The Silver Brumby

by Elyne Mitchell

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 t
here 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.

  Thowra in flight

  Now that Arrow was dead, Thowra could be undisputed king of any other stallions who spent the summer with his herd on Paddy Rush’s Bogong, and there was more room there than on the Brindle Bull. Pleased to be going there, he led his mares to the old grazing ground where he had been with Yarraman’s herd when he was as small as his own foals.

  It was exciting, too, going over all the country that he and Storm had explored; finding some scrub grown far thicker, some burnt and offering no cover at all; finding again the rock paths and the ravine where they had lost Arrow.

  He examined very closely the cliff that Bel Bel and Mirri had once made them jump down to avoid the manhunt, and realized it still offered a good place of escape. He showed it to Golden and taught her how to make the twisting jump that was needed, then showed her the way into the scrub. Always he was teaching her to be quiet and try and leave no track, and at last she had lost the fourth shoe.

  Boon Boon, with her cream foal, might become the object of a hunt, too, so she also tried to jump down the cliff, and then took her foal over it.

  Every day, Thowra went to a vantage spot where he could look out over the Crackenback towards the Dead Horse hut, and spent hours watching. Somehow he was sure the owner of Golden would not be long in returning. And only about five days after they had reached Paddy Rush’s Bogong, he saw the far-away specks of men on horseback heading towards the Brindle Bull. Just for a moment they were visible, then they had vanished into the bush. He went back to the herd and took them off into some almost impenetrable scrub, the snow-gums and heather closing around them and leaving no trace.

  There was a tiny clearing on the banks of a creek, inside their hiding-place; and the foals lay there, beside their mothers, while the mares and stallion listened and listened all day long.

  At night they all crept out to feed with the shy wombats and wallabies, and listened to the mopokes calling. Just before dawn, they were hidden again in the silent, aromatic scrub. Another day started to pass very slowly. The sky had become grey-milky, and the black cockatoos were crying in the trees. The still air in their clearing became very oppressive. Thowra felt his coat pricking uncomfortably. It was too still, and the cockatoos’ cry was full of foreboding. He wished he knew what was happening on the Brindle Bull.

  The wind started to blow, hot and menacing, and the silence was broken by the roar it made through the trees, by the groaning, lashing boughs. Thowra was now thoroughly uncomfortable. Even through the torrent of sound made by the storm he thought he could hear movement on the mountain — not galloping, but animals creeping, hiding.

  Ordering the herd to stay absolutely quiet, he went cautiously out through the dense scrub, working this way and that so that he could be sure no enemies were approaching through the cover to their hiding place. He saw nothing until he reached the very edge of the belt of timber and heather. The long, clear glade beyond was empty, but, moving along through the next belt of trees, he could see, in amongst the bending, wind-contorted limbs, a file of horses, with small grey foals beside their mothers, and there, in the lead, just behind The Brolga, was his own mother, Bel Bel.

  Something must have made Bel Bel look in his direction. He was sure he was hidden from sight, but it was as though she looked through all the leaves and heather hiding him, and saw his eyes. She moved her head in a nod of recognition, but made no other sign.

  Thowra went back to his herd. That night he would not let them go out to graze. Tremendous rain started soon after dark, and they took shelter under the thick trees, but they were all getting hungry and restless. Thowra himself wandered to and fro through the scrub.

  At last, after midnight, he saw Bel Bel coming through the rain and the darkness, through the grotesquely moving trees.

  ‘Well, my son of the wind and the rain and the storm,’ she said, ‘it would seem as if you have brought more than a little trouble on us all through stealing this filly from the men.’

  ‘What has happened?’ asked Thowra.

  ‘The Brolga is very angry,’ she said. ‘The men came, creeping, searching, trying to find you and this filly they call Golden. There were men everywhere. At first they did not bother about us, but then perhaps they were angry that they did not find you, and they started chasing and roping. That’s why we left. Next they will come here. You will have to go farther away.’

  ‘I know this mountain and all its hiding-places very well,’ Thowra said.

  ‘Yes, my son, I know you do, but there are a lot of you to hide. You will have to go farther down the river. The country is rough there and the grazing is not good, but it would be better to have a summer of poor food — and to remain free.’

  As she spoke Thowra saw the fire and sparkle in her eyes. She was old now, but the courage of the ‘lone wolf’ mare was undiminished.

  “Where is Mirri?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Mirri died last year,’ Bel Bel answered sadly. ‘It will be my turn soon, but I have a great wish that my bones should bleach up high on the Ramshead.’

  ‘And mine, too, some day,’ Thowra said. ‘What does The Brolga mean to do now? Stay here, or go back to his grounds on the Brindle Bull?’

  ‘I don’t know. He may fancy this mountain and hunt you out.’

  ‘Hunt me out!’

  ‘Yes. You couldn’t beat him in a fight. He’d like Golden, too, you know that.’

  ‘Oh well,’ Thowra said. ‘I’ll wait and see where he goes, and what the men do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t wait. I’d go before the men come after you because of your beautiful cream hide and the filly’s, or before The Brolga kills you for both.’ And Bel Bel was gone as silently as she had come, fading into the dark and the storm, vanishing behind the beating, wind-twisted boughs of the snowgums.

  Thowra thought over what she had said. His mother knew so much, and all she had taught him had been good. He knew it would be better to go now, taking his herd away under cover of the night and the wild rain.

  Ghost-like, he flitted back through the scrub: like ghosts his herd followed him out, and followed him all through the night, up and down steep slopes, over rocks, across streams, along the soft snowgrass glades, around the top of Paddy Rush’s Bogong and down the other side: up and down and along ever rougher and rougher country.

  Dawn came, and across a break in the stormy eastern sky a flight of
brown teal winged their way. There was water close, plenty of water, in the Crackenback River and many small creeks, but the grass grew only in odd tussocks, and the herd was very hungry.

  Thowra led them on and on. Somewhere, he thought, there must be better grazing than this. Down on the river there might be more grass, but men came there. The only thing to do was to cut away from the river, and see what lay in the hills.

  In the weeks that followed, Thowra taught Golden all he could about the bush, about keeping herself hidden, about making no sound, and leaving no track.

  One night, Boon Boon came to him.

  ‘There is not enough food here for mares that are feeding hungry foals,’ she said. ‘We are getting thin and weak, and our foals do not grow enough.’

  Thowra, too, was tired of the rough, uninteresting country, and of always feeling hungry.

  ‘We will go then,’ he said, ‘back to Paddy Rush’s Bogong.’

  When they got back to the mountains, he did not lead his herd straight to the grazing grounds. He left them hidden some distance away, and went up himself, late in the evening, examining the ground, the grass, the shrubs, all the way for any tracks of other horses, wild or tame. The only signs he saw were weeks old. When he carefully peered into the grazing ground, there was no one there, and as he walked all over it, looking and sniffing with the greatest thoroughness, he realized that no horses had been there for at least three weeks.

  He went back for the herd.

  After the sparse grazing on the hills down the river, the mares never lifted their heads from the sweet grass. They fed all day without ceasing. Thowra and Golden, too, were very hungry, but not with the urgent hunger of the mares with foals at foot, so when Thowra started off to have another look round, Golden followed him.

  Only scattered cattle could be seen over on the Main Range, but down on the crossing of the Crackenback there was a small mob of horses.

  ‘Storm!’ said Thowra excitedly, and started down to meet him, as usual going where he could leave no tracks and in timber where he would be invisible from the other side of the river.