Gib Rides Home Read online

  Gib Rides Home

  The Gib Series (Book One)

  Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  To the memory of my father, William Solon Keatley

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Afterword

  A Biography of Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Chapter 1

  ON A DARK, CLOUDY afternoon in the fall of 1909, a strange thing happened on the third floor of the Lovell House Home for Orphaned and Abandoned Boys. Something so downright mysterious that even firsthand witnesses could scarcely believe their eyes. What those witnesses, five amazed and startled senior boys, saw that dull, gray afternoon was the sudden and entirely unexpected reappearance of a boy who had left the orphanage more than a year before.

  No one had heard from Gibson Whittaker since he went away, but the rumor was that he had been adopted by a family who lived near Longford, a small cattle town in the next county. There was nothing especially uncommon about that. Half, or even full, orphans left Lovell House fairly often, going back with a remaining parent or out to an adoption, but what was so shocking was his reappearance. How could Gib Whittaker be strolling into the senior boys’ dormitory when the law said, at least the law according to Miss Offenbacher, that Lovell House adoptions were not reversible? In other words, when you left the orphanage you left it for good and always.

  The sun had already gone down when Gib arrived, and the third-floor Senior Hall was dimly lit. The supper bell was due to ring soon and the long hall, with its orderly rows of narrow beds, was almost deserted. Of the sixteen boys who were seniors that year, only five were in the room and they were running late. Since they’d spent their afternoon chore time mucking out stalls in the orphanage’s barn and cowshed, more than the usual amount of changing and scrubbing had been necessary.

  Being late for supper was dangerous, but so was arriving at the table in an unsanitary condition, so the situation was serious, but not quite serious enough to prevent a certain amount of fooling around. Some shoving and splashing was going on as the five boys crowded around the washbasin nearest the hall door. The water in the basin was cold, and gasps and giggles were echoing through the high-ceilinged room, when the shriek of door hinges caused a sudden silence. As one, the gigglers hushed, froze, and then turned anxiously, expecting Mr. Harding, maybe, or even Miss Offenbacher. But instead, there he was, Gibby Whittaker.

  For a second, no more than a split second probably, nobody recognized him, not even Jacob Fetters and Bobby Whitestone. And Jacob and Bobby had known Gib since back when they’d been little old juniors together.

  But under the circumstances, Bobby and Jacob’s blank stares weren’t too surprising. After all, Gib had been ten years old when he went away and now he had to be almost twelve. He’d filled out a little, gotten some taller, and no longer had the typical Lovell House haircut—a near scalping by a local barber whose “orphans’ special” was quick and cheap, if not particularly good to look at.

  He was dressed differently, too. Instead of the scratchy wool suit of institutional navy blue, he was wearing a fringed leather jacket over mud-stained denim pants. And on his feet, instead of the standard orphanage clodhoppers, were a pair of boots. Scuffed and dusty boots, certainly, but with a style about them that had nothing to do with living in an orphanage, or for that matter anywhere else in downtown Harristown.

  So the hair and clothes were different all right, but there were some things about Gib Whittaker that weren’t ever likely to change. He was still lanky and tall for his age, with a slow and easy way about him, and a grin that did something to his eyes before it began to stretch first one side of his wide mouth and then the other.

  So it was Gib sure enough, right back there in the third-floor dormitory where nobody had ever expected to see him again. But what made his reappearance even more amazing was what he’d brought with him. What Gib Whittaker was toting into the seniors’ dormitory, along with an ordinary old duffel bag, was what appeared to be an honest-to-God saddle. An honest-to-goodness old roping saddle.

  “Gibby,” somebody finally yelped, Jacob or Bobby probably. Gib grinned, and then, while the others stared like a bunch of dummies, he sauntered down the hall, dumped the bag and saddle on the floor beside bed number five, shoved them under with one foot, stuck his hands in his pockets, and nodded, first at straw-headed old Jacob and then at skinny-as-ever Bobby Whitestone.

  “Jacob,” he said, and then, “How you been, Bobby?”

  A new boy, someone Gib had never seen before, was poking Jacob and whispering, “Who—who—who,” like he’d been turned into some kind of big-eared, towheaded owl.

  “Stop that, Jackie.” Jacob elbowed the new kid out of his way. “Don’t you know nothing? It’s Gib. Gib Whittaker.” But Jackie, who wasn’t especially quick-witted, went on staring blank-eyed. It wasn’t until Bobby Whitestone spoke up that Jackie and the other new boys began to understand. “You know,” Bobby said, “the Gib we told you about, who got adopted a long time ago.”

  Jackie’s “Ohh! That Gib,” was long and drawn out as a sigh. They’d all heard about that Gib Whittaker.

  Knobby-headed little Bobby Whitestone, who had been at Lovell House ever since Infant Room, was looking as walleyed as a wild mustang. Bobby had always been a worrier. And a whiner. His voice had a high-pitched wobble to it as he asked, “What happened, Gib? How come you’re back?”

  Bobby had good reason to be worried about Gib and about what might happen to him now. Everybody knew how dangerous it was to run out on an adoption. Especially to run out on certain kinds of adoptions.

