by Di Morrissey
It was a bay stallion, about fifteen hands, broad chest, long neck and a huge proud head. He stood cautiously alert, testing the air with his ears and nostrils. Slowly he walked ahead, ears flattened, stopped and turned, pacing back and forth. Listening, sniffing the air that held smells his instinct told him were dangerous. Behind him Sally could now see his herd. The horses seemed to stand nonchalantly, waiting and trusting that their dominant male would signal when it was safe. Despite their thirst they would not step away before the stallion made the first move. Sally’s heart was pounding, she was hardly breathing.
Slowly the stallion stepped closer to the water and stopped, lifting his head once more. His tail twitched. He knew something was not right. He walked slowly and deliberately down to the waterhole, lowered his head and sucked up huge draughts of water.
His mares and a couple of colts walked quietly forward. There was no noisy rush, but with a calm and steady tread they splashed into the marshy shallows to drink.
Rob and Sally counted, using the system Rob had shown her, Rob tapping her arm for every five horses he counted. The stallion had a herd of fifteen mares and two young colts. Some looked in poor condition but there was no doubt that several horses were big and strong. The colts would eventually challenge their leader and each other to be the dominant one. But for now the stallion was older, wiser and in charge.
As the mares held their muzzles in the water, the stallion lifted his head, took one last deep drink, turned and broke into a gallop, splashing through the water and causing a great silver spray as he raced from the waterhole and headed back to the safety of the hill. The herd and young horses galloped behind him in the moonlight, long tangled manes and tails waving as they pounded away, their unshod hooves smashing the grass and undergrowth.
Sally had never seen anything so magnificent and moving. As the brumbies thundered off she turned to Rob, too choked up to speak. He saw her expression, sensed her exhilaration and spontaneously leaned forward and kissed her smiling mouth. It was meant to be a quick kiss but to both their surprise the powerful effect of the light touching of their lips turned into a burning, hard, gasping, lingering passion. Eventually they drew apart, breathless and shocked.
‘Sally . . .’ Words failed him and he leant to her again.
The kissing was unrestrained.
Finally he whispered, ‘We’d better get back. I’ll tell Wally he can stay in his swag.’ He was struggling to get back to normalcy.
They walked through the bush, which to Sally now seemed friendly and embracing. With the tall figure of Rob beside her, what harm could come to her? They held hands.
‘It was exciting, wasn’t it?’ he said softly.
‘Kissing?’
‘Well, yes, that too. I meant the brumbies.’
The vision of the wild horses led by the stallion flashed again into her mind. ‘Yes, it was. I’m looking forward to tomorrow night.’ She gave him a look and they both laughed.
Rob suddenly sounded serious. ‘It can be dangerous as well as exciting, Sal.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll be careful.’ They knew the conversation could be interpreted two ways. They were stepping into uncharted territory. Rob dropped her hand as they came to the camp with the circle of sleeping figures.
‘Everyone’s asleep,’ she whispered.
‘Fitzi’s not.’
She tried to see where the stockman had put his swag. ‘How do you know?’
‘I reckon John has told him to keep an eye on you, and me. And report back.’
‘The bugger. I suppose it was Lorna’s idea.’
Rob gave a small chuckle. ‘Go to sleep, Sal.’ Despite her self assurance, Sally was naive in many ways. It hadn’t occurred to her that Monroe might find the young governess very appealing.
Rob crouched by Wally’s swag and murmured, ‘A good mob, eighteen. They’re gone.’
‘They’ll be back tomorra,’ he grunted sleepily and huddled further down in his swag.
They worked throughout the morning. John Monroe drove into the camp with tomatoes, fresh bread and a fruit cake, and Wally cooked up a big lunch. It would be a long night.
Mid afternoon, Monroe and Wally checked the fence around the waterhole. The horses always drank at the same spot, not knowing they were surrounded in a triangle with the apex a narrow entry along the fence corridor. There was a giant tree stump in the middle of the track that the horses went past each time, unaware that the massive wooden gates could be swung from either side and latched onto the centre tree stump post, shutting them in. The men in charge of closing the gates and getting the sliprail in place had to move swiftly at the right moment.
Sally watched Rob go about his work and occasionally they exchanged secret smiles. The boys were everywhere, racing on horseback between the waterhole trap and the yards being readied for the brumbies.
‘Where can we watch?’ Tommy asked Rob.
‘What about the top of the Land Rover? Then we could drive it down to the yards,’ said Ian.
‘Can we all squeeze in?’ said Marty, worried he might be left behind.
‘The country is too rough for you to drive, Ian,’ said Sally.
Rob glanced away and Sally saw his expression tighten and knew their presence was worrying him. ‘I’ll stay with the boys. Do what you have to do,’ she said quickly.
He gave her a relieved smile. ‘Good. As soon as the horses are all locked up, come down. Don’t get near the railings or climb up on them under any circumstances, understand? I’ve seen stallions throw themselves at the rails like they were climbing out. They’re bloody dangerous. They’re wild creatures, got it?’
The boys nodded.
‘I’ll see you when I see you, do as you’re told, okay?’
