The Silver Brumby (10 page)

He had circled right round the group of horses before he found her, standing on her own under a tree by the fence. Straining his eyes, he could just see her outline, sensed that she had become suddenly tense, and he knew then that she had seen him. She stood quite still.

‘Will you follow me, now?’ he asked. ‘I will jump the fence and stand beside it so that you can see where it is. This fence is not too high for you to jump.’

He could tell she was trembling with nervousness, but he did not understand that she was torn between her desire to go with him and her instinct to stay obediently where she was.

He moved off and she followed, back to the panel in the fence which he had jumped before. He took her to the fence and told her to make certain she knew how high she must leap.

The snow was driving behind Thowra this time; the wind almost lifted him, and he was so excited that he felt no fear of jumping too early or too late, or not high enough. When he landed he turned back and stood by the fence, neighing softly. For a moment he thought that Golden would not come; then she came, invisible — though he could hear her galloping — till she was right at the fence and taking off in a wildly high jump. She, too, was over and free. He led her off through the bush.

Through the snowstorm Thowra led Golden. He was so wildly elated with his success in freeing her that he could hardly forbear from jumping up on a high rock to trumpet his joy in victory, and to set the echoes ringing in the hills. When he heard a dingo howl close by, he longed to roar back at him — and never realized that Golden was shaking with fear at the sound of the wild dog. He led her steadily back to the herd and got there as the first eerie, snow-filled light of the dawn came over the hills.

All the mares snuffled Golden curiously, while she stayed nervously by Thowra’s side, but he would not let them waste time getting acquainted. As soon as the men missed Golden they would be after her. There was no time to lose; they must go as fast as the foals could travel, over to the Brindle Bull.

It was necessary to cross the Crackenback much higher than usual because it was foaming full. Even then the first place he tried was too deep and swift for the foals, and they had to go higher still — and nearer to the men. Then Thowra found a crossing that he decided would have to do.

The snow was still falling, hitting the water and vanishing away. The anxious mares whinnied as he went across, the water foaming above his knees and nearly to his girth — white foam and grey, swirling water. He called to his mares. Golden had followed him closely, but those with foals stood and looked. Then the grey mare with her creamy foal started in, keeping the young one on the upstream side. She went very slowly, anxiously nuzzling at her foal and urging him on as his long legs slipped and stumbled among the slippery boulders. Then the force of the current hit them and the foal fell. He neighed with terror as he struggled to his feet. Thowra went in to try and help.

‘Go back,’ Thowra commanded, for the first time feeling a compassionate interest in his sons and daughters, but realizing what a problem they could be if there were a real hunt for him and Golden. He could dimly remember — or remember from the tales Bel Bel had told him — the great brumby drive on Paddy Rush’s Bogong when he himself was little bigger than his own foals.

Up the bank of the river they trekked, drawing ever closer to the men. At last, Thowra found a place that was possible, and escorted each mare and foal across, the little dun foals, all wet and bedraggled, looking more mousy than ever.

They had only just reached the safe covering of the bush when something made Thowra look higher up the stream, and there, through a thin curtain of falling snow, he could see a man, the one who usually rode Golden, sitting on the bay horse. Obviously he hadn’t seen them or he would have been after them already, but he might see them if they started to move.

‘Stand still!’ he told his herd. ‘Don’t move at all!’ But it was all very well to say this; there were tired, fidgety foals to be considered. The dun-coloured ones would not show up, but restless little creamy would, and Golden, if she did not understand. But Golden was staying very quiet; she began to tremble violently as she recognized her master.

And again Thowra did not understand how torn she was between her loyalty to the man who had trained and fed her, and her longing to be with him, the wonderful silver stallion of whom all the horses, all the cattle, all the men spoke.

Just then the snow started to fall more heavily. Thowra drew his herd further into the bush while they were hidden by the snowstorm, but he could hear the man coming. He thought how, if he had been alone, he would have remained absolutely still and absolutely silent so that the man could have passed quite close and never seen him, but a herd of ten was not easily hidden. The only thing he could think of was to act as a decoy himself, lead the man off away from the herd.

He turned to Boon Boon, the creamy’s dam, and told her to take the herd up to The Brolga’s grazing ground, near the very top — knowing that The Brolga was still in the Cascades. Then he told Golden not to leave Boon Boon for a minute, and he went off silently, taking a direction that would bring him just ahead of the man, although he would still have the shelter of fairly thick timber. He wanted to be seen but not so well seen that the man would realize he had not got Golden with him.

