The Silver Brumby

by Elyne Mitchell

  The timber was cleared quite a long way back from the yard, which stood out on its own against the horse-paddock fence, in front of the hut.

  Thowra moved through the trees very slowly, seeking the dark pools of shadow and avoiding any glades where the moonlight shone. A possum watched him with its wistful yet curious, pointed face. It gave a deep, throaty qua-a-r-rk, and he heard the sound of horses shuffling in the yard. He stood at the edge of the trees looking across. Yes, there, silvered by moonlight, was the lovely filly. She whinnied softly again, and a man opened the hut door, the light from a hurricane lamp blending with the moonlight.

  A voice said, ‘The brumbies might be about.’ And another voice inside the hut answered: ‘Don’t worry. The fence is mighty high, but you was a fool to bring her, all the same.’ Then they shut the door again and soon the hurricane lamp was turned out.

  After waiting a long time, Thowra walked across the open ground to the yard. The cream filly came up to the fence, trembling with excitement, and put her nose through to snuff him.

  As she started to whinny he said:

  ‘No. No. You must learn to be silent, if you would come with me. What is your name?’

  ‘They call me Golden. You must be Thowra of whom all the other horses speak — and the men even have songs about you that they sing to the cattle, but they call you Silver.’

  ‘Thowra is my name,’ said Thowra proudly. ‘The name my mother, Bel Bel, gave me.’

  Just then the bay stock horse, who had been standing trembling in the yard, let out a shrill, ringing neigh. Thowra was gone in a flash, silent-footed but fast, back into the bush. He was barely hidden in the trees before he heard the hut door opening and saw a man come out with a torch. Thowra watched him go right over to the yard, where the horse and the cream filly stood snorting, and turn his torch on to the ground. When he heard him say, ‘Huh, an unshod horse!’ Thowra knew it was time to go, and to go on rocks and grass where he left no track.

  Last year the men who had brought the pack-horses out early had stayed two nights. These men would probably too — but would they perhaps hobble the horses the next night, or watch over them in turns, hoping to catch him? He decided to wait till later in the night and then go back.

  The moon had gone behind a bank of cloud when Thowra next stood on the edge of the bush and peered through the leathery snowgum leaves towards the yard. He could see Golden moving restlessly about, but the other horse seemed to be asleep.

  Stepping from one snowgrass tussock to another, he moved towards the yard again, this time making for the only place in the fence where there was grass and not bare earth.

  Golden came up to him again.

  ‘How high can you jump?’ Thowra asked her. ‘There is one lower place in this fence over there in the corner.’

  ‘I’d never clear that,’ said Golden.

  ‘Not even if I jumped in and gave you a lead out over it?’

  But he eyed the bay horse. With that silly jackass there to bray, the game would be given away before they could get out.

  Just then the bay horse stirred; he threw up his head with a startled snort, and then neighed loudly.

  ‘Jump, and come with me,’ Thowra said, as he turned to go. Already there was a clatter in the hut and a man’s voice cursing.

  Thowra bounded away over the grass. He looked back, but Golden was not following, and before he had quite reached the trees he heard the door open. He was hidden by the time the man appeared but it had been a near thing. Thowra watched the man prowling around, saw that he could find no more tracks and that he was puzzled. Presently he went back inside, but there were still sounds of him moving about, and then came the smell of smoke as it poured through the hut chimney.

  Just then the dawn wind came, stirring the darkness of the night, touching with cool long fingers Thowra’s coat, his ears; whispering through the snowgum leaves. Daylight would soon come, and he must not be seen, but he could not tear himself away and he remained, never taking his eyes off the yard. The man came out with a pannikin of tea in his hand and leant on the yard fence. He called Golden. To Thowra’s amazement he saw her walk over to him and take something out of his hand and eat it.

  Thowra tossed his head and turned away into the thick bush. He made no sound as he went back to his herd, but Golden’s whinny followed him. He stopped for a second and listened, not understanding how she could whinny to him and yet accept something from the man. But the whinny sealed his determination to get her for himself.

  The presence of his own herd made it awkward. He realized that fully when he came through the trees and found them in a glade that was filled with the liquid gold of early morning sunshine. They looked beautiful, his greys with their tiny odd-coloured foals, and the one lovely cream one. He must not take the chance of being chased by the men himself, and his herd being found — but how wonderful it would be to have Golden there with the greys.

  That morning he led the herd up towards the Ramshead, and put them in a gully that opened to the north-west and was bare of snow. Then he turned back to the hut, going carefully and quietly through the thickest bush, and leaving hardly a hoofmark,

  All his senses were alert. He heard the faintest rustle made by an early-moving snake, saw its beady eye. He felt, before he saw, the gang-gangs looking at him, their red crests up. When two kangaroos went hopping by rather quickly he went more carefully still. Then, in the distance, he heard the sound of a shod horse. Thowra slid farther into the thick scrub, and stood waiting.

  Presently he heard two horses approaching, and when he knew they had passed, he drew closer. There were the two men riding Golden and the bay horse. The packs must have been left behind, which meant the men would stay another night. He followed for a while to see what they were doing. They were wandering without direction, looking for something — and, if it were his tracks they were looking for, they were wasting their time, because they were not going to find any.

