by Amanda Doyle
‘Do you have to do that with them all?’ Rennie asked with interest, switching her gaze back to the unruly mob in the adjoining yard.
‘You-ai. Allabout,’ agreed Harry unconcernedly. ‘Harry bin break-in all that-one. Mebbe just twofella, t’reefella not yet, missus.’
‘Why do you put them all in together again, then? How do you know which are which?’
‘Harry savvy allabout, missus, allasame that-one all prop’ly different, see. Some goodfella, some proper cheeky-fella, me work plenty longtime alonga that-one, savvy allabout, see.’
Rennie’s eye scanned the horseflesh before her consideringly. She prided herself on being a fair judge, but had to admit that never before had she seen such a motley collection.
One powerful black animal took her eye particularly. He had a well-bred look about him, better than his fellows, and there was a certain challenge in the way he tossed his mane and stared boldly out between the railings, as though in contemplation of his chances of freedom from this dusty prison. Beside him as they wheeled once more, ran a grey—the only grey in the lot.
‘That grey, Harry. He’s a beauty, isn’t he?’
The stockman shook his head in reply.
‘Not like-um greyfella, missus.’
‘Why ever not?’ Rennie gazed after the lovely animal in surprise.
‘Cattle not like-um that greyfella horse, missus,’ explained Harry with his usual patience. ‘Allatime them ringers sing-um that mob at night, dem cattle t’ink him prop’ly ghost-horse, that-one, missus. They t’ink him might debil-debil. Him not good luck, eh?’
‘You mean, the cattle are nervous of him just because he’s grey?’
‘You-ai, missus. Thatfella mob not sleep one-night, catchem debil-debil. If they bin fright-em, mebbe dey runout alonga dat scrub, plurry quick alonga ’nother-one country, allasame mebbe killem two, t’ree fella in thatone mob. More better not greyfella horse.’ Again a shake of the sage, grizzled head.
Rennie looked from the unpopular grey back to the handsome black animal that had first taken her eye. Something in his challenging boldness kindled an answering spark in her, spoke to that headstrong, wilful streak in her that had sometimes got her into trouble before.
Today wasn’t the sort of day for trouble, though. Today the sun was shining and the world was at peace. Today she felt light-hearted, light-headed—elated— adventurous—free of all those responsibilities which had bowed her down for so long. Today she was answerable only to herself, and for herself!
And why not? What was to stop her? Nobody was around to see her. Nobody but Harry, and she could easily get around him. One only had to sound stern and authoritative, the way Chad did. One only had to command. Not ask, but command.
Harry’s own horse was saddled a short distance off, the bridle slipped over one of the lower branches of a coolibah. On the fence a little way along from where Rennie was sitting lay another saddle, a light one that he used to get his pupils used to the feel of a strange and unfamiliar weight upon their backs. A couple of bridles were hanging on the gatepost.
Why not, indeed?
‘That black horse there, Harry’—Rennie pointed him out—‘I want to ride him.’
‘Not ride, missus. Nebber you ride. Catchem trouble that-way, eh?’
‘Of course I can ride,’ she retorted spiritedly. ‘Just because you haven’t seen me do it doesn’t mean that I can’t. I’ll show you. Saddle him for me, will you, please, Harry?’
‘Catchem trouble that-way,’ he retorted, equally positively.
‘But why? He’s broken, isn’t he? You just said that there are only two or three left that aren’t. Anyway, I can see by the way he looks at me that he’s just begging to get out of there. It’s almost as if he’s asking me to ride him, just to set him free.’
Harry loosed the rope on the colt, and eased it gently over the animal’s trembling head, watched the young thing run off to the furthest corner of the yard. Then he came over to Rennie, put one booted foot on the lowest rail, and gazed up at her earnestly.
‘Him broken all right, missus, but him proper cranky-fella, that-one. Mebbe frightem allasame him killem you, eh.’
‘Of course he won’t hurt me, Harry! I tell you, I’m a good rider. I’ve been riding for years, over in England. In—in ’nother-one country, proper long-way,’ she emphasized, resorting to Harry’s own pidgin.
‘S’pose him badfella, mightbe him killem you.’ The dark features remained stubbornly set. Adamant.
There was only one thing to do.
‘Saddle him up this minute, Harry, please. Otherwise I tell Bossfella, eh?’
The dark, grizzled head jerked up at that.
‘Boss tellum you ride that-one, missus? Chad tellum you ride?’
It was immediately evident that Rennie had struck the right note. What Chad said was apparently not to be questioned.
‘Would I be asking you to do it if he hadn’t said it?’ she countered, and succeeded in bringing such a note of injury and exasperation to her voice that Harry turned forthwith to take one of the bridles from the gatepost.
He mumbled as he went about catching and saddling the handsome black horse, who, now that freedom from that small yard had become a distinct possibility, had surprisingly turned difficult and reluctant—downright recalcitrant, in fact.
‘Me not savvy which-way Chad tellum you prop’ly silly t’ing like that,’ Harry grumbled, as he led the animal to the outer yard and returned the colt to the mob. ‘Might him debil-debil, that Chad! Might Chad sick-fella!’ He tapped his head significantly.
