Brumby's Run

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘Of course not. That would seem prudent.’

  Jesus, he really was Mr Literal. The afternoon heat swiftly chased away the chill from her frozen legs. She hurried back, grabbed her clothes and dressed in the privacy of the hut. Why she should be so modest about putting clothes back on was a mystery to her.

  ‘Whose horses?’ he asked when she emerged.

  Sam didn’t answer. She wasn’t quite sure who they actually belonged to, and, anyway, shouldn’t she be the one asking the questions here?

  ‘Who exactly are you?’ she demanded.

  The man extended his arm. ‘Balleroo park ranger Karl Richter, at your service.’ She shook his hand, which was smooth with a gentle grip. ‘These are feral horses, then?’

  She didn’t like the way he said feral horses. The term stripped them of their dignity. ‘They’re brumbies, with a few saddle horses amongst them.’

  The man looked suddenly stern. ‘I suppose you know that a permit is required to remove feral horses from the park?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sorry, I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to talk to Drew Chandler.’

  ‘Chandler,’ said the ranger, rolling the name around on his tongue. ‘Owns Kilmarnock Station, right?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Drew and his dad Bill do, yes.’

  ‘This area is not part of the grazing trial,’ said Karl. ‘Cattle have been roaming illegally here for weeks. Once I identify their owner, somebody’s in a lot of trouble.’ He frowned. ‘I’m new and don’t know the locals yet, but I’ve been briefed that either the Chandlers or the Kellys are the most likely culprits. Your surname isn’t Chandler, is it? Or Kelly, perhaps?’

  Sam didn’t know what to say, mind spinning through the possible responses, weighing them up. Karl was new, didn’t know folk – that’s what he’d said. She could take advantage of that ignorance. ‘My name’s Samantha Carmichael and I live in Melbourne,’ she said. ‘I’m just visiting Currajong.’

  Karl gave her a searching look, then walked over to the yards and peered through the rails at Chiquita. Jarrang took offence. The stallion laid his ears flat back and, accompanied by a series of ferocious snorts, thundered to the fence. The ranger leapt back. Something in his manner told Sam that Karl knew nothing about horses. ‘Christ almighty, you could have warned me.’

  ‘Like you warned me about your deadly snake?’ asked Sam.

  Karl laughed. ‘Touché, Miss Carmichael. I suppose that vicious brute is one of the brumbies?’

  Sam ignored his stupid comment. All this talk of permits had her worried. Had Drew run this round-up by the book or not? Could Karl confiscate the mob if the paperwork wasn’t in order? What would happen to the horses then? ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘That’s Jarrang. He’s mine, along with the baldie-faced bay. And the golden chestnut mare belongs to the Chandlers.’ Karl looked around vaguely. It was obvious that he couldn’t identify the particular horses by reference to their coat colours. And anybody with any horse sense would guess Jarrang was no stock horse. Karl didn’t have a clue. Sam almost claimed the grey filly as well, but Drew had been so insistent that she must go with the others.

  The ranger approached the yards again, wary this time. ‘That’s ten ferals then. I’ll be checking someone holds a valid licence to remove them. Don’t misunderstand me, you’re doing a good job here. There’s a plan to eliminate wild horses from the park completely. Management’s even considering an aerial cull.’

  ‘What?’ said Sam, with a growing sense of horror. ‘You don’t mean shoot them?

  Karl nodded. ‘It’s a crazy idea, if you ask me,’ he said. ‘A public-relations disaster. But one way or another, the brumbies have to go.’ Jarrang reared. Carl backed off with such haste that he stumbled over a grassy tussock and almost fell. ‘Well,’ he said, regaining his balance. ‘If you see Bill Chandler or Mary Kelly, let them know I want a word.’ He handed Sam his card. ‘Now you’re dressed, you have a pocket to put it in. How very convenient.’ What a nerve. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Carmichael. You look quite fetching in your underwear, by the way.’ She wanted to slap him. Instead she just watched him climb into his jeep and head off in a cloud of dust.

  The scorching sun was already sinking low in the western sky before the truck bumped back up the road. Sam’s heart lifted at the sight of it. Drew’s face grinned at her from the cab. He’d brought a hamper of choice sandwiches and pastries prepared by Mai, which Sam wolfed down, along with a bottle of warm lemonade.

  They loaded Tambo first, then Chiquita. ‘How are we going to do this?’ asked Sam, pointing to the stallion, who was climbing the rails.

