It was late afternoon when the two horses met. Red sunlight gilded Thowra as he advanced, playfully rearing, to meet his half-brother, his brother of the wind and the rain.
Storm reared up, too, a magnificent bay horse now, and they nipped each other joyfully, cavorted and danced. At last, when their greetings were over, Thowra asked:
‘Are you coming to the grazing ground?’
‘For a night or perhaps two,’ Storm answered. ‘The men seek everywhere for you and Golden, and anyway there will be too many of us.’
As they climbed up the hill, Thowra reflected how his theft of Golden had made life very dangerous and uncomfortable — how everyone said so, and yet no one seemed to blame him for taking her. He remembered that night at the Dead Horse hut, when he had first rubbed noses with her through the rails, and knew he would steal her all over again if he had to. He looked back at her, saw her putting her neat hooves carefully where he put his, saw her outlined in burning gold by the setting sun. She was lovely, and she was his.
Storm had four mares and foals with him. It would mean quite a number of them on the grazing ground if they all stayed together. Storm was probably wise not to stay long, but, now that they were together, he realized how much he had missed his company.
‘Where have you just come from?’ he asked Storm.
‘The back of the Brindle Bull.’
‘What’s going on there?’
‘Well, men are always appearing everywhere. They don’t bother about us ordinary coloured horses, but they make things pretty uncertain. Also, there’s no room for anyone else but The Brolga there.’ Then, as he walked along beside Thowra, he added: ‘I didn’t really expect to find you here. Wouldn’t be surprised if The Brolga doesn’t come over and fight you for Golden — and, anyway, the men will come here soon.’
‘Couldn’t find enough good grass anywhere else, but I like this country,’ said Thowra, ‘and I know all the hiding places.’
They went steadily on up the hill, not hurrying the mares and foals, and keeping well inside the timber. They did not see a man sitting absolutely still on a chestnut horse high up on a rocky crag. The man stared and stared at the movement in the timber, then he, too, went on up the mountain.
Only a man who had begun to know something of the silver brumby’s cunning would have guessed that he was there in the trees — that the faint suggestion of movement in the timber meant horses led by ‘Silver’. This man was Thowra’s old enemy, the man on the black horse. The last of the daylight went, then, but the man had seen enough.
About an hour later, an almost full moon rose over the eastern hills, throwing its eerie light into the clearings and long glades, making queer shadows among the trees, leaving pools of darkness in deep hollows or gullies. The wild horses went on up through the timber, never having to move in clear country until they were nearly at the grazing ground.
As a matter of course, Thowra stopped and looked cautiously out through the trees before he led the other horses into the bright moonlight. This time the man was well hidden, and he saw clearly the beautiful cream stallion step out of the trees; and the man held his breath when he saw, just behind the stallion, the filly, Golden.
The horses went through the moonlit clearing and into a gully filled with black sallee trees and were lost to view again, among the long, drooping leaves, the dark boughs and trunks, the festoons of old man’s beard.
The man waited a while and then rode across the clear ground into the black sallees and followed the horses up the hill.
The herd was peacefully spread out in the wide valley when Thowra got back to them. Little foals lay asleep on the grass, sleeping mares standing over them. But Boon Boon was wide awake and neighing softly. When she saw the number of horses with Thowra she moved nervously around and stood over her little creamy foal. When they were all down in the moon-filled valley there was quite a mob of horses.
It was Thowra who heard the jangle of a bit first. He looked up, saw the horse and its rider.
‘Go!’ he urged. ‘Go all ways! Don’t stay together!’ When Golden tried to come with him he bared his teeth and turned her in another direction. A man by himself might get confused in the moonlight, and be unable to make up his mind which horse to follow. If he chased Golden, Thowra thought he might manage to cut in and confuse him — and he felt extremely confident of evading a rope.