Rennie ignored those sotto voce remarks. Her blood was singing in her veins, whipping colour into her cheeks and bringing a sparkle of excitement to her sherry-gold eyes. She jumped down from her perch with the grace and agility of a young gazelle, and came over to her intended mount.
‘You hold him while I get on, Harry. Then you can open the gate.’
‘More better you riddem here, missus.’ The stockman attempted a final, half-hearted stand which Rennie ignored.
She grasped the reins, and in one swift leap was in the saddle, her feet seeking and finding the stirrups unerringly.
‘Now open the gate, ’ she commanded—and Harry obeyed.
The black horse sidled through cautiously, stepping delicately in a sideways walk, neck arched, eye rolling. Rennie was aware that her mount was trembling from head to foot, barely schooled as he was and therefore apprehensive of the weight he carried, half-fearful of this sudden contact with that strange bi-ped, the human being. Although she was not holding him back, he appeared to be voluntarily curbing his enormous power of movement as if he were half afraid of it too.
Or that was what Rennie thought!
She dug her heel encouragingly into the black satin flank and was rewarded by immediate action. It was hardly the civilized action she had anticipated, though!
The next second found her fingers curling tighter on the reins, her body sloping backwards in an unconsciously appropriate reflex action as the proud black head plunged downward and the hind legs lashed out viciously.
It was the beginning of a battle of wills between horse and rider, and Rennie felt exhilaration sweep through her at the feel of those savage movements beneath her, exulted in the knowledge that her skill was being put to the test and would not be found wanting, that although the battle, promised to be long and arduous, she possessed the balance and staying-power and experience to emerge the victor.
The black horse did not know it. Even if he had, he probably wouldn’t have admitted it! He reared and rooted, bucked and twisted, and in between those frenzied gyrations, he made short, hysterical dashes over the soft, dusty ground between the yards and the buildings. The glint of the steel of machinery, the reflections of light upon glass windows, the mysterious, terror-ridden shadows of those unfamiliar human habitations drove him to fresh energies of despair.
Rennie was beginning to tire. Her muscles ached, and perspiration almost blind
ed her as her free hand sought and found the monkey-grip on the pommel, clung gratefully as they plunged together out into the open spaces once more, leaving those sheds behind.
The great black horse was beginning to tire too. Rennie sensed it, and drove her heels in hard. And then they were off—away in the maddest gallop of her whole life. Away from the homestead, away from the yards, away through a whistling kaleidoscopic tunnel of speed. The wind sang in her ears, the hoofbeats thudded, thundered. One falter, and they would surely go down!
She held her breath at the thought, then released it as she realized that she had won. She couldn’t be dislodged now. She could ride like this for ever, over this wide brown plain, at this crazy pace. She would let the horse go on, because she was the victor now, for certain. In control. She could stop this very minute if she chose, but she would not do that. She would let her mount acquit himself first, gallop out the last feelings of rancour that might remain to him in defeat before she took him back to the yards.
And then she sensed a change in the atmosphere, in the drum-beats of those galloping hooves. They had suddenly become muddled and confused, ringing and pounding one upon another until there seemed to be thousands of them, echoing back in a giant tattoo of sound.
The black horse stretched his neck. He was flat out now. What an animal, to sustain this incredible speed! Rennie exulted wildly, and at almost the same moment it came to her that all of those echoing hoof-beats could not possibly be his alone.
They weren’t!
Murtie was coming up fast on the near flank on a big bay gelding whose sides were flecked with foam. He was almost level with her now.
And now he was level.
He was coming in close, beyond her horse’s neck, forcing him over, ‘bending’ him as he might bend the wayward leader of a mob of steers, turning him out of his mad gallop, turning him right into the path of Chad’s speedy quarter-horse stallion, coming up on the other side, gauging its pace, biding its time with the innate intelligence of its breed for the moment when its grim-faced rider would lean out of the saddle and force that other, undisciplined animal to a standstill.
It dawned upon Rennie that both Murtie and Chad must think her own horse was out of control. She opened her mouth to call out, put pressure on the rein, but her words of reassurance were never uttered, for the big black rogue-horse took his own way out of the mad pursuit, reared up between the other two, and turned neatly to face the opposite direction and Rennie, caught completely unawares, slithered unceremoniously to the ground in a flurry of dust and flailing hooves.
Instinctively she lay face-down where she had fallen, putting her arms protectively over her head in a defensive gesture, remained there, inert, waiting for the thrashing movements that were going on about her to cease.
Then she felt strong hands sliding themselves beneath her body, and she was turned abruptly to face the sky. She screwed up her eyes against the glare of that bright, harsh light, and gazed apprehensively into Chad’s grimly furious countenance. His features were whipped into unfamiliar lines, contorted with anger—or was it sheer exasperation?
‘Renata?’
Those blazing eyes seared her, just as his tongue flailed her with that single, ground-out utterance.
Rennie found herself cringing before that glittering, green anger—and then, with returning spirit, she put her hands against his broad khaki shirt-front and tried to push him away.
