‘Thanks,’ said Sam. ‘It’s much more fun to watch when you know what’s going on.’
Faye smiled and patted her hand. ‘You look so much like Charlie Kelly, dear. You must be related.’
A shiver ran up Sam’s spine. What was she doing, admitting to some random stranger this was her first challenge? Admitting she didn’t even know the rules? There seemed nothing for it but to fess up. ‘I’m Samantha, Charlie’s sister.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Samantha,’ said Faye. ‘I heard you were in town.’ She had? Faye pointed to Spike, leading Bailey into the ring. ‘That’s my son over there.’
Great. Spike had told his mother who she was, after promising to keep her secret. Who else had he told? ‘Spike and Charlie used to be very close.’ Faye reached out to pat her hand but Sam subtly moved it away. Unbelievable. Spike too? Did she have to get everything second-hand from her sister? Sam felt the press of people around her, like a threat. It had been foolish to come here today.
She excused herself and returned to the yards. Bushy was mixing up feeds. ‘I’ll do that,’ said Sam and snatched his bucket. What on earth had she been thinking? Best to stay close to her brumbies and avoid the crowds.
It was harder to avoid Spike, who came strutting over with his self-importance and tight jeans. ‘I’m leading on points, honey.’ She ignored him, and readied Allawarra for the three o’clock show. Spike broke into a passable rendition of ‘The Winner Takes it All’.
‘Don’t you go writing off the competition yet,’ said Bushy. ‘Drew’ll give you a run for your money.’
‘I’m ten points ahead of Chandler.’ Spike flashed Sam a devastating smile. ‘Ready for that date? I’ve got tickets for Lee Kernaghan tomorrow night.’
‘You told your mother,’ she hissed beneath her breath, flashing furious eyes at him.
‘Told her what?’ he asked in a loud voice. Sam shushed him. He shrugged his shoulders and led the filly into the arena.
When her turn came to ride Phoenix, she pleaded illness. ‘I’m dizzy and have a stomach-ache. And a headache,’ she added for good measure.
Bushy gave her the once-over and looked unconvinced. ‘Spike better do it then. You go home, and come back in the morning. You’re no use to me sick.’ He took the reins from her and led Phoenix to the gate.
When Spike finished the mouthing display, he had a quick word to Bushy and sprang onto the golden colt. Sam felt a pang of guilt and stopped to watch. It was clear Phoenix resented the unfamiliar rider. He fought Spike’s hands, tossing his head and clenching his jaw to avoid the action of the bit. Their work-out may have looked smooth enough to the uninitiated, but to anybody with a modicum of horse sense, the tussle between horse and rider was obvious. Phoenix refused to bow on exit, tensing his neck instead of yielding and flexing. When Spike persisted, the colt reared in defiance; a dramatic exit, but not at all what Bushy had intended. Sam rushed over to the sweating, agitated colt and stroked his neck while Spike dismounted.
‘What did you mean,’ he asked, ‘when you said I told my mother?’
Sam looked around to ensure Bushy wasn’t in earshot. ‘About me. You told your mother about me.’
Spike kicked the dust. ‘I didn’t tell mum. I didn’t tell anybody.’
‘Will you get that ute in the ring?’ yelled Bushy as he rode past on Banjo.
Spike nodded and extracted a set of car keys from his pocket. ‘If Mum knows something, she didn’t hear it from me.’
Now Sam was more confused than ever. If Spike was telling the truth, it meant other people in Currajong knew who she was. And if that was true, why hadn’t they called her on it? A wave of paranoia washed over her. The crowd applauded Banjo, who was responding to questions with graceful nods or tosses of his head. If only her own questions could be so easily answered. She remembered the poster of Spike on Charlie’s bedroom wall, signed with love. Sam breathed deeply and steadied her nerves. What great taste in men she and Charlie had. Go home, Bushy had told her. It was the best advice she’d had in a very long time.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sunday morning. The snorting, wide-eyed colts for the Brumby Catch made their hesitant way out of the truck and down the cattle ramp. They’d been brought in from Balleroo last spring, turned out into good paddocks, and left alone until today. All were fat and fit, perfect for the event to be held later on that day. They clustered at the far end of the yard in the characteristic way of wild horses, presenting a solid row of rumps to onlookers. A call was made over the loudspeaker for the top ten finalists to draw their brumby.
