Jack & Harry

by Tony McKenna

  Tom Cooper had noticed when the colt was captured that he was different from the usual brumby. This horse was taller, over fifteen hands at the shoulder, and he walked with his head held high, tail flowing regally. This black stallion had thoroughbred blood and it showed. Tom wondered what his breeding was and how he managed to be running with the brumby herd. Tom Cooper had seen many brumbies over the years and had a great respect for them. Not native to Australia these horses, like the donkeys and camels that roamed across the outback, were introduced. The horse was the only early means of transport prior to the camel being imported to the continent but, as people let them go when they were replaced with camels for haulage or they escaped, they became feral. Although not as suited to the harsh arid environment as the camel, the horse adapted and bred rapidly. Hundreds of them roamed the outback regions providing ready mounts for the drovers.

  All the hands, including Toffey with his green bow tie, were gathered to watch the event. Warri called Reynold aside and spoke with him for some minutes, Reynold nodding his head as Warri passed advice to him. Harry sat beside Wandoo with Jack and they fidgeted in anticipation. The babble of conversation ceased and a hush descended over the assembled stockmen as Reynold took the rope halter lead and stood facing the colt. Both Jack and Harry sucked in a breath of alarm as the stallion reared again, eyes flashing as he pawed the air, hooves flashing only inches from Reynold’s head. They were astounded that Reynold stood his ground without flinching as the horse repeated the show of defiance, nostrils flaring. They breathed in relief when the horse finally stood, flanks trembling, obviously recognising that the aggressive bluff did not faze the young lad standing before him, his hand held gently out, palm upward, and speaking soft words of encouragement.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Life had still not returned to normal at the Ferguson or Turner households in Perth.

  After receiving the letter from Jack and responding to her husband’s positive comments about finding the boys and their returning within a short time, Alice Ferguson was shattered when he returned from searching Kalgoorlie, his efforts fruitless. He told her they had scoured the town, checked out clothing stores, met with the local police and contacted many mining companies in the area to see if the boys had applied for work. It was his opinion that they had maybe gone prospecting or fossicking on their own so could be anywhere in the district trying their luck at one of the abandoned mines or simply sifting through old mullock heaps in the hope of finding a few small overlooked nuggets. Claude had been to see some of the more recognised gold buyers in town leaving contact numbers and addresses in the hope that if they did make a small find they might try to sell it.

  Jack endeavoured to display a positive attitude around the house for Alice’s sake, maintaining a semblance of normality and routine at home but, when he was alone, he too became dejected, worry eating at him. He and Claude developed a closer relationship than they had previously had, united in a common goal, meeting regularly to discuss options for further searching while sharing the burden of their families’ concerns. These meetings were usually held in the saloon bar of the Exchange Hotel where they shared a few beers and talked through possibilities without involving their wives who for obvious reasons were emotionally fragile.

  ‘I can’t understand it, Claude.’ Jack sipped his beer. ‘It’s like they just vanished into thin air. You’d think someone would have seen them somewhere, buying supplies … something.’

  ‘I have to believe they’re doing OK, Jack, as it’s the only way I can hang in there. I’m having terrible trouble with Jean. She keeps saying that they’re gone forever and cries at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘Alice isn’t all that stable either, Claude. She’s like a robot around the house. Does the cleaning, cooking, looking after the kids and such but it’s as if she’s in a dream.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another one, Claude?’

  ‘Why not?’ He handed Jack his empty glass. ‘What do you think about us going back out to Kalgoorlie and having another scout around?’ he asked as Jack returned from the bar with the two beers.

  ‘Have to do something I guess. We can’t just sit here and wait. I’m not sure what Christmas is going to be like this year with Jack not home, don’t feel much like it.’

  ‘Not that far away either, Jack. Jean says she wants to have a tree with all the trimmings though and she wants to set a place at the table for Harry. Hoping against hope I suppose that he’ll just walk in the door.’

  ‘Jack,’ the barman called to him from behind the counter. When he looked up the man said, ’phone call, mate.’ He held the receiver in his hand.

