Brumby's Run

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said, and inexpertly brandished the whip. It slithered across Tambo’s wither, making him shiver. Drew gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile, then rode down around the yards and hut, and back along the southern edge of the trap.

  It was a waiting game. He could just make out Tambo, further up the mountain, tucked amongst a patch of snow gums. Far enough back to escape detection, unless the brumbies headed straight for him. An hour passed. Little pestering flies crowded the corners of his lips and eyes. The sun swung higher and higher. He cleared his mind, allowed the silence to seep in, a kind of meditation. An hour passed. Clancy stamped his feet, weary of the morning vigil. Their plan required the patience of an ambush predator. Tambo remained motionless, statue-still on the hill above the yards. Two hours passed. The sun grew fierce. Drew had backed Clancy beneath the shade of a black wattle. The horse dozed sporadically, resting a hind foot. Drew’s left foot insisted on going to sleep.

  He felt them before he heard them. A certain low vibration, travelling through Clancy’s body into his own, alerting them both. In the distance, the faint cries of men and the drumming of hoofs. Careful now. Don’t show yourself without cause. Let the mob momentum carry the horses right through to the yards. The noise grew louder. A volley of whip cracks told him they’d tried to make a break. Drew didn’t breathe until he was sure they were still coming. Then, as they burst over the brow of the ridge, he saw them.

  An avalanche of horses in full flight, flanked either side by riders, was heading straight for the trap. There was Chiquita, in the lead. And Jarrang, bringing up the rear, galloping dangerously close to the lower hessian fence. Dust plumed in their wake, and their hammering hoofs dislodged rocks that rattled and rolled down the mountainside. Clancy trembled beneath him. Drew didn’t need to look at it through another’s eyes to appreciate the spectacle. By anyone’s measure it was a magnificent sight.

  The mob thundered closer. In another minute they’d be past him. Tom trailed close to Jarrang. The stallion’s pace lacked the panicked quality of the other brumbies’. Instead, he moved with a watchful, confident grace. If any horse broke rank, it would be him.

  As the mob drew close, Clancy’s excitement got the better of him. He raised his head and let out a long, trumpeting neigh. The sound quivered right through his body, through the saddle, through Drew. Without missing a beat, Jarrang veered into the hessian wing, tearing it apart at a join only metres from them. Clancy leapt forward and flung himself into the stallion’s shoulder. For one bone-jarring moment, it seemed all three of them might come crashing to earth. But as Drew recovered his balance, he plied the stockwhip with all his might, and sent Jarrang hurtling back down the hill after the herd, with Tom hard on his heels.

  The horses approached the open gate, and the riders slackened their headlong pursuit. Nobody wanted Bill’s mare to hit the yard at a dangerous gallop. With perfect timing, first Chiquita, then the brumbies surged in at a slow canter. They milled around, shapes blurred by dust, in search of an escape route. But the trap was already sprung, the slip rails in place.

  Drew glanced around for Sam. There she was, trotting back down the hill. Somehow she’d swapped her helmet for Charlie’s hat again. Sam joined him by the yards. They dismounted and surveyed their catch. Twelve horses in all. Jarrang kept a close eye on the humans, like he was assessing what danger they might pose. His mares and youngsters had arranged themselves facing the other way, at the back of the yard. They presented a solid row of round rumps. When Sam moved around the yard, the brumbies quietly rearranged themselves, maintaining the maximum possible distance between themselves and the girl.

  The two heelers emerged from the bush, wild-eyed and panting. They trotted up to Drew, tails wagging, and he leant down to pat the spent animals. Dogs were worth their weight in gold on a mountain muster. Where thick trees or scrub might turn a rider, dogs could run straight through, and set a breaking beast right back on course.

  Tom led his horse over. The gelding was lathered in sweat and caked with dust. ‘We had a bugger of a job finding them. You did well to hold that buckskin.’ Drew nodded in recognition of the compliment. Tom didn’t give them lightly. ‘We’ll leave the mob overnight to settle down. Cut Chiquita out, will you, and yard her separately. The trucks will be here in the morning.’

  Drew nodded again. ‘How about I pick Chiquita up this evening,’ said Drew, ‘along with one of the brumbies? That’ll leave just ten, two trucks’ worth. Save you making an extra trip with the truck for just one horse.’ Behind Tom’s back, Sam pressed her palms together and mouthed thank you.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Tom. ‘Want a hand?’

