to hear what was being said. But the three men were keeping their voices down, except now and then when Mr. Shipley came over to chase some students away from the end of the driveway and back onto the playground.

But they kept coming back. Before the confab with Mr. Shipley finished and everything got sorted out, nearly every kid in the school had snuck over to watch Gib and Ghost. Standing around in a good big circle, watching and whispering, they jumped back so quickly they fell over each other if Ghost so much as twitched an ear. But at last the talk was finished and Mr. Morrison came over to tell Gib that he had been excused by the principal to ride Ghost back into town.

Mr. Morrison was grinning as he said that he’d offered to take Ghost back himself. But Mr. Shipley felt that since Gib seemed to have the situation so well in hand, it would be better not to change the equation before “that horse” was safely off school property.

Mr. Morrison laughed, but he sobered up as he said, “I can’t imagine what got into him.” He rubbed Ghost’s nose and the big gray, still sweated up and nervous, stopped tossing his head long enough to nudge back friendly-like. “He was perfectly all right when Ernie led him away,” Mr. Morrison said. He looked back to where Ernie was talking to Mr. Wilson, the driver who’d managed to save his neck by diving under his buggy. “What do you suppose old Ernie could have done that spooked him that badly?” he asked.

“No,” Gib said uncertainly, “I don’t think it was Ernie, but ... An idea was beginning to shape itself in Gib’s mind. Edging Ghost closer, he whispered, “Mr. Morrison. What does that Lou Dettner feller look like?”

“Why?” Mr. Morrison asked sharply. He stared at Gib for a moment before he even started to answer. He hadn’t gotten much farther than the big nose when Gib said, “That’s him. That must have been the man I saw in the stable this morning. I’ll bet anything Lou Dettner was right there in Appleton’s Livery this morning.”

Mr. Morrison stared at Gib while his face went dark and slitty-eyed. Then he whirled around and headed toward Ernie who was still standing at the edge of the road. Gib followed along on Ghost.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Morrison,” Ernie was saying when Gib got within earshot. “Looked to be a poor cowpoke who just drifted in on a ganted-up mustang. Asked me if he could put the skinny critter out in the corral fer overnight while he bedded down in the loft. But then this morning ...

Ernie shook his head wonderingly. “I don’t rightly know what happened, Mr. Morrison, ’cept when I led that dapple gray past where that feller was jist standing outside of one of the box stalls, all of a sudden all hell busted loose.” He gestured toward Ghost. “Started snorting and squealing, he did, and struck out at that stranger with both front feet like he was trying to stomp him into the ground. Stranger feller grabbed up a piece of two-by-four and started swinging, but that there horse kept comin’ at him till he dropped his club and went over the stall door. Went headfirst right over that there door. And when the gray seen he couldn’t get at the feller he just took off and started running down Main Street.”

Ernie stopped then to catch his breath and to try to answer the question that Morrison had been asking over and over again for some time. “Don’t rightly know, sir. Didn’t say exactly. Except for Lou. Purty sure he said his callin’ name was Lou.”

Without asking any more questions Mr. Morrison began to run toward town. Gib let Ghost trot alongside until they were out of sight of the school, when he jumped down and let Morrison take over. As he nudged Ghost into a run Mr. Morrison called back to say he was going to look for the sheriff.

The rest of the day gradually settled back into the ordinary routine. The kind of school day most people might expect on any Friday in May. Most people maybe, but not Gib Whittaker.

Like for instance what happened about Rodney and the thumbtack. It was right after lunch and Miss Elders was writing questions about the Monroe Doctrine on the blackboard. Everyone was busy writing answers when Gib’s pencil lead broke. He was heading for the sharpener when there was a loud thumping noise like a lot of people banging on their desks all at once. Gib looked around in time to see the whole class watching Miss Elders, who had turned quickly away from the blackboard to see what was making the noise. She’d turned just in time to see Rodney Martin putting a thumbtack on Gib’s chair.

So Rodney got sent to the principal’s office. As he walked out the door, a lot of people looked at Gib and grinned. Gib grinned back, and a little later there was a note from Graham on his desk. The note said, “See? What did I tell you?”

After school was out that afternoon Livy decided she wanted to walk to town with Gib instead of waiting for him to come back with the horses. What she told Miss Elders was that she needed to buy some notebook paper at the Emporium, but as soon as she and Gib started off she told him she didn’t really need any paper.

“I just had to talk to you,” she told him, skipping along like she had to do to keep up with his long legs. “I just have to know what was wrong with Ghost this morning. Everyone’s guessing, but no one knows for sure. And they were all asking me.”

When Gib told her about the stranger who was probably Lou Dettner she got so excited her skip turned into a kind of gallop. A few minutes later when they got to Appleton’s Livery nobody was there but Ernie, but that afternoon he did seem to be pretty sober. At that moment the only thing Ernie seemed to be really full of was talk.

“That Dettner feller was long gone ’fore we got back here,” he said. “Saddled up his poor little mustang and lit out, I guess. But the sheriff said he was goin’ to keep an eye out fer him from now on. And I surely will too.” Ernie’s straggly whiskers quivered fiercely. “Believe me, Miss Thornton, that feller will never get into this place of bisniss agin. Not while yours truly is in charge.”

When Ernie finished talking about Dettner he also had a lot to say about what had happened on the school grounds that morning. He went on and on about Gib and what he’d done, and what everyone thought about it. Gib’s face got real hot. He finally managed to interrupt long enough to ask if the horses were ready. When Ernie said they were, Gib hurried off to get them while Ernie and Livy and a couple of Livy’s friends, who had happened by on their way to the Emporium, went on gabbing about Ghost and Gib.

When Gib came back leading Silky and Dandy, the talk was still going on. He had to remind Livy that her mother would be worrying if they didn’t get going soon. Livy finally got up on Dandy and they started off. Her friends waved and called after them, “Good-bye, Livy. Good-bye, cowboy.”

Livy was still talking a blue streak when they started for home, but before they got there she’d pretty much run down. However, she looked to have gotten her wind back by the time Gib finished the evening chores. At the supper table the whole family had to hear again about what Gib had done at school that day. Had to hear it for the third or fourth time, actually, because two or three parents of Longford School kids had already phoned Missus Julia about it. And Mr. Morrison had stopped by on his way home from town, too.