  ‘Who is it?’ Jack mouthed silently to the barman as he reached for the phone.

  ‘Not sure … it’s a woman though.’ He had his hand over the mouthpiece and winked.

  ‘Hello, yes.’

  ‘Oh, Jack. Come home quickly.’ It was Alice’s voice.

  ‘What is it, Alice, news of Jack?’ His heart almost stopped, fearing the worst as her tone was strained.

  ‘It’s another letter, Jack! Another letter.’ She started sobbing. ‘Come home, Jack, I’m not game to open it alone,’ she said through her tears.

  ‘A letter! Now?’ Jack glanced at his watch aware that the mail came in the mornings. Alice waited religiously for Tom the postie every day.

  There had been nothing that morning.

  ‘Tom was sorting the mail for the next day’s delivery and noticed Jack’s handwriting. He thought he’d bring the letter around this afternoon rather than wait for tomorrow’s delivery. Please hurry, Jack.’

  ‘On my way!’ He slammed the receiver down. ‘Claude, come on. There’s a letter from Jack so good chance you’ve got one from Harry too.’ He grabbed his hat from the table and they sprinted out the door leaving the bewildered barman staring after them.

  Dear Mum and Dad,’

  ‘This is the first chance I’ve had to write again. We have been very busy and learning heaps. Want you to know that I miss you both and the kids. I love you lots too.’

  Don’t worry about us, we are well and getting really brown working out in the sun all day.

  We have a good bunch of mates around us and are being wel looked after although I miss your cooking Mum.

  Alice dissolved into tears as Jack continued to read.

  I promise to write regular and let you know how I am. Harry promises too. I hope you understand why we can’t come home. One day when we make our fortune we will come and see you but you have to keep it a secret when we do as we don’t want to go to jail. It won’t be for a while yet though.

  We are having a good time but it makes me real sad not to be able to see you. One day that Billy Munse might own up that we didn’t pinch his bloody bike and then we can come home free and you won’t be ashamed of me. But not until we are rich.

  Jack smiled despite the lump in his throat at his son’s use of a swear word.

  Please don’t worry too much Mum and hope your work is going good Dad.

  I’ll write again before Christmas. Miss you. Your loving son, Jack.

  They both sat at the kitchen table unable to speak. Alice was quietly sobbing, a balled-up handkerchief to her mouth. Jack didn’t trust himself to speak because he knew if he did he would probably cry as well and someone had to be strong for the family’s sake.

  The telephone jangled into their thoughts. It was Claude to say that they had a letter from Harry. He read the letter over the telephone to Jack then Jack read his son’s note back to Claude. The letters were again very similar both parents being aware that the boys had obviously sat and composed them together.

  The envelopes were again postmarked Kalgoorlie. This fact frustrated Claude and Jack so they decided they would travel up there the next weekend to scout around again.

  ‘Maybe …’ Claude suggested as an idea hit him. ‘… Maybe we should check at the Post Office. They must have bought the stamps there and could have talked to someone about where they were or what they
were doing.’

  ‘Bloody great idea, Claude! Why didn’t we think of that before, damn it.’ Jack was angry with himself for the obvious oversight. ‘Can you get tomorrow off, Claude? I think we should drive up there straight away.’

  ‘I’m with you, Jack. Give me time to have a bite to eat and pick me up. Jean can call the boss tomorrow to let him know.’

  ‘We’ll track the little blighters this time, Claude. They’re still in Kalgoorlie and we’ll find them for sure now.’

  Harry watched in awe as Reynold stepped close to the quivering black colt, reaching his hand out slowly to stroke its neck and whispering to the horse continually. The stallion pulled back from the unfamiliar contact but didn’t rear or react badly, just snorted and stamped one front leg a couple of times.