‘Pick me out a nice horse, Rob,’ called Tommy, who desperately wanted a special horse of his own and not just one of the stockhorse ponies. It was another sign of maturity when you had a horse that you looked after and rode exclusively.
As the light melted away the campfire was extinguished and the men drained their mugs of tea. Everyone took up their positions and made themselves comfortable to wait for the horses to come down. There was no talking, no smoking, everyone was to be still and patient. The boys, Sally and Wally were left close to the camp. John Monroe and Rob crouched in the rough brush hides on either side of the gates. Chilla and Bluey were out of sight at the waterhole, ready to throw up the sliprail as the horses headed back up the corridor to the safety of their hill. Rob sat hugging his knees, remembering Sally’s kiss. Was it just the moment or was this the start of something? It would be tricky to indulge in a romance with the governess under the Monroes’ roof.
John, sitting on the ground, reached for his silver hip flask and took a sip of rum. Further up the hill between the track taken by the horses and their rough campsite, where their own horses were hobbled, Fitzi waited. The men had spread out on either side of the corridor, out of sight, ready to spring to the yards once the horses were in.
It grew dark. Eyes turned anxiously to the sky, fearful the moonrise might be dulled by cloud. A change could mean the stallion might not bring his herd down. The slightest thing could spook them.
John Monroe had told Fitzi to wait and if the horses didn’t appear after a reasonable time to check if they were around. He didn’t want to spend unnecessary hours in the uncomfortable hide if the horses had left the hill.
The night sky cleared, the stars came out, the moon rose slowly, majestically.
A shadow in the immense silver landscape was barely noticeable. It drifted, reed like, one moment motionless, the next appearing in a different spot. No sudden movements, the figure of Fitzi blended in with the terrain, keeping upwind, making no sound, as light as the breath of night air, as alert as the wild night creatures. Fitzi saw the freshly trampled grass, could smell the horses, intuitively he sensed what their next move might be. He was at home in this country.
He faded into the stillness of the night knowing th
at soon the stallion would come down the hill.
Led by the stallion the horses moved slowly, cautiously but with definite intent. They’d been watering at this spot, on and off, for many seasons. But wild stallions are quick to protect their harem from any threat and they are constantly alert. The mares and young colts flowed single file behind the leader as they walked through the wide end of the funnel-shaped yard. Sally tried to pick out the brush and bough shelter where Rob and John were probably holding their breath as the horses passed.
The stallion reached the edge of the water and looked around, arching his neck, shaking his head, threatening and asserting his superiority, then lowered it to drink. The other horses trotted forward and immediately began drinking. All was peaceful.
With a scraping, dragging sound, then a thud Rob and John Monroe pulled the gates shut across the yards.
The stallion reared as if hit, arching his neck, rolling his eyes, ears laid back, nostrils flaring, he spun and, whinnying in alarm, splashed from the water, thundering back the way he had come, the harem following in a panic.
Chilla and Bluey rushed from their hide at the edge of the waterhole, dragging the long wooden sliprails and banging them in place across the narrow entrance to the fenced waterhole.
Fitzi came and stood beside Sally, who could hear the noise below. ‘We go down.’
The boys charged ahead as she shouted, ‘Keep back, wait for us.’
Racing behind the boys, dodging round the ant hills, it seemed to her that total chaos had broken out below. It was the noise that hit her first – neighing and snorting, the banging of hooves on the fences, the frightened squeals of the other horses.
If there was one thing wild horses feared above all else it was confinement. The stallion’s anger, frustration, helplessness, drove it into a frenzy. He reached the massive gates – railings of solid wood, seven feet high, secured in a steel grip to the central tree trunk. The rest of the panicked horses were close behind him, there was no room to turn. And then the stallion’s head lifted and he screamed. He felt in every twitch and fibre of his body that he and his herd were hemmed into this space between the heavy wooden railings. Sally had never heard a sound like it. The horses flung themselves against the wooden rails and the men surged forward, shouting and cracking whips. The boys hung back as the men moved in close to the trapped brumbies.
Fitzi was shaking his head as they watched. ‘You stay back away dem yards. Bad blood. Bad debils.’
Bluey, John and Chilla moved closer. Rob went down to the waterhole and looked at the sliprails, making sure they were secure.
‘Reckon we could have a go? Some of them are going to kill each other if we don’t start getting them separated,’ said Wally.
‘No bloody way, we’ll wait till morning. That stallion is mad as hell. They’ll settle down by daylight. Can’t keep this adrenaline up,’ said John.
‘That stallion’ll be singing a different song tomorra,’ said Bluey.
‘Yeah, you get to do the honours, mate. Come on, let’s go back to the camp. Leave a couple of blokes to watch them.’ Monroe turned on his heel and headed over to where the Land Rover was parked out of sight. The boys ran after him and climbed into it. Fitzi waited with Sally until Rob came over, then set off on foot back to their campsite up the hill. Rob and Sally began walking after him.
‘I feel sorry for them. They’re so distressed,’ she said.
‘Tomorrow we’ll cut and brand the ones we want. When they’re broken and working they’ll forget this life.’
‘I wonder,’ mused Sally. ‘Running free must be better than a working life on a station.’