The man did chase Golden, of course. He had made up his mind to go for her, thinking that perhaps if he caught her and tied her up, he might get her brumby stallion later. He was gaining on Golden, and had got his lasso ready, when there were suddenly two creamies galloping ahead of him, and, as soon as the second one was there, they began to twist and weave, and dodge in a way that made it almost impossible to keep them separate in his mind. But this man had learnt a lot since he first used to hunt Thowra. For one thing, he had become skilled with the rope. Several times, as they galloped, he could have lassoed Thowra — and Thowra knew this — but it was Golden he really wanted.
Just before they reached the trees would be the danger time. Then, Thowra knew, the man might rope either of them rather than lose both.
Thowra’s heart was thudding with fear and anger. The line of trees, black in the moonlight, was still some yards off. The man was almost alongside.
‘Prop and swing right round, then towards the trees again,’ he told Golden, and propped, swinging himself straight across the front of the pursuing horse.
The man must have thought very quickly and decided that he would not now get Golden before she reached the timber and its concealing shadows. The rope went whistling through the moonlight and round Thowra’s neck.
With a squeal of rage and terror the stallion galloped faster than he had ever galloped before, straight for the trees, and instead of being able to hold him, the man and his horse had to go off with him in his crazy gallop.
Thowra, maddened by the cutting rope on his neck, and the sudden, desperate fear of being caught, could only think of the trees, and the sheltering darkness underneath them. With branches stinging his face, his flanks, and whipping down his rump, he raced in amongst them. He was too frightened to plan, but without thinking lowered his head, and shot down a tunnel in the snowgums.
He could hear a great crashing behind him and the man’s voice. Then the rope went slack. For a while he barely understood that the man was no longer holding him. The rope was still round his neck, terrifying him.
Often the end of it caught on something, and pulled him up with a jerk. He did not realize his danger, but kept on in his wild flight. At last he calmed down; there was no longer a horse following him; slowly he slackened speed and stopped. By a miracle the trailing end of rope was still hanging free. Now he tried to get it off, but the noose had pulled tight around his neck and he couldn’t loosen it. He tried desperately to shake it off, not wanting to waste time in case the man followed him again. Also, he wondered where Golden was.
He struck across the hillside through the timber, but by now he was able to understand from the snagging of the long rope that, for once, he would be safer in the open grass country. Out in the long glade he trotted in a direction he hoped might lead him to Golden. He knew she would stay in the timber and wondered whether it was safe to neigh softly sometimes — otherwise he might miss her.
He neighed and stood still to listen. There was no sound, no sound to the side or in front of him, and no sound from behind where the man must be.
Trees threw long shadows across the glade. Within the timber there was heavy darkness, but on the outer fringe each tree danced, silver in a soft breeze, like living things, the moving legs of a hundred creamy horses dancing to mountain music.
Thowra trotted on. Before he had gone very far he stopped and neighed again, his ears trembling forward to catch the faintest reply. Then, ah, then, it came on the breeze, and it was definitely Golden answering, and presently he heard the deeper call of Boon Boon.
With a snort of relief, Thowra broke i
nto a canter, though not so fast that he would be brought up with a terrible jerk if the rope caught in a bush.
He neighed again, once, and they answered him: then at last he was with them. Boon Boon propped and shied away as she saw the rope trailing from his neck, but Golden nibbled at his shoulder for a second and then set to purposefully with her teeth to undo the tight slip knot.
He was free! The scent on the breeze was sweeter, the cold glitter of moonlight on the free-fluttering leaves was thrilling, the touch of the snowgrass underfoot, and the sweet taste of the creekwater — all perhaps better than they had ever been before.
Thowra drank and drank, as though he would fill his whole self with the freedom he had so nearly lost.
Horse hunt: man hunt
That night Thowra’s herd did not gather all together, and in the morning he went back to the grazing ground to see if he could find them.
The air was fresh and clear, renewed by the night. Thowra felt his old urge to leap on to the top of a crag and trumpet out his joy in being alive and free. He saw little curls of mist rise up from the river and puff away into nothingness in the breeze; he heard lyrebirds calling in the thickets round a creek, and his heart seemed to stop for a second when one mimicked the crack of a stockwhip. Then he lost his panic as the mimicking voice whistled and then barked like a dog. The man had never had a dog; it was just Menura, the lyrebird, having fun in the gay early morning.