  He turned back to the hut and had a look around. The pack-horses were grazing in the horse paddock. Everything was as he thought. He headed for the Ramshead and the herd.

  That night Thowra went to the hut again, stepping proudly through the dark forest before the moon had risen. Leaves brushed his shoulders and there was the lovely damp scent of the bush at night. He kept thinking of what Bel Bel would say to such a foolhardy expedition as this — and yet he knew she would understand. She was creamy herself and could appreciate how lovely the cream filly was. It was Storm who would really consider him a fool.

  He kept watch for a long time from the edge of the trees, slightly surprised that Golden showed no sign of knowing he was there, but he had been even more silent than before, and Golden’s senses were not as sharp as a wild horse’s.

  The fire and the lamp were both out in the hut, and all was quiet. He could see no man watching over the horses, and the horses were not hobbled. Still suspecting a trap, he came out of the trees slowly, thankful that the moon had not yet risen. He reached the fence, his skin pricking with nervousness, but nothing happened. The bay was sound asleep.

  He measured up the fence again, and in the springtime surge of strength and spirits, he felt sure that he would be able to jump out and lead Golden away.

  He backed off, speeded up as quietly as he could, and jumped.

  ‘Now, come on and follow me!’ he said to Golden.

  The bay woke with a startled squeal. A man burst out of the hut, shouting:

  ‘Got you, my beauty!’

  ‘Come quick!’ said Thowra, and with only the very short run available in the yard, he took three strides and made a prodigious leap. His knees rapped the top rail, yet he still seemed to lift higher. A rope whistled and fell short. Thowra felt his heart almost bursting with fear and effort, but he was over! The other man was running with a rope, too.

  Thowra swung wildly and felt it hit his flank. Golden called, but she was still in the yard. The first man had roped her, but Thowra did not know this. He calle
d in answer, but she still did not come. He galloped towards the trees, hearing the men getting saddles and bridles. But a brumby stallion who knew the country would get a good start while they saddled up. He raced away towards the Cascades, taking the opposite direction to that in which his herd lay, the one the men might easily expect him to take.

  Through the night he galloped, darkness like a. curtain around him. A white owl flew, crying, from a tree and he shied in sudden fear. He could hear the men close behind, so he branched off the track and down a rock gully; the men, when they found they could not easily capture him, soon gave up. The owner of Golden had no wish to lame her in a midnight brumby hunt, and anyway it was obvious that Golden might very well bait a trap for Thowra. They decided to stay at the hut another night.

  In the morning they built up the rails on the lowest side of the yard.

  Thowra watched the track to Groggin and knew that they had not gone down from the mountains; he watched the sky, too, because he could see that bad weather was coming, and sensed that it was coming very quickly. When the men had not gone by mid-afternoon, he hastened off to his herd and took them lower down the Crackenback, where, if there were snow, they would be sheltered. Before they had reached the glade to which he was taking them, the wind was howling over the mountain-top and bringing with it biting flakes of snow. The foals were frightened and kept getting under their mothers’ feet. Thowra felt responsible for them and stayed with them in the gathering storm. His knees were bruised and stiff from their rap on the fence, and he was glad to be with his mares.

  All night long the cold snow fell. At Dead Horse hut the men gave up hoping for the cream stallion to come, and worried about their own horses. The pack-horses were better off than the two riding-horses because there were trees in the paddock under which they could shelter.

  Golden’s owner was particularly worried. There was not room for even one horse to stand in the skillion; it was full of wood and bags of salt.

  At midnight they decided to turn them out of the yard into the horse paddock. Already the snow lay inches deep on the ground; covered rails and fence-posts; slithered with a soft thud off the trees. The cream filly and the bay horse walked gladly through the gate and towards a clump of trees.

  The men sloshed their way through the snow back to the hut, shook the flakes off their coats, threw more wood on the fire, and settled down again for what remained of the night.

  It was in the heavy, dark hours of the very early morning, when the blizzard was at its height, that Thowra came.

  He had to walk right to the yard before he was sure it was empty, then he went, silent-footed in the snow, right up to the skillion, but there was nothing there. He went back to the horse-paddock fence and followed it till it went through some trees. Here he could hear the snuffling and shuffling of quite a number of horses and guessed Golden would be with them.

  He retreated a little way until he found a panel of fencing over which he thought he might be able to jump — it was not so much the height of the fence that bothered him, but rather where it was and where to jump — in the blizzard it was difficult to see anything clearly. He cantered towards it, making an enormous leap.

  The snow beat in his eyes, hit his legs, his chest, his belly. He was flying through the blizzard — waiting for the ghastly check of biting barbed wire if he had miscalculated his jump. But there was no check, no terrible bite of wire on his legs. He slithered a little on landing and drew a huge breath of relief. He was safely over!

  He jogged down the fence line until he came to the trees, then sneaked in, moving silently from tree to tree, conscious of every sound, feeling the cold touch of the snow on his coat. It was easy to see the dark-coloured horses, as he drew close to them, but Golden, like himself, was invisible in the snowstorm, and it was Golden he must find.

  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.

  Challenge and escape

  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 maste
r.

  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.