  ‘Why don’t you just let him go?’ suggested Drew. ‘Save yourself a world of trouble.’ Sam shook her head. She told Drew of Karl’s visit, and of the proposal to cull all the brumbies. She left out the bit about the snake, and being caught in her undies. ‘I heard they’d hired a new ranger,’ he said. ‘The last bloke was a lazy so-and-so, never gave us any trouble.’

  ‘This one seems keen,’ said Sam.

  ‘That’s a bugger then. Okay, let’s get Jarrang loaded. We can’t have him being used for target practice, now can we?’ Sam was prepared for a long and difficult fight to get the stallion on the truck. But Jarrang ascended the ramp with surprising alacrity, and began to preen Chiquita’s neck. ‘He’d follow that mare anywhere,’ said Drew. ‘And remember, Jarrang was hand-raised. He doesn’t have the same fear or respect for all things human as a normal, wild-born brumby does.’

  Tambo took advantage of Chiquita’s close proximity to sniff her flanks, then her tail. He tilted his head up and curled his lip, savouring the mare’s scent. The stock crate rattled and shook as a jealous Jarrang made a concerted effort to attack him through the steel partition. Tambo snapped back.

  ‘Tambo’s a gelding,’ said Sam. ‘Why’s he interested in Chiquita?’

  Drew double-checked the tailgate. ‘He can dream, can’t he?’ said Drew with a grin.

  ‘Will those two fight then,’ asked Sam, ‘when I get them home?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Drew. ‘Although Jarrang won’t be so full of himself without his mares. They’ll have nothing to argue about.’

  An orange sunset streaked the sky by the time they unloaded the horses at Brumby’s Run. The air was still oppressively hot. What Sam wouldn’t do for air conditioning … Drew helped her settle Jarrang and Tambo in adjoining yards. Then he reloaded Chiquita. ‘Time to say goodbye to your girlfriend.’ The stallion reared. Drew climbed into the cab of the truck and set off down the track. Chiquita and Jarrang exchanged frantic neighs until the truck was out of earshot. Then, just as Drew had predicted, the buckskin fell quiet. More than that, he was positively lounging – head low, ears relaxed, resting a back foot. No male posturing at all.

  Tambo boldly touched his nose to Jarrang’s. With rivalries apparently forgotten, the stallion pricked his ears in polite acknowledgement, then resumed his nap. Sam burst out laughing, in spite of her exhaustion and headache and sunburn. For some unaccountable reason, she was reminded of New Year’s Eve. Maybe men were like that too? Only at each other’s throats when you added a girl to the mix? Perhaps Spike and Drew would have behaved like old mates as well, if they’d met down the pub that night, instead of in Sam’s kitchen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was Sam’s first picnic race day. The quiet, almost deserted race-course where she worked each day with Bushy and the brumbies had been transformed into a vibrant festival of colour and crowds. She looked warily around, keeping her hat pulled down firmly over her eyes. Such a public outing was fraught with risk. Which identity was she supposed to claim?

  ‘Here you go,’ said Drew. ‘One roast-beef roll and a Coke.’

  It had been three weeks since New Year’s Eve, and there’d been a certain tension between them. Sam had no idea what to do about it. The odd glance, the odd brush of the hand or leg told her that the story wasn’t over. And yet Drew remained attentive and helpful,
but that was all. Sam was utterly bewildered. Had she done something to cause him to back off?

  In his father’s absence, Drew had organised the removal of Kilmarnock cattle from Brumby’s Run. They’d spent the weekend before mustering the Kelly herd home, watching the cows and calves reclaim the rich pastures and shady creek flats that belonged to them. He’d cut out the bulls, trucked them to the Wodonga livestock exchange and returned with a cheque made out to M Kelly. Sam had proudly deposited it into Mary’s account the next morning. The rush of pleasure and pride provoked by that achievement was in no way proportionate to the small sum involved.

  To say thanks, Sam had cooked dinner for Drew. If she was honest with herself, she’d hoped for a repeat of New Year’s Eve, minus the interruption. She’d found instructions for doing a Sunday roast in a dusty cookbook, and had spent an afternoon struggling to understand the mysteries of Mary’s ancient oven. The bottom rack seemed barely to warm food at all. The top rack burned everything to cinders. With a great deal of trial and error, she’d turned out a passable meal, with all the trimmings. Drew had been full of praise, devoured several helpings, then finished off the tiny tub of toffee ice-cream that barely fitted in her miniscule freezer. He’d complimented her on dessert as if she’d made it herself. Afterwards they’d played poker for matchsticks, and drunk cider until midnight. And still nothing.