  ‘We’ll be right,’ said Drew. ‘I’ll drop the brumby off at the show-grounds after I’ve got Chiquita home.’

  Tom nodded. ‘There’s a nice young grey in that lot,’ he said. ‘A decent size and all. I reckon she’d suit the stock contractors. That stallion too.’ He glanced at Sam. ‘Charlie.’ The barest acknowledgement, then he led his horse off towards the troughs.

  ‘Stock contractors?’ asked Sam.

  ‘They supply bulls and bucking horses for rodeos.’ Drew didn’t like the look on Sam’s face. ‘Don’t worry. I promised you Jarrang, didn’t I?’

  ‘What about that grey Tom’s talking about?’

  ‘The Brumby Coalition buys any likely youngsters. She’ll be fine. Anyway, rodeo horses have a good enough life. Only work for maybe eight seconds a day, two days a week. There are worse gigs.’

  Sam looked unpersuaded. ‘You said the Brumby Coalition takes the young ones. What happens to the rest?’

  ‘They’ll go through the feature horse sale, next picnic race day. The sale I told you about last night – the one where you might be able to pick up that string of good trail horses, if you have a mind to.’

  ‘Will any of these brumbies go for slaughter?’

  Jesus. He really didn’t want to get into this with her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. Sam turned and moved off along the rails. Drew followed her, getting his first good look at the captured horses, standing well back so as not to stress them. He spotted the young grey straight away. Tom was right. The mare was no average brumby. Sired by Jarrang, to go by her presence and the unusual stripes on her hoofs. But she wasn’t out of any of these mares. Way too tall, for one thing. A three-year-old, he guessed, from Jarrang’s first crop of foals. Powerful body, well balanced with great bone. Clean legs. An elegant head, slightly convex in profile, and the most magnificent full mane and tail he’d ever seen. Who might her mother be?

  ‘She’s stunning,’ said Sam, eyes filled with admiration. ‘Can I have her too?’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ She didn’t look like she was joking. ‘Contract runners get captured brumbies as part payment for their work,’ he explained. ‘They’ll want them auctioned off at the highest price. It’s going to be hard enough explaining when Jarrang goes missing.’

  ‘I’ll buy her at the sale then,’ said Sam.

  ‘If you want. She’s a nice type of filly.’ Sam’s expression brightened. Drew took another look at the grey. Very nice indeed. Maybe he’d buy her himself, as a present for Sam. Chiquita pricked up her ears as Sam offered a handful of hay through the rails. Jarrang bared his teeth, warning the mare not to approach the humans. ‘Stay away,’ said Drew. ‘Just let them settle.’

  The other men didn’t stick around for long. A shared thermos of tea, a brief rest for the dogs, and they were gone. In spite of Drew’s admonitions, Sam remained glued to the rails, watching the brumbies. Jarrang watched back. Occasionally he rolled his eyes, or laid back his ears at her. ‘I reckon that stallion’s the only one in Currajong who could tell straight off that you’re not Charlie,’ said Drew. Sam smiled at him. She looked extraordinarily beautiful, face flushed pink with happiness, glossy hair escaping from a careless knot at the nape of her neck. ‘Come on,’ he said, giving himself a swift kick. ‘It’s time to cut out some horses.’

  It did
n’t prove too difficult to separate Jarrang and Chiquita from the mob. Chiquita had greedy eyes for the bucket of oats, and Jarrang had greedy eyes for Chiquita. When the mare finally slipped past her jealous keeper into the side yard, eager for a treat, he followed in an attempt to retrieve her. Drew stood guard between the two horses and the gate, stockwhip in hand, while Sam secured the sliprails. ‘Nothing to it,’ she said with a triumphant grin.

  They fed the stock and filled the troughs. ‘I want to stay here while you get the truck,’ said Sam, staring at the horses.

  ‘They won’t disappear, you know, if you take your eyes off them,’ he said. Sam didn’t answer, didn’t even look around. The brumbies had apparently hypnotised her. With the exception of Jarrang, the horses paid no attention to Sam, as if by determinedly ignoring their captor she might go away. A dun foal, the baby of the group, occasionally peeked at the humans from between its mother’s legs. The others stood with backs turned, deceptively quiet in the fierce noonday heat. They could have been a string of riding-school horses on a lunchtime break. Only Jarrang remained vigilant.