  Jacob Fetters, who, like Bobby, had been in Junior Hall with Gib, looked worried too, his blotchy face scrunched up into a twitchy grimace. “Where you been, Gib?” he asked. “Miss Mooney said you’d been sure enough adopted by some people near Longford. Some real rich folk, name of ... Jacob looked around, asking someone to help him remember. “Name of ... ?”

  It was Gib himself who answered. “Name of Thornton,” he said solemnly. Then he grinned at Jacob and added, “The Thorntons live pretty near Longford all right, and I guess they’re fair-to-middling rich. Miss Mooney got that part just about right.”

  Jacob nodded, and his sympathetic shrug said he could guess what Miss Mooney had been wrong about—the kind of adoption it was.

  “Yes sir,” Gib went on, his halfway grin hinting that there was something more to what he was saying than just the words, “I been with the banking Thornton family for almost—”

  “Banking Thorntons?” Bobby asked.

  Gib’s lips twitched again. “That’s right. That’s what some people call them. The banking Thorntons. Own the only bank in Longford, matter of fact.”

  “But how come you’re back, Gib?” Bobby’s coyote whine had gone higher and wobblier, and his jittery eyes kept flicking from
Gib’s face to the saddle under the bed. “You didn’t skip out, did you?”

  Gib’s eyes had a teasing squint to them as he answered. “You want to know if I just up and rustled myself a horse and saddle and ran off?” He looked around slowly, at Jacob and Bobby first, and then at each of the other boys, before he shook his head. “Naw,” he said, “I didn’t run off.” His smile spilled over onto his mouth as he added, “And I didn’t get here on horseback, either. Matter of fact, I came here in a motorcar.”

  They stared back, their eyes showing how amazed they were, and how relieved to hear that Gib hadn’t done something so dangerous and foolhardy as to run away. At least Bobby and Jacob looked relieved. A couple of the other boys might have been—well, almost disappointed. The way they’d look, perhaps, if a public hanging they were planning to attend had just been called off.

  Noticing how one of the new boys had started to ease off toward the dormer windows that faced Lovell Avenue, Gib’s smile got wider. “What’re you looking to see out there?” he asked. “A sheriff’s posse, maybe?”

  The new kid looked guilty, but you couldn’t really blame him all that much. Wasn’t any wonder he was expecting the sheriff or maybe something even worse. Not after all the things Miss Offenbacher always said about what would happen to runaways.

  “Well, what did happen?” Bobby was still whining. “How come you came back?” And then, as his eyes rounded again with a new and even more terrifying thought, “Offenbacher knows you’re here, doesn’t she?” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. “You didn’t just sneak in, did you, Gib?”

  Gib was just opening his mouth to answer when suddenly the whole room was full of a harsh clanging noise. All five of Gib’s observers jumped like scared jackrabbits, and then shrugged in embarrassment. Just that noisy old dinner bell, their sheepish smiles said, and with no further hesitation they all trooped out. Everyone but Jacob, who dashed back to give his face a last-minute splash before he rushed after the others, wiping his dripping chin on his shirtsleeves. Gib chuckled, remembering how Jacob always had to be extra careful because dirt showed up so much on his bleached-out skin.

  Near the door Jacob paused long enough to ask warily, “You coming, Gib? You coming to supper?”

  Gib shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Not tonight. Miss Offenbacher said she wants to talk to everybody first. Kind of explain things, I guess, before the old bad penny shows up again.”

  “But ... Jacob’s pale face under its thatch of straw-colored hair was puckered with worry.

  Gib went on, “It’s all right. I’m not hungry. And anyways, I got something to eat there in my bag.”

  Jacob went out reluctantly, still looking over his shoulder. It wasn’t until they’d all disappeared and their echoing footsteps on the old wooden stairs had faded away to nothing that Gib went back to bed number five. Number five had been Charlie Biggs, if he remembered right. Gib remembered Charlie. A funny-looking kid, with one off-track eye and spiky, no-color hair. Must be ten or eleven years old by now. Gib sighed, wondered about Charlie for a moment, and wished him luck before he sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled out his duffel bag, and took out Mrs. Perry’s package.

  The sandwiches were full of things no boy at Lovell House ever laid eyes on, lettuce and tomatoes and thick slabs of ham and cheese. They looked mighty good all right, but something was interfering with Gib’s appetite. He ate a few bites, then rewrapped the package carefully and put it away. After he’d pulled off his boots, he flopped down on the bed with his arms behind his head, and began to try to face up to the fact that it was really true. He had come to live at the Lovell House orphanage, just as he had done once before—almost six years ago.

  Chapter 2

  WHEN GIB TRIED TO look back to the years before he’d come to live at Lovell House, there were only bits and pieces. He didn’t know why. He knew he’d been about six years old when he showed up that first time, because Miss Mooney had told him so. But it surely did seem likely that in six whole years a person would store up a lot more memories than what he could call to mind. More than the few scenes that, even when they were bright and clear as life, seemed to be unconnected to any reasons or explanations. Nothing that told him what the memory meant, or what it had to do with where he’d come from, who he’d belonged to, or why he’d wound up at Lovell House.