  She’d been weak with anticipation when, at the end of the evening, Drew had finally gathered her into his arms by the door. But a brief, almost perfunctory kiss on the lips was all that followed. Then he was gone, into the bright night. She’d wandered across to visit Tambo and Jarrang, her mind in turmoil. The stallion had half-reared at her approach, a levade equal in elegance to any performed at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna. The moon’s orb loomed low on the horizon. Stars pricked the roof of the sky, dazzling in their brilliance, and a warm wind played through the trees. It had been a night tailor-made for romance. Wasted.

  ‘Watch this,’ said Drew, dragging her thoughts back to the present. He pointed to a sheep-dog display going on in the arena. Sam surreptitiously studied his handsome face in profile. What on earth was she doing wrong?

  ‘Let’s eat lunch in the stands,’ she suggested. Sam loved the Federation timber and cast-iron grandstand, so full of old-world bush charm. Together they climbed the wooden stairs beneath the broad verandah, and wove their way through the throng to a space near the top. ‘Now,’ said Sam, as she gazed across the track to the forested mountainside beyond. ‘Can we go through the plan one more time?’

  ‘There’s not much to it,’ said Drew, downing half a hot dog in one bite. ‘We meet the bloke before the auction and make an offer. Don’t worry, I’ll suss out the auctioneer on the price first.’

  ‘When do I get to see these horses I’m supposed to be buying?’ asked Sam.

  ‘The truck from Gidgee isn’t here yet. But like I said,’ Drew swallowed the other half of the hot dog, ‘I’ve already checked them out.’ Sam couldn’t quite believe it. In the space of a month she’d be going from completely horseless to buying ten in one fell swoop.

  Charlie had loved the idea of setting up a trail-riding business. ‘Fantastic,’ she’d said. ‘I know every inch of Balleroo. We could do a ride to Maroong Mountain, with the best view in Victoria. And Bluff Falls could be another. What about platypus-watching in Snake Creek? Or brumby-spotting? Maybe an eco ride, visiting endangered alpine bogs.’

  Sam was encouraged to hear the strength and enthusiasm in her sister’s voice. But she couldn’t help wondering how practical the plan really was. When would Charlie, realistically, be fit enough to conduct these rides? She’d need a lot of help, and for an extended period. You couldn’t run such an operation by yourself. There were costs too, for insurance and registration fees. Permits to ride in the national park. So many rules and regulations to comply with. Would they need to provide food for clients? What about toilets? First aid? Riding equipment? And the most important question of all: what would happen when Sam took up her university course in Melbourne in a month’s time? The prospect of leaving Brumby’s Run, of leaving Drew, was gut-wrenching.

  Drew had dismissed Sam’s fears out of hand. ‘You can count on me,’ he’d said. ‘Tom’s got Kilmarnock running like clockwork. It’s so much easier with Dad away. He makes such a big production of everything. I reckon Tom will manage fine without me for a bit.’

  ‘For a bit?’ she’d said. ‘We’re going to need help for more than a bit.’ But that wasn’t true. It wouldn’t be we. Soon it would be Charlie alone who’d need Drew’s help.

  ‘For longer then,’ Drew had responded. ‘Let’s just concentrate on getting our hands on those horses.’ Sam’s imagination took flight. Drew and Charlie, working side by side, building up the business. Riding the wild slopes of Balleroo without her. Sam suddenly lost her appetite. ‘You’ve got a bit of gravy on you,’ said Drew. He reached out his hand, dabbing gently at her chin with a paper serviette. Sam shivered, but just as soon as his hand touched her skin it was gone again.

  Drew turned away to hide his frustration. It was maddening. He’d simply reached out to wipe Sam’s chin, and had almost wiped away his resolve instead. His resolve not to fall for her. The moment he’d touched her, Drew knew he was in trouble. It had taken all his determination to keep his distance from Sam over these past weeks. Sam hadn’t made it easy. She’d been giving him every come-on signal in the book. The flick of her head, the intense eye contact, the half-smile that promised something good, something wonderful. It took a monumental effort to resist. Then Drew thought back to New Year’s Eve and it was suddenly easy.