  Drew untied Clancy and swung into the saddle. ‘You sure you’ll be okay, out here by yourself?’ She didn’t seem to hear him. ‘Sam?’ This time he was louder. At last she turned around.

  ‘What about Jarrang?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll pick him up this arvo, along with Tambo and Chiquita, drop him off at your place on the way through. Got your phone?’

  Sam nodded. ‘What will you tell Tom?’

  ‘That I lost him. He’ll think I’m a fuckwit, but what can he do?’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Sam. ‘Just wait until I tell Charlie.’

  Drew wheeled Clancy around. ‘Don’t thank me too soon,’ he said, pointing to Jarrang. ‘That bugger’s trouble on four legs. You might be cursing me before too long.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was hot, too hot. The glare of the sun made Sam squint. She fanned herself with Charlie’s hat. Its broad-brimmed protection hadn’t been enough, and a deep flush of heat warned that her nose and cheeks would be painfully red and sunburned by morning. Why hadn’t she bothered with sunscreen? Back home, she wouldn’t even walk down the street without following her mother’s carefully prescribed skin-care regime. Yet out here in the bush? In the sun, with the flies and the dust and the heat? Out here, it didn’t seem important.

  At least the heat took her mind off Drew. She had no idea what had happened between them. Last night they’d been – well, she’d been – she didn’t really know, but she’d been ready to do just about anything for him. And now, while Drew wasn’t cold, he was treating her with a certain distance. If only she had someone to talk to about it. Maybe Charlie could help? On second thoughts, maybe not. Sam had the feeling there was history between Drew and Charlie, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it was.

  She turned back to the horses. Eleven brumbies in all. Jarrang, six mares, three yearlings and the foal. Most were bays, very cob in type, with lightly feathered legs and lots of white markings. Superior height and conformation set Jarrang and the young grey well and truly apart from the rest. The pair were in top condition. From a distance they’d all looked well, with shiny summer coats and fat bellies. But on closer inspection, the others weren’t so good. Skinny necks, prominent ribs, jutting hip bones. Their fat bellies were more indicative of pregnancy or a load of worms than anything else. Bushy had dispelled Sam’s romantic notions about brumbies. Bugger of a life, especially for a mare. Pregnant, back to back, when you’re no more than a baby yourself. There’s droughts and freezing winters. Parasites. Wild dogs take foals. Injury’s a death sentence. To top it off, them brumby-runner fellas are out to get you.

  Sam came from a world where horses lived in pine-lined loose boxes and sheltered day yards. They ate nutritionally balanced pellet and grain mixes, wore satin hoods and rugs, and travelled in padded floats, with bandaged legs and sheepskin boots. An image of Pharaoh came to mind. What would he make of this harsh, magnificent place?

  Sweat dripped from her nose. It was so hot that even the ants had gone to ground. Defeated by the sun, she sought out the shade of the hut’s little verandah. The plastic water bottle in her saddlebag was warm, its contents unappetising. The creek presented a far more inviting option. Sam checked her phone. Hours yet before Drew returned with the truck.

  She slipped from her shirt and jeans, and left them on the porch. Dressed only in her bra, panties and riding boots, Sam made her way to the creek. Giant tree-fern fronds filtered the light here in this cool haven from the dust and flies. Soon her boots lay discarded on the bank. Smooth pebbles and damp river sand lodged between her toes. The stream, when it hit her feet, was painfully cold. She let out an involuntary squeal. Hard to believe that the heat of the air and the ice of the water could exist in such delicious proximity. Soon she was numb to her knees, her thighs, her sensitive waist. Fallen logs, woven together, had created a natural dam. When she stood in the deepest part of the creek, the water reached her breasts. The cool sensation on her nipples made her think of Drew; of his hands, and the charge that had spread through her body at his touch. Enough of that, she told herself.

  Sam paused midstream. The trick was not to imagine the biting creatures that Drew had so kindly alerted her to: the water bugs and yabbies; the snakes. But the creek was as clear as glass, transparent as the water in her swimming pool at home. Surely she’d spot any danger? Sam ducked down and let her hair fan out on the water. Heaven. She could linger in this shady sanctuary forever.