Sam, bleary-eyed, sipped her coffee and watched Drew stride across the arena to the judges. Spike strolled after him. It would take more than one coffee to get her started this morning. She’d spent a sleepless night. How to sleep, with so much riding on today’s outcome? Drew may have been out of bounds, but the truth was she was still in love with him. She’d hated seeing the hurt and anger on his face when Spike had kissed her. Did she really want to pursue this thing with Spike? It would be a rebound fling, entered into for all the wrong reasons. But then, maybe that was just what she needed.
The announcer was explaining the rules of the Brumby Catch over the loudspeaker. They seemed designed to make success impossible. A brumby colt would be turned loose into the arena from the bucking chutes. The mounted competitor was required to halter the colt and have it leading within two minutes. Two minutes. Impossible. Sam turned to help Bushy with the morning’s demonstration. ‘Is the catch hard on the brumbies?’ she asked.
‘It’s a darn sight harder on the catcher,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen colts break a man’s leg with a good double-barrelled kick, then be back with their heads down, eating hay, just as soon as they’re back in the yards.’ Bushy bridled Banjo. ‘See that bay over there?’ He pointed to a neat little horse ridden by a teenage girl. ‘One of last year’s Brumby Catch colts. I broke him in no worries. Top pony-club horse, that one. You couldn’t do that with a traumatised horse.’
‘So they won’t go for meat?’
‘Not this lot,’ said Bushy. ‘All of them fifteen colts already have buyers waiting.’ Sam walked back around to get a better look at them. None of the colts were a patch on either Jarrang or Phoenix. What fine studs those two would make.
After the demonstration Sam raced to find a good seat, for the Brumby Catch was about to begin. There was a real buzz of excitement in the stands. The first colt had a surprising turn of speed and outran Rowdy. His brief time was up without him even getting close with the halter.
The second colt demonstrated what Bushy had said about the event being tough on the catcher. The big chestnut considered offence to be the best form of defence, and spent the time doing handstands, his hind feet lashing out with such ferocity that he was soon back in the yards. The competitor was allowed a reserve draw. His second brumby wasn’t much better, flattening its ears and snapping at the unlucky rider’s horse, who was understandably loath to get too close. The challenger exited the ring for the second time, with no score.
Drew was up next. His colt was fast but Clancy was faster, maintaining pace with the brumby, shoulder to shoulder. Within the allotted time and to Sam’s utter astonishment, Drew managed to drop the halter over the colt’s head and lead it around the arena in triumph. It was a peerless display of horsemanship – or so she thought.
Then it was Spike’s turn. He’d drawn a tough black with a wicked temper. Sam now appreciated that Spike’s ugly, square-headed horse was miles better than he looked. Bailey dodged a barrage of nasty kicks and courageously stayed neck and neck with the surly brumby. Spike had it haltered and led off the arena with time to spare. No other contestants completed the challenge. Spike and Drew had rocketed to the top of the points table.
The grey mare huddled at the far end of the stock contractor’s yard. Sam dreaded the prospect of seeing her buck. Her nerves were raw. Drew slipped in beside her at the rails, and she jumped like a startled colt. ‘She’s named The Demon
now, and Rowdy’s drawn her in the buckjump,’ he said. ‘Already got herself a reputation, apparently.’
‘The Demon?’ Sam shook her head. ‘Can’t we do something? She looks so miserable.’ The other horses appeared relaxed enough, resting their hind feet, nibbling at hay, pretty much ignoring the spectators. By contrast, the grey was the picture of tension: erect ears, high arched crest, muscles taut in neck and jaw.
‘No, we can’t,’ said Drew. ‘Why don’t you ask Spike to help you?’ He marched off towards the bucking chutes. It didn’t matter. Sam wasn’t barracking for him any more, or for Spike, for that matter. She was barracking for The Demon.
Sam hoisted herself up and perched on a top rail, with a good view of the horses being run into the laneway. ‘Riders must use the same saddles they’ve used during previous challenge events,’ boomed the announcer. ‘Riders must stay on for eight seconds, and crack their stockwhip at least once.’ Eight seconds? That wasn’t long. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. ‘Judges award equal points for riding skill, and for degree of difficulty of the bronc.’