  That night, when Spike had shown up. The night when Drew had remembered why he didn’t want to mess with the Kelly girls – or the Carmichael girls, or whatever they were called. Not again, mate, he’d told himself. He’d seen it too many times before, the way girls looked at that puffed-up narcissist. He’d seen it with Charlie. It was the same way Sam had looked at Spike that evening. He’d been about to take her to bed, and next thing she’s making goo-goo eyes at Captain Fantastic. And then there was the knowledge that Sam was hiding something from him – like the real reason she was at Brumby’s Run, and where exactly her sister and mother might be. It was enough to make a bloke seriously gun-shy.

  A piercing double whistle blasted him right out of his reverie. Speak of the devil. Spike bounded up the grandstand, two stairs at a time, a broad grin on his stupid face. Drew groaned. He’d thought Spike was still safely away on the rodeo circuit.

  ‘You two kids having fun?’ Spike punched him lightly in the arm. Drew gave him a sour smile, his hand clenching into a fist.

  ‘Hear you’re after Terry Mitchell’s horses,’ said Spike. ‘What’s up with that?’ Sam opened her mouth to speak, but Drew’s black expression must have warned her off. Spike sat and lit a cigarette with maddening patience. ‘Don’t all talk at once.’ The cold shoulder didn’t seem to worry him one bit. Spike seemed perfectly happy just to sit and stare at Sam.

  ‘Those horses are for Brumby’s Run,’ said Sam at last. ‘We’re thinking of branching out into trail rides.’

  ‘We?’ asked Spike. ‘You’re a we now? I do so hope you’re talking business partners only.’ A loudspeaker announced the next race, the Currajong Ladies’ Bracelet. Spike blew a series of expert smoke rings. ‘And it doesn’t hurt that four of Terry’s mares are registered stock horses, now does it?’ Spike moved closer to Sam. She crossed her legs as he lowered his voice and stage-whispered in her ear. ‘Drew wanted an Aussie stock-horse stud for Christmas, but Daddy wouldn’t buy him one.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his fore-finger. ‘Looks like you’re going to be Santa Claus instead.’

  ‘Fuck off, Spike,’ said Drew roughly, and pulled Sam to her feet. ‘Or better still, we will.’ He bustled her down the steps, out into the throng, and over to a grassy spectator mound. Time to change the subject. ‘See there?’ said Drew, pointing to where transports were pulling up at th
e stock pens behind the racecourse. ‘Our horses have arrived.’

  The Mitchell horses milled about in the yard. Six mares: two chestnuts, two creamies, a brown and a black. Two solid taffy geldings with flaxen manes and tails, and a pair of skewbald ponies with the longest blond forelocks and eyelashes Sam had ever seen. ‘They’re all gorgeous,’ she said to Drew, pleasantly surprised. The label of ‘trail horse’ had conjured up an image of worn-out riding-school hacks. One of the ponies came up to the rails and explored Sam’s outstretched hand with its warm, whiffling muzzle.

  ‘Knew you’d like them,’ said Drew. He was looking pretty smug. ‘Those two mares in the corner?’ He pointed to the pair of classy chestnuts with white stars. ‘They’re in foal to Condamine Joe. That horse is a legend, and he carries a double Abbey cross in his pedigree.’

  To judge by the excitement on his face, this was something very special indeed. However, Spike’s words still echoed disturbingly in her ear. ‘What use will broodmares be in a trail-riding operation?’ she asked. Drew wasn’t listening. Instead he was up and over the rail, talking to a stout elderly man in a blue singlet. Why hadn’t they thought this through more carefully? She didn’t even know by what name she should introduce herself.

  Sam climbed over the fence, and with an apologetic smile to the man pulled Drew aside. ‘Who does he think I am?’ she whispered.

  ‘Does it matter?’ asked Drew.

  ‘Of course it matters. I’m not committing fraud by signing my sister’s name on any transfer papers.’ Sam could hear the rising irritation in her voice. ‘And what about the cost? What’s he asking?’

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ said Drew, glancing around as if somebody might be eavesdropping. ‘Three thousand bucks for the lot, including all their gear. The sentimental old codger has a mind to keep the string together.’

  Sam did some quick thinking. It would leave her with next to no savings, but she couldn’t argue with that price. And Bushy paid her a modest wage in cash each week. If it came to the worst, she could always ask her father for more money. Equine buying and selling certainly was a different proposition back home in Melbourne. Trials, guarantees, insurance, exhaustive vet checks. That would have been the deal when Andrew bought Pharaoh. But here in Currajong, she was contemplating buying ten horses without ever having seen them ridden. A pig in a poke, as Bushy would say. All she had was Drew’s vague assurance that he’d ‘checked them out’. It was madness.