‘You spoilt it all!’ she accused quiveringly, still fighting to regain her breath, because she had hit the ground with the sort of thump that leaves one temporarily speechless. ‘You—if you hadn’t—’
‘Lie still, will you, please, till I make sure you haven’t broken anything,’ he interrupted coldly, tersely, unpleasantly—and Rennie was forced to submit to the touch of his searching brown hands as they ran expertly over her limbs.
Satisfied, Chad helped her none too gently to a sitting position, clapped his broad-brimmed hat back on his head, and stood up, squinting down at her.
‘If I hadn’t what?’ he asked gratingly, and Rennie could see that he was still very angry. ‘If I hadn’t what?’ He removed his hat again, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a curiously repressed impatience. ‘You aren’t fit to be left alone, I reckon! You aren’t to be trusted! You might have broken your neck, at the very least! You could have killed yourself!’ The deep voice thickened unrecognizably. ‘Dammit all, don’t look at me like that, either, or so help me, I’ll spank you!’
Rennie dropped her injured gaze hastily. It was hard to appear anything but injured, sitting here in the dust right next to those long, khaki-clad legs in the elastic-sided boots, with Murtie grinning amusedly from a point somewhere behind Chad’s shoulder, and well beyond the range of his employer’s vision. She was at a disadvantage down here on the ground, in a heap in the dust at his feet. Undignified.
Rennie scrambled to her feet, swayed unexpectedly. With one swift step, Chad was beside her again, and this time he did not let her go until he had half-carried her to a seat under a nearby shade-tree, where he deposited her hardly more gently and said,
‘Get the water-bag, Murtie, will you? I reckon she could do with a drop.’
Rennie raised a pale, dusty face to find Chad’s own uncomfortably near. His eyes were hard, and a tiny muscle flickered almost imperceptibly somewhere near his jaw-line.
‘All right,’ he said quietly, as Murtie ambled off to where he had tethered the horses, ‘so you’re one hell of a good rider and now we all know. Why couldn’t you have said so before?’
He appeared to Rennie to be unreasonably annoyed over the whole thing. There was an almost dangerous quality about his self-control right now. The realization that she might say the wrong thing and unwittingly tip the balance was enough to render her silent and unresponsive.
‘You’ve had ample opportunity to come out with it, Renata. All those times you’ve seen me coaching Magda, for instance. Oh, yes, I’ve been aware that you were watching!’
He got up from his squatting position at her side, thrust his hands into the pockets of his faded moleskins and paced restlessly to and fro in front of where she was sitting.
‘Am I so unapproachable?’ he flung at her stormily, after some moments. ‘Or have I got the wrong angle on the whole thing? Perhaps everyone else does know that you ride a horse? Perhaps you’ve told everyone? Perhaps you’ve just waited till I’m away from the homestead, is that it? Maybe they all know—everyone but Chad Sandasen, is that it? The ogre uncle, the merciless guardian, is that how you see me, Renata?’
Rennie continued to gaze at him. For some reason, she was oddly disturbed by Chad’s angry accusation. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back as he went on—
‘And what possessed you to demonstrate your skill on that rogue animal, anyway? He’s dangerous, you must have realized that? The sort that always wants the last word. He’s defied all Harry’s and my own efforts to render him reliable. Where’d you get him, come to that? Come on, you’d better spill the beans. I have a right to know.’
She kicked at the dust, thankful to see Murtie returning with the waterbag. A third horseman was approaching, too—an angular black figure with a battered hat clamped on grizzled curls, and a pipe jutting out from his profiled mouth. Harry.
‘Drink that, and then we’re going home,’ Chad told her brusquely. ‘And I’ll find out even if you don’t tell me, I warn you. I’m not the Boss around here for nothing. Somebody’s hide is going to get scorched for allowing you to risk your neck on that brute!’
Rennie swallowed, decided she’d better get it over and done with.
‘It was Harry,’ she confessed awkwardly, ‘but—’
‘Harry?’ Chad swung away from her to the newcomer, whose wide grin disappeared on the instant as he was asked crisply, ‘What-name you let missus ride that cheeky-fella horse?’
‘He didn’t let me. I made him.’ Rennie had got up again. Even standing, she was still dwarfed by Chad.
‘Made him? How?’ He turned again to the bewildered Harry. ‘Which-way she make you?’ he demanded.
Harry ignored the question. He was now grinning widely. It was a grin of singular charm, expansive, amused, appeasing. ‘Py crikey, Boss! That youngfella missus putem plenty goodfella show, eh!’ he enthused. ‘When she tellem Harry Boss say she ride that-one cheeky horse, this fella bin t’ink might-be Boss get sick belonga head.’ He tapped his woolly pate suggestively. ‘Now Harry savvy more better. She plenty good, eh, Boss?’
‘Plenty good, Harry,’ agreed Chad repressively. ‘Now you catchem thatfella and yard him, understand? And, ’nother-one time, you not let youngfella missus ride cheeky horse, no matter what she tellum you. Savvy?’