‘Good feed and water, learning to work the cattle, being cared for is a lot better than always looking for tucker and water, and other stallions wanting to usurp your dominance.’
‘Yes, I did see a lot of bites and scars on that stallion.’
‘He’s a tough bastard. Too bad John wants Bluey to take the fight out of him tomorrow,’ said Rob.
‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep with that dreadful noise,’ said Sally.
‘We’ll hear it up the hill for sure. Have a couple of rums.’ Rob dropped his arm around her shoulder and gave her a brief squeeze. ‘’Course I could keep you warm.’
‘Not with Fitzi, John and the boys around. I feel like Mata Hari,’ said Sally, grinning.
‘Wait till we get back home. We’ll find a way.’
Sally slipped her arm around his waist and didn’t press him for details.
The boys went to sleep, it was late for them. The campfire was built up and the rum was passed between Rob, Sally, John and Wally. Sally was first to give in and crawl into her swag. Despite the alcohol it was hard to sleep hearing the squeals, whinnies and frustrated banging of hooves on wood and metal coming from the yards below.
Breakfast was hasty, the men were tense, the horses subdued but wary. The boys, however, were excited and although they were kept at a distance with Sally, they were quickly assessing the horses.
Sally watched the men move in on one young colt and with a startled leap after a stinging whip on his haunches, he stepped into the narrow chute. A rope was slung around his neck and he was pushed to the exit, the race opened and he was let loose in a small yard. Two men with lassoes faced him and as he reared to kick them away, his head was cruelly yanked as the rope tightened and another was thrown around his back legs and he was unceremoniously thrown to the ground. A stockman then raced in and sat on his head. Bluey stepped forward with a cruel grin.
Tommy stood close to her and Ian darted over to his father, who was helping get the other colt into the race. Marty started to cry and ran forward. Bluey took no notice and one of the stockmen handed him the red hot branding iron and the smell of burned hair and flesh hit the cool morning air.
Marty started shouting hysterically, ‘Don’t hurt him, Bluey!’
John Monroe yelled at him, ‘Grow up, for God’s sake!’
Sally took Tommy’s hand and, seeing Fitzi, moved away from the yards towards him. ‘Come away, Marty,’ she called, but the young boy, stung by his father’s words, didn’t move.
Ian, against Rob’s instructions, was up on the fence rails beside his father, intent on all the action in the yard. Marty, now alone by the gates that held back the terrified mob of mares, stood with trembling lips as the men let the other young colt from the race into the yard where the stockmen quickly had him on the ground.
Fighting back tears, Marty sprang forward in the corridor to clamber on the gates secured to the cut tree.
Rob took in the scene in a flash and shouted, ‘Marty, no!’
Sally stopped and spun around, gripping Tommy’s hand.
The men dealing with the colt in the small yard took no notice of the frightened squeals of the mares. Marty stood in front of the gate, too afraid to climb the rails where angry hooves battered and shoved. With nostrils flaring, ears flattened, teeth barred, the horses made one last attempt at freedom, the front mares kicking at the gate pushed by the others behind. The sea of straining angry horses looked to Marty like devils. He hovered and as his courage failed him, he turned his back on the gate.
John Monroe, straddling the race, shouted at Marty. But his shout of exasperation at his youngest son was never heard.
There was a splintering, a crunching and a surge of energy as the gates gave way from the pressure as the horses penned behind it rushed. Despite all the men’s precautions the fury of the horses couldn’t be held back.
The lead mares had jumped through the gap before the gates had fully parted. The rest of the horses, fast on their heels, pushed through the gates, trampling several mares in the front of the mob. They rushed on either side of the tree stump where the iron band holding the latch dangled uselessly from wrenched nails. Smelling escape the horses pounded in a mass into the corridor, back the way they had walked so calmly the previous night, taking no notice of the small figure they trampled underfoot.
It happ
ened so swiftly. The horses were gone, heading for their hills. The stallion, still penned, shrieked, urging them on, knowing he would never run with them again. The crumpled remains of Marty, face down, his back a mat of hoof marks, lay in the dust of the well-worn track.
Sally heard a distant scream then realised it was from her own throat and chest. A deep wail of anguish.
Everyone was running, except Tommy, who flung himself into her chest, trying to blot out what he saw and pretend it hadn’t happened.
Later Sally had only blurred memories – of Ian flinging himself at his father, pummelling him and shouting. Rob kneeling down and stroking the matted back of Marty’s head, not prepared to turn over the crumpled shape. Fitzi drawing her and Tommy firmly away. And in the distance, the sound of galloping hooves.
That night at the homestead, Sally pulled the three stretcher beds close together so she could reach out and touch Tommy and Ian on either side of her. The Flying Doctor had given them all tablets to help them sleep but Tommy slept fitfully, a sob escaping as the dreadful scenes reeled through his subconscious. Ian was a coiled spring of anger directed at his father. Sally felt sick in her stomach and wished she could blot away forever the scene of Lorna – dignified, immaculate Lorna – crouched on the lawn nursing the bloodstained horse blanket that held the shattered remains of her youngest son.