  It was then she saw it. The striped, bronze reptilian head, barely wider than its dark copper body. It slid from the bracken towards the creek, forked tongue flicking in and out, tasting the air. Tasting her? Keep still, wasn’t that the advice? She hardly dared to breathe. The snake stopped, frozen like Sam herself, the pair locked in a deadly stand-off. An intricate pattern of pale cream scales striped its gleaming length. The creature had been handpainted by a grand master. Was she safe in the water? She didn’t know, didn’t know enough about snakes, didn’t know enough about living in the bush. She should be in Le Midi, relaxing at her grandmother’s elegant villa in Provence. It was such a safe place, filled with history and art. She tried to imagine it – no yarding of untamed horses, no confusing romantic notions, no snakes.

  But her imagination reached no further than Brumby’s Run. The idea of this wilderness had consumed earlier images of gentler places. Her calves ached, yet her thighs were numb. For how long could she stand so still? She guessed the patient reptile could outwait her. They stared at each other. Its eyes were twin yellow globes. They blazed with a sort of fire, beautiful and mesmerising. Like being lost staring into flames. She understood how helpless the snake’s prey might feel, caught in that hypnotic gaze.

  Was that an engine? Surely Drew couldn’t be back with the truck yet. Or had fright made her lose all track of time? Sam wanted to call out, to scream for help. But that might antagonise the snake. It lay wound in elegant coils on the bank, still intent upon her, to judge by its stare. The sound of the motor grew louder and louder, then stopped. Perhaps she should make a run for it? Or should she just stay still, and wait for Drew to come and find her? The snake raised its head. Sam let out an involuntary scream. It flared its neck a fraction, looked left, looked right, then slid into the pool. Barely breaking the surface tension, it glided towards her in a serpentine pattern, the first quarter of its metre-long body rearing from the water.

  A figure appeared at the periphery of her vision. ‘Don’t move,’ said an unfamiliar male voice. Even more surprising was that the voice had a German accent. Sam couldn’t have moved even if she’d wanted to, frozen as she was, legs dead from cold, with the snake closing in. If she took her eyes off it for even a second, she knew it would strike.

  ‘Don’t scare her. She won’t hurt you if you stay still.’ Who was that? And how the hell did he know? The snake lowered its head so the full length of its bronze body sail
ed on the surface.

  Only centimetres away now, it paused. ‘Hold your nerve,’ said the voice. The snake reached out with infinite slowness. Sam willed herself to stone, felt the fleeting tickle of a forked tongue on her goose-fleshed arm. She flinched, and the snake vanished into the reeds. Sam remembered to breathe again, relief flooding her body and leaving her limp with shock.

  A man dressed in khaki stood on the bank. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, slim and athletic-looking, with close-cropped blond hair and serious grey eyes. ‘You’ve had a close encounter with Austrelaps ramsayi. Gravid, I’d guess, by her girth. A rare privilege.’

  Sam staggered from the pool, all too conscious that she wore only underwear. Her nipples pushed, embarrassingly erect, against the translucent wet cotton of her bra. She wrapped her arms around her chest, convulsed all over with violent shivers. ‘So it wasn’t dangerous?’ she asked, teeth chattering from more than cold.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the man. His tone was clipped and formal, such a contrast to the usual Aussie country drawl. ‘Alpine copperheads are extremely dangerous. Quite capable of inflicting fatal bites.’

  ‘Then why did you say it wouldn’t hurt me?’ she asked, incredulous.

  ‘I didn’t think it would,’ he answered calmly. ‘They’re shy, not usually aggressive. Bites are uncommon.’

  ‘Uncommon?’ repeated Sam. She’d meant the word to drip with sarcasm, but the stranger either misunderstood or deliberately overlooked her intent.

  ‘Yes, quite uncommon. Even on land, a snake can only strike a distance of half its body length. A snake in water does not have a solid surface to thrust against, so its striking ability while swimming is quite limited. You were probably in no danger.’

  She wanted to scream, to shout at this idiot whose only advice during an encounter with a deadly snake was not to scare it. But confronting a strange man while so scantily clad was not ideal. ‘Do you mind if I get dressed?’