He moved so quietly and carefully that a dingo bitch playing with her fat puppies in a patch of sunlight did not hear him coming.
‘Never mind, old woman, I won’t hurt your beautiful children,’ he said to her. ‘Tell me, have you seen sign of man near here?’
‘A man on his own two legs went towards the river a mile from here, leading a lame horse, late last night. You will smell his blood, maybe. He had cut his head, and his horse, too, bled from the shoulder.’
Thowra nodded his thanks, snuffed at the pups, and said again, with much politeness, how beautiful they were. Then he went on his way with more confidence.
He came on the man’s trail, and shied with sudden fear at the smell. A jay mocked him from the trees above.
There was still no sign of the three missing mares and their foals, or of Storm and his herd.
A silent gang-gang threw a gum-nut down on to his back. Thowra jumped and then shook himself with annoyance. Up above him, from the direction of the grazing ground, he suddenly heard a sound that made his coat prickle and the sweat break out behind his ears. He went on with far greater caution than before, circling round a little so that he could look into the grazing ground from the dense cover of some scrub.
The green valley lay below him, filled with early morning sunshine — and with a mob of horses. Running excitedly to and fro, sniffing at every trail, was The Brolga.
Thowra stood absolutely still. He knew he was hidden by snowgum branches, that he must have time to see if his own mares were there, and think what to do next. He peered through the thick leaves and soon saw that his own mares were not there. He also saw that Bel Bel was not with The Brolga’s herd and wondered if she had gone to warn him, or simply remained at the Brindle Bull.
Then he saw The Brolga pick up the trail he had made with Golden the night before, and the trail of the man chasing them. Now he knew he would have to move, and very quickly, or The Brolga might find what remained of his herd. He hurried away, as fast as he could go without making a noise or leaving a trace.
He went in as straight a line as he could towards the place where he had left Golden and Boon Boon, and all the time he listened, he looked, and he sniffed the keen air for any strange scent that would tell him The Brolga — or anyone else — was near. Twice, a long way ahead of him, he thought he saw something moving, but he decided it might be a silver-grey kangaroo, or perhaps just a shadow. Then he saw it again. He looked at the ground: there was no track. He stopped and listened: there was no sound. He sniffed and just then the breeze blew back to him. Unmistakably came the scent, a scent he knew well, a scent that rose right out of his eternal memory. His nostrils quivered, his top up curled right back. Who was it? And then, of course, he knew. Bel Bel was ahead of him. He went on, faster, to catch her.
He saw her, fairly clearly ahead, saw her suddenly swing round and listen. He showed himself, and they trotted to meet each other.
‘Where are you going, little old mother?’ he asked.
‘Searching for you, my son, to bring you warning.’
‘I have seen The Brolga,’ said Thowra, ‘and he is already on to the trail that Golden and I left last night when a man chased us. I go to join what is left of my herd, and I must waste no time.’
‘I will come with you a little way.’
They trotted on together through the trees and through the mint bush that was starred with pink-mauve flowers. Here the trees’ bark was splashed with red and green. There it was pure silver where a clear creek crossed their path, and where there was a spongy swamp over which they must not leave a track.
‘Soon I must turn back,’ said Bel Bel, ‘but, before I leave you, tell me, where are you going to take your herd?’
‘Over to the hanging valley on the Brindle Bull, and when The Brolga goes away from here, we shall return.’
‘This year you must not fight him again,’ Bel Bel answered. ‘Next year you will have reached your full strength.’
‘I am faster than he,’ said Thowra.
‘Next time you fight him,’ Bel Bel said, ‘it will be either you or The Brolga, so before you fight again be sure you have all your strength and all your cunning. I must go now.’ She nuzzled him briefly on the wither, and then went off through the trees.