It jarred to hear the lovely brumby being referred to as a bronc. The grey didn’t belong here. A month ago she’d been living wild and free on the range. Then by some random twist of fate she’d ended up a bucking horse. She might have escaped, or gone to Ryan. She might have been gently tamed and found a loving owner. Was the mare’s story so different to Sam’s own? Mary had sent her away from where she belonged, away to live with Faith. It had changed who she was. Yes, she and the brumby mare were common victims of a haphazard, indifferent universe. The futility of it all sickened her.
Sam had never seen a saddle-bronc competition before. The first horse to enter the chute was a liver chestnut with a wild eye. Drew appeared, carrying a simple hackamore that bore a broad leather noseband and rope lead. He climbed the rail and slipped the headgear onto the gelding. Next came his saddle, fitted with a curious back cinch. A leather strap lined with sheepskin was fitted around the horse’s ticklish flanks. Drew lowered himself into the saddle, wearing nothing on his head but a stockman’s hat.
Sam closed her eyes at the foolish irony of it all. Riders of the little motorbikes in the novelty Stockman’s Muster had all worn safety helmets. So had the cross-country competitors. But in this most dangerous challenge of all? Of course not. They wouldn’t want to spoil their macho image, would they? Someone handed Drew his stockwhip and he signalled for the gate. Sam was sick with fright.
The gelding’s mouth yawned wide, and he exploded from the chute in a bone-jarring succession of high, stiff-legged leaps. It was a primal scene – man against beast. Eight seconds suddenly seemed like a very long time indeed. Drew clutched the rope in his left hand, raised the stockwhip high in his right, and the arena rang with whip cracks. In spite of her fear, Sam found herself cheering along with the crowd. Drew seemed to retain his balance by magic, adjusting his body as if he could anticipate his mount’s every move. It was an amazing display of horsemanship. Sam felt sure she’d have been unseated by the first buck. A horn sounded and the pickup rider sprang into action, cantering beside the bucking horse, allowing Drew to grab his saddle and jump clear. Sam felt weak with happiness and pride.
Surprisingly, the gelding continued to buck after Drew stood safely back on the ground. The pickup rider caught the horse’s rope rein, leant down and released the flank strap. Only then did the gelding calm down. So it wasn’t the rider that the bucking horses objected to. It was the flank strap.
‘And he’s made eight seconds, so let’s have a big hand for Drew Chandler, riding Nightstalker!’ Sam joined in the applause. A gust of unseasonably cold wind caught up willy-willies of dust and chased them across the arena, causing people to grab at their hats. Sam shivered, buttoning her shirt right up to the neck, and pulling her cuffs over her hands. Spike sat on the rails of chute number two, above a powerful paint horse with a hogged mane. The loudspeaker crackled so much that Sam missed the beginning of the announcement. All she caught was ‘… Spike Morgan riding Slingblade.’
Spike tossed away his cigarette, settled in the saddle and fixed his stirrups firm under the arch of his heels. The horse reared up and launched itself at the fence, knocking a man off the walkway. Spike kept his seat. At a nod, the gate swung wide. For a few moments Slingblade stalled and just stood there, to the amusement of the audience. Then he dropped his head to the ground and erupted from the chute backwards. The horse didn’t so much buck as do full handstands, flinging his hind legs above his head, past the vertical axis. He bucked so hard and high that he had to walk on his front feet to keep from flipping over.
Spike was unbalanced and in trouble from the start. He managed one crack of his whip before Slingblade spun like a top and swiftly pitched him over his left flank. As Spike’s right foot flew over the saddle, its spur somehow caught on the cantle, leaving him hanging head down while the horse bucked and plunged. There was a loud gasp from the crowd. Sam grimaced and held her breath. Sling-blade cannoned into the fence. Spike wrapped his arms around a post and hung on with grim strength. He jerked his leg free and collapsed to the dust, while the pickup man reached for the horse’s rope.
Spike hadn’t made his ride. Sam thought it through. He and Drew had been equal on points and the buckjump was the last event. That meant the Challenge was a dead rubber. Drew had won; he was King of the Mountains. Sam sighed. She’d been kidding herself, thinking that she didn’t mind who won. The rush of pride and relief she felt at the result told her that.
‘What a terrific bucking horse this big paint is! Unfortunately, Spike hasn’t stayed aboard for his full eight seconds. Let’s give a big hand for Slingblade.’ The crowd whooped and cheered. Spike staggered to his feet and limped from the arena for a medical check. Sam felt sick. She could see her grey mare in chute three, with red-headed Rowdy already in the saddle.