He faded through the bush, listening, listening, and when he heard the horse quite close, he walked quietly through the trees so that he was just in front of the man.

There was a clatter of horse’s shoes on rock as the man spurred his mount. Thowra bounded away. He knew he must keep his pursuer encouraged, and yet he must not let himself be caught; he must lead him right away from the herd.

It was madly exciting to see how near he could let that man come, and still allow time to dodge him. The rougher the country, the better he could dodge: the bay horse was not much good on steep, stony places.

To the man, Thowra must have been like a will-o’-the-wisp leading him on through the storm, sometimes just visible — a creamy flash, or two creamy flashes — sometimes there was just the sound ahead of branches swishing or of hooves on stones. The man could never have told, in that beating snow, if Golden were there or not. Once, Thowra deliberately neighed twice, as though he were calling Golden and she answering.

At last, he was approaching the place he had been making for — a long, long steep gully that went right down one side of the mountain and dropped off into sheer space. This gully was full of boulders and small stones. Thowra had only been down it once, with Storm, and had thought then that it might be a good place in which to escape from a man hunt. Very few tame horses carrying a heavy load could get down it without laming themselves, and, even if they did, there was no track leading off. He and Storm had found a way through huge rocks and dense heather to the foot of a waterfall, but it had taken a long time to find it, and there was nothing to mark the place.

There it was, the top of the gully; the storm was slackening slightly, and a faint tinge of blue was in the sky. He must hurry because the falling snow would help to hide him.

Down the snow-slippery rocks he went, slowly at first, to make sure the man was following, but keeping himself partly out of sight. Then, when the bay horse was quite close, he charged off, leaping and flying, almost trusting to the air more than the slippery leg-breaking rocks. He gave a mocking neigh. This was like leading Arrow on! Even if the man discovered now that Golden was not with him, he must be made to follow.

Down, down he went. Sometimes he felt a sickening jar when he did not land squarely on a rock, or when a rock rolled, but it was not for nothing that Bel Bel had taught him to flee like the wind through the roughest country.

Down, down, down, and the snow was still blowing in blinding flurries. He checked his speed because the man had dropped back. Now there was no sound of a horse clattering behind him, so he stopped and looked around.

The man was on the ground; he was looking at the bay’s leg, at the hoof, feeling the tendons, feeling the knee, even running his hand over the shoulder.

‘Looks like the end of him for a while,’ thought Thowra, and went steadily on downwards, until he found the way through the waterfall. He had a drink and crossed the stream, then went silently and tracklessly up and up the mountain towards the very top, to the camping grounds of The Brolga, where the herd should be grazing in safety.

The snow stopped, but an ice-cold wind blew the already fallen snow like sharp pebbles that stung against his coat and in his eyes. As much as possible he kept in the trees. It was nearly evening when he reached the grazing ground; There, in the grassy basin, he saw his grey mares and his foals, his black mare, and the lovely creamy filly he had stolen from the stockmen.

Of them all, perhaps Golden was gladdest to see him. It had been an anxious day for her, though Boon Boon had been friendly enough and had explained what Thowra was doing. But the others had ignored her, or sometimes given her a nip. Also she had found it hard work to follow them fast and keep quiet, as Boon Boon insisted she must, and leave no tracks. In fact, it was almost impossible for her to leave no hoofmarks because of her shining silver shoes, though one of these had already come off on the rough rocks.

Now, when she saw Thowra, she whinnied and trotted over to him.

Thowra nuzzled her, relieved and thankful to find her there; he had been afraid that she would not follow the herd without him.

Thowra, of course, never bothered himself about how the man would get back to the hut, or how the two of them would leave the mountains, with one horse vanished and one lame, but he did think that it would be quite a long time before anyone molested them again.

For days of lovely sunny weather, with no snow on the lower mountains, they grazed on the Brindle Bull. The foals played and learnt to eat grass. Golden lost all but one front shoe, and tried to learn to be quieter and to keep herself hidden in the trees, but the ways of the wild country need a life-time of practice, and she had only been trained to carry a man on her back and do as he made her do.

Away from the Main Range, Thowra did not know what was going on, and did not see the first small mob of cattle come early to the Cascades. He was amazed, late one evening, not quite two weeks after he had captured Golden, to hear a tremendous stallion roar from the rim of the basin above him, and see, standing silhouetted against the blue-gold sky, The Brolga.

Thowra, like The Brolga, had once been with Yarraman, and was too full of his own strength and vigour to run away. He turned to Boon Boon telling her to start the herd for Paddy Rush’s Bogong, then he went prancing and high-stepping forward to meet the great grey horse.