  Reynold reached down, picked up a small blanket used as a saddle-cloth and held it out for the horse to see then let the colt sniff it. Slowly he moved the cloth up, gently rubbing the stallion’s head then moving it upward over its ears. The horse took a step backwards and Reynold followed, moving the cloth downward along the neck toward the withers. There was silence from the gathered men as he slipped the blanket in place on the horse’s back. Reynold then walked the colt around in a circle. The colt tossed its head, snorted, arched its back once but then settled as Reynold continued walking with the horse now obediently following.

  Harry realised he wasn’t breathing as he followed every move Reynold made. He watched spellbound when Reynold stopped beside the breaking saddle then reaching down picked it up and swung it deftly into place. The horse sidestepped away ears back and pigrooted but Reynold stayed with it, soothing the animal with gentle words until it settled, then, with Wandoo’s help, carefully buckled the girth to secure the saddle. There were murmurs of appreciation from the experienced stockmen and a huge smile on Warri’s face.

  ‘Rennol ’e ride ’im now, no worry. That ’orse ’e know who boss,’ he whispered to Tom Cooper.

  ‘Maybe, Warri. Let’s wait and see, he’s a spirited nag that one.’

  A wild cheer went up as Reynold sprang into the saddle in one liquid movement without using a stirrup. The colt, taken by surprise, danced a few steps then, realising that there was a rider on his back, put his head down and bucked. The men cheered and whistled as Reynold, bareheaded now, his hat jerked from his head, sat the twisting horse. Red dust kicked up by the flashing hooves filled the air as the stallion corkscrewed in giant bounds through the dunes. The men whooping with enjoyment, waved their hats above their heads as Reynold gripped like glue to the saddle. Harry wondered how his neck didn’t break, so violent were the colt’s leaping twists and turns.

  After what seemed like an eternity to Harry, but was in reality only about half a minute, the intensity of the stallion’s efforts to dislodge its rider waned. The bucks became spasmodic until they developed into half hearted pigroots before ceasing completely. It was then that Reynold dug his heels in and forced the horse to gallop out into the open for a few hundred yards before reining him to a halt, turning him and galloping back, where he pulled the horse to a slithering stop in front of the crowd. The colt stood, flanks covered in a white froth of sweat, sides heaving from its tough battle with Reynold.

  ‘Hey, Rennol?’ Warri was more excited than Jack had ever seen him. ‘I learn yu good ’ow to sit a buckin’ ’orse. Yu ’andle ’im real good, bloke.’ Warri did a little jig in the dust.

  Reynold smiled shyly as he slid from the saddle. Walking to the horse’s head he reached up to gently stroke its forehead, then taking a lump of sugar from his pocket he held it to the colt’s muzzle, mouthing soft words close to its ear.

  ‘Good ’orse.’ Was all he said as he handed Wandoo the reins and walked away.

  The next morning Reynold saddled the colt to ride for the day. The stallion humped his back a couple of times when Reynold hauled himself into the saddle but soon settled down and by sundown was docile and obedient to the rider’s commands.

  Unsaddling the colt that night, Reynold turned to Harry who was standing close by with Dolly. ‘Yu ride ’im tomorra, Harry. Uncle Warri tell me ’e gonna be your ’orse.’

  ‘My horse!’ Harry was stunned. ‘What about Dolly, she’s my horse?’

  ‘Dolly she good fella all right but gettin’ ol’ now. Yu need a better ’orse, Harry. Warri, me ’n Mista Cooper we bin watchin’ yu work out there wit’ Wandoo. Mista Cooper tell me to ride this fella ’n quiet ’im for yu. Yu gotta name for ’im, Harry?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit soon for me to ride him, Reynold? You know what you’re doin’, mate, but I’m just new at this game.’ He was nervous at the prospect that if the horse decided to dislodge him there would be no contest.

  ‘Tomorra I ’elp you saddle up ’n I let ’im meet you. Yu ’ave a little talk wit’ ’im.’ He patted the horse affectionately. ‘This fella be a good ’orse for yu. Wandoo ’e tell me yu go good so yu be OK. After all I learn yu to ride.’

  Harry smiled noticing that Reynolds reply had a hint of Warri about it. ‘Thanks, mate, I’ll try me best.’