Thowra looked back over his shoulder several times and saw her still trotting on and then vanishing from sight. It did not seem strange to him that he and his mother had never forgotten each other. Other mares forgot their foals, foals forgot their mothers, but Bel Bel, the creamy mare, had never forgotten her cream colt foal, nor had he forgotten her, though he was now a stallion almost at his full strength.
He hurried on. The Brolga, with no need to hide his tracks, might go faster than he — and The Brolga must not find Golden and Boon Boon. Bel Bel was right; if he and The Brolga fought now for Golden, The Brolga would surely kill him.
Thowra did reach Golden and Boon Boon before The Brolga found them, but up the hillside he could hear the big grey stallion, still following the trail.
Thankfully, he saw that the rest of his herd were with the two mares. Without wasting a moment, he mustered them and drew them back up the hill and round on to the Crackenback Fall. He had to risk their movement through the bush being seen by any men over on the Main Range, rather than risk passing too close to The Brolga and having him pick up their tracks immediately.
It was just bad luck that one of the foals started a rock rolling down a long, stony slope, and worse luck that the rock kept going and gaining speed and collecting other leaping, skipping stones with it so that there was quite a clatter. There was more than enough noise to make The Brolga stop and listen. Just then a gust of wind had to blow sharply from the northwest and carry their scent straight to the trembling, sniffing grey nostrils.
Thowra heard the snort of breath being drawn through those back-curled nostrils, and knew The Brolga would be after them. He looked around for the best line of country, and saw a long rocky spine, tree-covered and precipitous — a place where the nimblest-footed horse would have a big advantage. A windhover was gliding over it.
‘The Ridge of the Hawk,’ thought Thowra. ‘That is the place for me.’ He turned to the mares: ‘Now go,’ he said. ‘Go quietly but fast. Go to the hanging valley on the Brindle Bull and wait there for me. I may be a long time. I will stay here and try to get The Brolga to follow me, or I will fight and run, and fight and run, trying to stop him catching you. Go!’
He watched the mares and foals fade away through the bush, watched the creamy filly, Golden, as the sunlight dap
pled her in glory. Then they had gone, and he waited till he heard the sound of The Brolga coming. When he knew he was close, he went very quietly and hid in thick trees on the first knoll of the Ridge of the Hawk.
The Brolga cantered into view, fierce grey head up, ears pricked — listening, not watching the tracks.
To stop him looking down and possibly seeing where the herd had gone, Thowra kicked a rock and sent it bounding down the ridge.
The Brolga swung towards the sound. Thowra moved just enough for his creamy hide to show through the trees — to show twice — then he stood still.
The Brolga gathered himself into a grey curve, like an iron hoop, and shot towards the rocky ridge.
Thowra watched him, deep-chested, powerful, the great, strong legs stretching over snowgrass and bushes. Then he went tearing down the ridge, making enough noise for ten, not just for two.
He could hear The Brolga crashing down behind him, the heavier, older horse not managing to take the rough, steep ridge so fast. Just then, he saw that the ridge split into two a little distance below, and he determined to wait, where it divided, and see if The Brolga would go headlong past him.
He hid in a cleft between two immense rocks, having first kicked a collection of boulders down the northern-most ridge. The boulders bounded down as though a small herd of brumbies were flying down the ridge. The Brolga came, and then hurtled past. Thowra was just going to move out of his cleft in the rocks and go down the other ridge, when all of a sudden he heard The Brolga’s headlong gallop slacken and stop, and, before he could get more than a few yards away from the division in the ridge, The Brolga, in a fury, was charging upwards again.
For a second, Thowra heard the echo of Bel Bel’s voice in his ears — ‘it will be either you or The Brolga’ — but he could not run away, for then The Brolga would soon guess that Golden was not with him, and start looking around for her tracks again. He would have to dodge and hide, take up as much time as he could, while the others got away, and lead The Brolga as far as possible from any tracks they might have left.
The Silver Brumby Page 11