He did not notice that his own fine herd had only withdrawn to the rim of the basin, or that The Brolga’s herd were lining the opposite rim, forming an audience for the big green amphitheatre in which he was going to fight. He kept prancing forward, and The Brolga came rearing and screaming towards him.

The green basin in the hills was filled with the last of the sunlight as the two horses, the enormous grey and the lithe, swift creamy, met. Sunlight glanced off them — spears of light shooting from Thowra’s tossing mane — as the two wheeled and danced round each other without placing a blow.

It was natural that The Brolga should feel completely confident, just as it was natural that Thowra, in his first pride of being a stallion with a herd and foals of his own, should feel unbeatable, but those few moments of dancing and dodging The Brolga’s forefeet calmed Thowra down enough for Bel Bel’s teaching and her cunning to reassert itself. He realized that only his swiftness of movement was going to save him.

If The Brolga had not caught sight of Golden he might easily have got tired of trying to fight a nimble, flashing gadfly, but he had seen the beautiful creamy filly and wanted her for his herd.

He made a dash at Thowra, teeth bared; but Thowra was no longer in the same place. The Brolga pivoted on his great, powerful hind legs and struck rapidly with both forelegs. But Thowra had gone again and, in going, placed a resounding kick on the big grey rump.

This time Thowra retreated further and waited for The Brolga’s advance. He had noted with annoyance how Boon Boon was letting the herd stand still and watch. Now he would have to lead The Brolga in another direction. This time, he did not dodge quick enough and received a stunning blow on the side of the head. He shook his head, jumped to one side and charged The Brolga himself, with a well-placed forefoot. Then away again.

The Brolga, unlike Arrow, did not waste his energy in rage, or in galloping after him. He followed slowly, rearing and snorting. Thowra knew he might never tire him, but he could lead him on to the rim of the basin, timing their arrival there for the fall of night. In darkness he should be able to escape and, he hoped, join his herd. Surely Boon Boon would understand what he was doing and get the herd away.

The Brolga saw what he was doing before Boon Boon did, and suddenly the big grey stallion left Thowra and started trotting to where the grey mares and the beautiful creamy were still outlined against the evening sky.

Boon Boon remembered how her father, The Brolga, had valued the creamy mare, Bel Bel, above all his herd. Immediately she saw him coming, she realized that he was after Golden, and she hustled the herd down into the timber and away.

The Brolga broke into a gallop, but Thowra was catching up, then racing past, placing a thundering kick on his shoulder and foreleg. For a while The Brolga took no notice of the madly galloping and kicking, creamy stallion, but pursued the disappearing herd.

Thowra was desperate. It would be frightful to have captured Golden from the stockmen and then to lose her to this same stallion whom he had seen kill his own father. He knew he could gallop faster and dodge more nimbly than The Brolga, so after another really fierce kick at his chest, he raced past him and then turned to confront him.

The Brolga gave a cry of anger, rose on his hind legs, and struck. Once again Thowra was not there to be struck. The Brolga rushed forward again, after the herd, but Thowra was back in front of him. The grey came quietly and steadily onward, this time, the whites of his eyes showing, and his mouth open. Thowra danced away. The light was fading, and he would be able to escape to his herd if only he could keep ‘playing’ The Brolga for a little longer. He danced, he dodged, he kicked, while the big grey stallion kept forcing his way in the direction in which the herd had gone, but all the time it grew darker.

Thowra’s eyes were too good for The Brolga to gain much advantage from his colour fading into the on-coming dark, but sometimes, when the big horse moved swiftly and came from an unexpected angle, he was like a ghost, without substance in the night. Then, just for a few minutes, The Brolga did have all the advantage. It was almost completely dark, but Thowra’s light colour still showed more clearly, and The Brolga came at him to give him a real beating. Thowra received some tremendous blows but always he just managed to avoid The Brolga’s bite. When he reckoned his herd must be well away then he started to dance off in another direction.

The Brolga suddenly gave up the idea of catching Golden that night, and when a ringing neigh echoed round and round the basin, he stopped chasing Thowra to listen. It came again from the direction of his own herd. Thowra heard it and knew that it was Bel Bel, his mother, calling The Brolga away. The galloping hooves behind him stopped, but Thowra kept on until he reached the rim of the basin. There he threw up his head and neighed once to Bel Bel before galloping down, swinging round, when he was sure he was not being followed, in the direction his herd would have taken for Paddy Rush’s Bogong.