Pals: Young Australians in Sport and Adventure
Page 22
*CHAPTER XXII*
*HOW YELLOW BILLY BROKE THE WARRIGAL*
"The snorting of his horses is heard from Dan: at the sound of theneighing of his strong ones the whole land trembleth."--JEREMIAH.
The tragic ending of the last rush held all breaths for some briefmoments. Such a contretemps had never happened before. It beat allprevious experiences. The vanishing horse and rider seemed a wildfantasy of the brain, that passes like the breaking of a soap-bubble.There, before their very eyes, lay the slain; the victims of the madcharge.
Several of the men dash after the desperate horse and his acrobaticrider. Simultaneously, a small group of men--among the foremost is Mr.Gill--rush to the fallen men and beasts.
Dick Gill, his son, who lies across his horse, was known as a fearlessand somewhat reckless rider. At the critical moment, with the lust ofthe chase upon him, the lad made a mad dash for the racing steed. Toswerve him he instinctively felt would be a vain attempt. "I'll ridethe beggar down!" With naught of tremor, but with a disdainful scorn ofconsequence, hawk-like he swooped upon his quarry.
But, as we have seen, the outlaw had his own resolves. These, alas! morethan defeat the object of the horseman. The warrigal's last hopetrembled in the balance. A narrow gap of open space, and--liberty!This way then, with slap-dash speed!
We have already related the countervailing efforts to stay that rush:how that hidden horsemen flash from their ambush; how that one, a littlein advance, moved to the strike with tornado-like velocity. Then Greekmet Greek. Comes the inevitable, the sickening thud; andthen--oblivion! Come running men who lift young Dick with all thegentleness of women, and bear him to the shade trees.
Yellow Billy's horse lies stone dead with broken neck. Dick's, withbroken back, vainly strives to rise. Its great brown eyes look roundwith painful entreaty that sends Harry silently to the camp for a rifle,and then the handsome filly joins her companion in the happy huntinggrounds.
Meanwhile, under the shade trees, Dick Gill lies, the image of death.An examination reveals a fractured forearm; while a blue-black bruise onthe right temple, as big as a crown-piece, attests the violence of theblow. The general verdict is that Dick, the life and soul of hiscompany, will never more crack joke, sing song, or join in the merrychase; and so the conclusion is, dead, or as good as dead--a distinctionwith a slight difference.
There were two, however, who clung to some shreds of hope; the father ofthe boy and the Colonel: the latter with obstinacy and emphasis.
"I've seen 'em on the frontier far worse than your boy, Gill, and getbetter. The lad's stunned with that dickens of a blow; but he'll rallydirectly and be as spry as ever."
"Poor Dick is alive yet; of that I feel sure, even though I cannotdetect any pulsation. What the issue may be, Dumaresque, neither younor----"
"Tut, tut, man! he's young, and as tough as leather. Neck's all right.Keep up heart, old man. I'll trot down to the yards and see whatthey're doing to the brumbies."
With that the old officer, whose words were braver than his heart,strode to the yard, where all the others had congregated, save Joe andSandy, who were in the rear-guard when the accident happened; and who,chilled at heart and filled with apprehension--all zest in sportgone--remain by the side of their companion.
When the warrigal broke, the others of the mob were in full gallop,being rushed by the men. They are subjected to a battery of floggingwhips, and swept into the trap-yard; down the converging sides of thisthey hustle, only to find an impasse. There they huddle, a compact massof sweating, shivering, and cowed brutes.
The horsemen form a line across the way of retreat, until half a dozenwires are stretched. The rest is a matter of detail which expertbushmen make small bones about. When all is secure the men inside cutout selected horses under the direction of Mr. M'Intyre, who, with thosenot actively employed in the arena, occupies a place on the rails. Thebrumbies designed for use are thrown and branded, etc., then halteredand made fast to the rails. The station runaways were secured early inthe proceedings, which, from first to last, consume a couple of hours.The final act is one of horse massacre; all the discarded stock are shotdown. It is cold-blooded but necessary work, for brumbies are rightlyregarded as a pest on a run.
By this time the sun is well down in the west, and having finished theirwork at the yards, the men repair to the camp for a bite and a drink.
To their great surprise and delight they find Dick Gill "nather dead norspachless," as Denny Kineavy put it.
While his father and the boys anxiously watched him, hoping against hopefor signs of life, the unconscious lad suddenly stretched his limbs andopened his eyes, as one just awaking from a sound sleep.
The as-good-as-dead youth sat up in wonderment, falling back in pain andweakness the next moment. A wave of joy surged through Gill's heart atthis manifestation of life. "God be thanked for His mercies!" heexclaimed. Putting an arm under the sick boy's shoulders, and carefullyraising his head, he held the Colonel's brandy flask to his lips."You've had a spill, that's' all. A bit of a knock-out. Your left armis broken, and there's a nasty bruise on your forehead. Sip a little ofthis spirit; it'll brace you up."