‘Next on is The Demon, nicknamed The Four-legged Fury.’ The Demon. She wanted to shoot whoever had given the lovely brumby such a ridiculous name. ‘The Demon has just been bucking for a few weeks, but already this mighty mare has a fearsome reputation. Some horses buck hard and some buck fast, ladies and gentlemen – and The Demon does both. Fact is, nobody has so far scored a ride on this horse.’ The mare flung her head around. Sam winced as it slammed into the steel pipe of the chute. ‘This horse hasn’t come through the Born to Buck program like many others here. It’s a genuine brumby. Let’s see if Rowdy Clarke can take on The Demon and win today.’
The mare reared sideways and Rowdy leapt onto the fence to avoid being crushed. With ears flattened and teeth bared, she lunged straight at him. Men scattered and Rowdy dodged. Easy now, Sam whispered. Take it easy. Back in the saddle, Rowdy gave the signal. Horse and rider erupted from the chute to the deafening strains of ‘We are the Champions’.
The mare sprang skywards like a spring released. Back arched like a cat, stiff-legged and finishing with a wicked twist. She was a fearful sight. But when she crashed back to earth, Rowdy was still in the saddle. He cracked his whip and spurred in time with her bucks, raking her from shoulder to flank. She foamed at the mouth and launched herself back into the air, screaming. Sam had never heard a horse make such a noise before, was unaware they even could. It was a bloodcurdling, devilish sound that set Sam’s teeth on edge. Lightning cracked above the arena and thunder rumbled in the throat of the darkening sky. The mare ducked and dived. She swivelled and spun. She ruined Rowdy’s rhythm, sunfished right then left, always landing with unforgiving, bone-jarring force. The heavens opened to lashing torrents of rain, turning the dusty arena into an instant mud pit. Rowdy was flying high out of the saddle, and in trouble. Sound the horn, for God’s sake! This was killing them both.
Rowdy collided with the ground and lay winded where he fell. ‘And The Demon remains unridden,’ boomed the announcer over the storm. ‘Give this great bucking horse a big hand, ladies and gentlemen. And another one for our courageous cowboy.’
The crowd appla
uded as a pickup man closed in on the brumby mare. He took hold of her trailing rope, leaned down and released the flank strap. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, and shielded her face from the blinding rain. She could barely see now. Jumping off the rail, she sought shelter beneath the cattle ramp, a position that still offered a good view of proceedings. Water and bulldust mixed to muck in her eyes. She wiped it away and turned her attention back to the arena. Rowdy still lay only a metre or two away, a soggy heap on the ground near the fence. He groaned, looked around for his hat and waved the stockwhip to show that he was okay. The crowd cheered encouragement.
Sam frowned and focused her attention back on the brumby mare. Something wasn’t right. It showed in the white of her eye, the angle of her ears, the set of her jaw. A chill ran down Sam’s spine, and she shrank back from the fence. The mare suddenly whirled and let fly with both hind feet, connecting hard with the tender flank of the pickup horse. It reeled and staggered, lost its footing on the slick surface. The pickup man dropped the halter rope and jumped clear of his horse as it skidded sideways and landed in the mud. In the driving rain it was every man for himself now, as the crowd dashed for cover. Nobody seemed to be taking much notice of the mare any more.
The grey spun round and advanced on Rowdy in a series of half-rears. He lurched to his feet, and cracked the whip in the mare’s face. It was then that The Demon attacked. She charged at the man with striking hoofs, eyes blazing with hatred, and knocked him to the ground. He ducked and rolled, but the mare was too fast. Taking aim, she slammed the full force of both fore hoofs into the back of his head. Was it Sam’s imagination, or did she hear the sickening crunch of bone?
The mare snorted, seemingly satisfied with the job, and cantered to the exit. A boy opened the gate and she trotted to join the other horses. It was only now that people seemed to realise the gravity of what had happened. An army of people converged on the fallen man. Two ambulance officers waved them away and knelt to examine Rowdy. Two women ran over with a canvas tarpaulin and held it like an umbrella over the paramedics while they worked. Sam watched, unable to move, horrified and fascinated all at once. Somehow she knew already that Rowdy was dead.
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