  Sometimes the bits and pieces came with a good warm feeling, but others had the look and feel of a bad dream. Like the sneaky one that usually came in the middle of the night, where he suddenly was watching a little boy riding in a buggy. A skinny-faced kid, with bony legs hanging out from too-short pants. He would be watching the kid in the buggy and then suddenly he, Gibson Whittaker, would be that little boy. Dressed in a dark blue suit with a big square collar he would be the one riding in a shiny new buggy behind a high-stepping dapple gray mare.

  It was a good dream at first because someone, a big man in a scratchy wool coat, was letting him hold the reins and telling him how easy it was for good hands to talk to the gray mare. The big man didn’t seem to be his father or even anyone he knew real well, but he had a kindly face, and knew how to make his hands tell the mare to step lively or slow down without using a whip or even a hard slap of the reins. And Gib was feeling happy because he could feel, plain as day, the talking between his own good hands and the gray’s mouth.

  But then the buggy was stopping in front of a huge building. A big old stone building that rose up like a mountain, with high gray walls that went on and on forever and, way down at the end, round towers that seemed to stretch up almost to the clouds. A castle, it surely was, like the one in the fairy-tale story about an evil king who killed everybody who opened secret doors or asked forbidden questions.

  And then a woman in a big feathery hat was lifting him down from the buggy and he was holding back and trying to tell the woman about the castle and how he had seen it before in a book and how an evil king lived there. He seemed to know the woman a little bit, but not enough to know her name except for Ma’am. “No Ma’am. No!” he kept saying. “Please don’t take me there. Please don’t.”

  Then Gib seemed to be just watching again, and the woman was pulling the little boy up a long, curving road toward the huge building. It seemed like a nightmare all right. The castle was way too big and grand to be anything like a regular house for living in. And even though it sometimes seemed he was just standing off and watching what was happening, Gib did have a notion that part of it might have been a true remembering of the day he’d come to live at Lovell House.

  The rest of what happened that day had faded away, like everything and everybody who’d come before.

  Even the memory of his mother, whose name had been Maggie—Maggie Ernestine Whittaker, according to Miss Mooney—was the same way, nothing but broken-off, senseless pieces. Nowadays all he could recollect for certain was the way her hair had wisped around her face on hot days, some parts from her songs and stories, and how her soft eyes went hard and sparkly when she got mad.

  Remembering Mama’s angry eyes always brought back one memory picture, sharp and whole as yesterday. The part that always seemed to come out the clearest was the old man and the horse.

  Gib could recollect that old man plain as anything. Could even see his long, dirty coat, and how it flapped around while he beat on a poor old horse with a two-by-four.

  He could see that horse real clear, too, a skinny little swaybacked buckskin. He didn’t know for sure just where the horse beating happened, but it might have been in a town because other people were in the picture, too. Maybe five or six men, who seemed to be just standing around watching the horse beater, and Mama and Gib in their buckboard. And then, all of a sudden, when the man was fixing to swing the two-by-four again, Mama kind of flew out of the buckboard and hollered right in his mean old face.

  Gib could bring back the whole thing sharp as could be, most anytime he tried—the buckboard and the team Mama was driving, too, a big bay gelding and a sorrel mare.
He was pretty sure the bay’s name was Amos, but he wasn’t sure about the mare’s. He could remember how she looked, though, plain as anything. A dark sorrel she was, with a pretty blaze face and a spooky disposition. He seemed to recollect things like that real easy.

  Sometimes he could even see how the old horse beater’s straggly beard quivered when Mama yelled at him. And how he, Gibson, could only watch from the buckboard, because he was too little to get down by himself. Could only sit there crying while the old man stood glaring at Mama and holding the two-by-four up over her head. But finally the horse beater backed off and put his club back in his wagon. Gib could even remember how Mama’s eyes had sparkled in a different way when some of the men who were watching waved their hats and cheered.

  That seemed to be his clearest memory of all, which was a puzzling thing when you came right down to it. Why would a person remember his mother hollering at a dirty old stranger when he had so few other memories of those years before he came to Lovell House?

  Oh, there were some other small scenes all right, ones he couldn’t recall on purpose but that sneaked up on him now and then when he wasn’t trying. Memories of hearing books read and songs sung at bedtime, and even parts of the stories and a few of the pictures in the storybooks.

  And other times different bits and pieces came back, everyday things mostly, like gathering eggs, and feeding chickens, and other critters too. Lots of little bits of memory about feeding animals—particularly the horses.

  Feeding the horses and riding them, too. At least riding gentle old Amos bareback, sometimes with just a hackamore on his long, bony head. Gib seemed to remember the riding, not just in his head but in other parts of his body, too. As if his legs and his backside could remember Amos’s trot in the same way maybe that Miss Mooney’s fingers remembered the keys on the piano. Another thing his backside seemed to recall was a spanking he’d gotten for trying to ride the other one—the spooky, hard-mouthed sorrel mare.