A pull at the flask revived the youth, and he pillowed his head on hisfather's arm, who laved the bruised head with cold water. This greatlyhelped in the work of restoration. By the time the men had finished,Dick was able to sit up, and expressed a desire to have a look at thebrumbies. Beyond acute pain in head and arm the lad seemed but littleaffected. He enjoyed a feed with the men, and especially was hegrateful for a pannikin of tea. Good billy tea is better for the tiredfeeling than all the grog ever invented.
After a short consultation it was decided that Dick and his father, withSandy, should proceed to a selector's house about three miles distant.They would be sure to get the loan of Mrs. Mulvaney's spring-cart, andby that means reach Bullaroi. This was carried out despite Dick'sprotests that he was fit to start on another brumby drive.
What of Yellow Billy and the bolting warrigal! Have they beenforgotten? Not by long chalks!
As soon as Mr. M'Intyre had selected the horses that were to be savedand used, he left the other work to the Captain, and, accompanied byJacky, started off on the tracks of the outlaw. Before long they metsome of the pursuers returning. Their horses were knocked up, and theyhad failed to trace the runaway. "Deeficult as the country may be,"mused Mr. M'Intyre, "Jacky's equal to onything in the trackin' line.It's only a maitter o' time when we'll run 'em doon."
There was much speculation at the camp over the fate of the half-caste.It did not lean to pessimism, though jeremiads were uttered by some.The pals, who knew Billy's ability better than the others, had unlimitedfaith in their mate. Whatever happened to the steed, the boy would turnup safe and sound. The steer rider, in their opinion, could ridebare-back the toughest outlaw that ever sniffed the wind. "You'll see,"said Tom confidently to the Captain, "Billy'll more'n hold his own."
"Didn't youse tell us the other day thet at your gra-atbilly-horse-ma-ale-robbery, the steer slung the yallar bhoy----"
"Oh!" retorted Tom pettishly, "that was only----"
Just then the returning men rode up. They had no good news to relate,but said that by Mr. M'Intyre's orders all were to proceed to the Glen,and if the missing boy was not brought in before dark they were todisperse. Let us now follow the fortunes, or misfortunes, of Billy.
As soon as he found himself astride the warrigal, the yellow boy heldfast with knees and hands, the stock whip over his shoulder trailing ina long line behind the flying pair. To stick on the racing horse was acomparatively easy thing to Billy, unless, indeed, some fiendish trickshould unseat him. But to guide the scurrying brute, unbitted,unreined, were as impossible as to turn and check a Mont Blancavalanche.
The first instinct of the horse upon escaping from the trap-yard was todismount his rider by violent means, but there are eager pursuers on thetrack--so away!
There is that in the half-wild nature of the lad which goes out inunconscious sympathy for the bestridden beast. Despite the mutualantagonism, which, after all, is not that of hate, there is in some waya sense of kinship. Wild answers to wild. Man nature comes thus intoclose gripping quarters with horse nature. There is no interveningsaddle. Flesh mates with flesh, and spirit answers to spirit. Whose,then, shall be the victory? The strains of many generations of desertlords is in the quadruped. But what of the biped? A curious admixtureof blood there! On the white side are the well salted strains, whichhark away back to the old Vikings. On the other and darker, the streampoints backwards to the misty past, when his ancestors, subtle and slim,moved southward from the older civilisations of the north, and swarmedthe valleys of the Ganges and the Indus, fighting for a foothold.
Is not this a challenge to the latent forces in the wild blood of thehuman? It riots through the youth's veins, giving vim and sparkle tohis courage. Who shall win the lordship? Away then, and away!--throughthe mountain pines till clothes are mere shreds, and breast and thighsare torn and blooded with innumerable scores; slithering down the gorgesto the accompaniment of rattling stones; jumping fallen timber, andsmashing through the undergrowth, till all pursuit has faded away--theinfuriated steed holds his course. On, on! ever up to the inaccessibleheights.
But, has the half-breed been doing nothing save holding on, meanwhile?
With incredible difficulty, owing to the mad career of the horse overthe wilds, Yellow Billy has managed to pass his whip thong twice roundthe brute's neck. This, knotted together, forms just the sort ofhold-fast the boy has been accustomed to on his steer rides. The gripgives him a great advantage.
But the horse is now scrambling up a gully, which becomes sharper andsteeper as he advances, merging into a deep gorge at last, withprecipitous sides and frowning, unscalable face. A cul-de-sac, indeed!Even this the indomitable warrigal essays. Again and again does he rushthe battlements, and mount some distance; only to tumble back withsobbing breath but dauntless energy.
Cannot Yellow Billy now dismount in safety?
As easily, oh, reader, as one might slip off a rocking-horse.
Why not, then, fling himself off; abandon the desperado, and be thankfulfor life and limb?
What! Billy show the white feather? Billy throw away his chance of thehonour and glory of capture thus? Not for all the wealth of Australia!This is the most ecstatic moment of his existence.
Foiled in his attempt to scale the heights, Bucephalus begins to thinkmore seriously of the foe upon his back. Were he dislodged, what mightnot become possible? Here then!
So began the battle royal between these well-mated antagonists, to befought to a finish, there, on that small patch of earth in the rockyfastness; with none in the arena to interfere or to applaud. None,indeed, to witness, save the rock wallaby perched high on a beetlingcrag, who may have moralised on the unwonted spectacle of the whirlinggrey-and-brown mass of flesh and blood below. Higher still, wheeling inmid-air, is an eagle hawk, who keenly watches the solitary duel downthere, with unwinking eyes of insatiable greed; caring not a doit whichwins the mastership, so that the issue may provide a fit object fortearing talons and lacerating beak.
But below there!
The warrigal, with bloodshot eyes flaming in rage and malice, ears setback, head and neck well down between the forelegs, back arched like abent bow, bucks and squeals, kicks and twists. Forward, backward,sideward; round and round; up and down; now in the middle of the patch;now trying to rub the boy against the rough sides of the rocky canon,but all in vain. Not even the young Mazeppa, lashed to the wild horse,was more securely bound than was Billy to his steed.
There he is; Yellow Billy! Behold him!
Grasping with both hands the encircling stock whip, head and shouldersinclined backwards, his knees grip the horse's sides like a vice. Thehorse's hoarse neighs are answered with shrill shouts. And so, amidbattle-cries, dust and flying pebbles, sweat and foam, with evolutionsto which those of the circus ring were flat and monotonous, the tug ofwar for supremacy between man and beast goes on.
Presently, however, the bucking desperado moderates. There is a lull.He shifts from side to side, making at the same time a slow gyralmovement. Is this premonitory of collapse? He is blowing like theproverbial grampus, and ejecting steam from quivering nostrils like anexhaust pipe. The sweat flows from neck, belly, and flanks to theground in streams. Spasmodic sobs like those of a broken-hearted childsend shudder after shudder through his whole frame. See! his head ishanging upon his breast; the symbol of despair. Yes! he is done,conquered! He is broken. Well done, Billy! But the most dangerousmoment of Billy's existence is at hand.
Suddenly rushing backwards, the demon rears and throws himself to theground, almost turning a complete somersault in the act. Crash! downcome body and hoofs and--Billy. The boy is taken unawares, and can dolittle to avert the consequences of this trick. Still, the little saveshim. When, in the fraction of a second, he sees the inevitable, aspasmodic jerk flings him just beyond the horse's legs, which areworking like the arms of a windmill. Scarce has the animal regained hisfeet ere, with panther-like spring, the half-caste is reseated. Againthe horse is down, but now he is weakening--is rapidly nearing the limitof endurance. All the reserves have been called up.
Again, behold! a rapid change of tactics. The outlaw whips round hishead with open mouth and snaps at the rider's leg. Again and again, onboth sides, and it is only by the utmost dexterity that the lad escapes.This, more than anything else, begets fear; for Billy, like the horse,is fast tiring. With despair in his eyes the boy looks round him forhelp, and catches sight of the whip handle, which is hanging, with sometwo feet or more of thong, from where it is tied to the neck. In atrice his knife is out and the thong is severed near the knot. Thisend, coiled round his hand, becomes a weapon of offence. A loadedstock-whip handle is as formidable as an Irishman's shillelah. And nowevery snap is met with a cruel smack, and this not for long can even thewarrigal stand. Yellow Billy does more, he rains blows upon the steed'sshoulders and head with such severity as almost to paralyse the brute.The end is coming fast now. Worn, blown, trembling with weakness, dazed,the battle has indeed turned.
There is a point in horse-nature up to which no man may call himselfmaster. In some animals it lies low down. In others, the warrigal, towit, it is placed at the apex of his mettlesome temper. Let that pointin mastery be taken by the adversary and all is yielded. That citadelstormed, there is naught left but the white flag. The independence oncesurrendered is never regained. In other words, once the completemaster, always the master.
See now the lord of the wilderness! the equine conjurer of tricks!There he stands with shrunken form, drooping head, lack-lustrous eyes,motionless and clinging tail, subservience incarnate: fit statue ofunconditional surrender! The struggle has been gallant, heroic,prolonged; the capitulation is complete. A well planted blow, now,between the ears, and that noble creature; that thing of bone andmuscle, of arching neck and glossy coat; that creature of will andcourage, which made him emperor among his kind by right of merit--with astride worthy the envy of Lucifer! Just one blow in the right spot--hestaggers, trembles, and falls.
Yellow Billy is standing at the horse's head. 'Twas a glorious ride, aroyal fight, a grand victory. Nothing is left now but--pity! And so,with soft and cheery word, rubbing the nostrils, wiping the dryingsweat, massaging the trembling limbs, the boy is mercifully engaged whenfootsteps are heard, and in a moment the squatter, Jacky, and a coupleof men ride on to the battle-field.<
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Darkness is mantling the earth, and the men at the Glen camp have allgone, save a few, including the boys and Neville, who are stillanxiously waiting. The striking of iron on the flints of the creek-bedbreaks the dismal silence, as a group of horsemen steal out of thesurrounding gloom, and stand half-revealed in the light of the campfire. Yellow Billy is perched on the croup behind one of the men,while, with a stock whip converted into a halter, Jacky leads the boneand soul sore warrigal, who, in this abject spectacle, drinks the cup ofhumiliation to its bitterest dregs.