  He did. The next morning just before sun-up Harry went with Reynold to saddle the colt together. Harry did what Reynold told him, speaking to the horse gently while rubbing its forelock. The stallion fidgeted a bit but Harry, following Reynold’s advice, did not flinch.

  ‘You ’ave to let ’im know yu not scared, Harry,’ Reynold said. ‘Even if you are scared, don’ let ’im know it ’cause ’e can smell it if yu scared.’

  Nobody appeared to pay any attention to Harry as he joined Wandoo that morning to ride on the wing of the herd. Warri and Tom Cooper didn’t miss a thing however and nodded in silent approval to each other as Harry confidently kneed the colt into a canter alongside Wandoo’s mount as they rode out into the rising sun.

  By the end of the day Harry felt in harmony with the stallion. Not once did the horse display any rebellious behaviour, responding quickly to every command. He had a soft mouth that needed very little rein control for direction so Harry found it hard to imagine that, only two days before, this horse had been a wild-eyed buckjumper. It was obvious, even to Harry, that the horse had been well broken previously and handled with expert care.

  He leaned down over the horse’s withers to pat his neck. ‘You’re a beautiful big fella you are. Hard to think you were runnin’ with a brumby herd not long ago. You were just a big, black brumby, that’s what you were.’

  It was then that Harry decided on a name. ‘It might not be a thoroughbred name but I reckon it’s a noble one anyhow big fella. I’m gonna call you ‘Brumby’.’ He leaned over the horse’s neck again. ‘You like that name? It’s a good strong name, ‘Brumby’.’ The horse whinnied softly and Harry smiled, sure that the horse understood every word he had said.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The drove progressed steadily with Harry improving his horseman-ship with each hard day’s work in the saddle and Jack becoming what Warri said was ‘a crack shot’. There was rarely a time he missed with the rifle, ensuring he didn’t fire unless he was certain, barring unforeseen circumstances, that he could hit the target. Warri instilled in him that the animals were a fundamental part of the bush; there for food and not for sport. He only ever shot what was required for the camp and, even though tempted to dispatch the odd snake or two, he resisted, knowing they were no threat and were an integral element of the outback. ‘Don’ ever let an animal suffer, Jack,’ Warri advised. ‘If ’e ’urt yu finish ’im off quick.’

  Jack now provided all the wild game for the larder riding out alone into the scrub on Brehardie leading a packhorse, confident that Warri’s tutoring over many days had equipped him for these solo journeys into the bush, something he would never have attempted without the old Aboriginal’s teaching. He learned how to read signs to track animals and Warri had patiently shown him basic bushcraft. He now knew how to spot markers indicating waterholes and the skill of picking landmarks to avoid getting lost.

  O
n one excursion Warri led him into a narrow high-walled gorge. They followed a winding creek bed to a waterhole of emerald transparent water where Warri dismounted. Indicating to Jack that he follow, Warri guided him along a narrow ledge that wound upward from the floor of the gorge opening onto a broad, flat expanse of bare rock half way up the cliff that was invisible from the ground. At the far end of the rocky platform was a cave, its entrance almost a perfect arch leading to a high-roofed grotto. Jack sensed the awesomeness of the place even before Warri spoke.

  ‘Jack, this is special place I show yu. No white fella ever bin ’ere before. Maybe, but don’ tink so. It’s not sacred laik it wrong yu be ’ere or nothin’ but special to my people for a thousand years or more.’

  Jack then noticed as they walked to the cave mouth that the entrance wall was covered with ancient weathered carvings. Inside, the cave walls and even the roof had carvings and paintings of many kinds, some indistinct from age, others clear with colours highlighting the designs etched in the rock. Jack figured there must have been hundreds of shapes and designs. He stood spellbound, his eyes roaming the primeval art in the natural gallery as Warri spoke softly.

  ‘Look, Jack. That fella, kangaroo, ’im emu, other one there ’e bungarra.’ Warri reverently traced the drawings of animal footprints with an outstretched finger. ‘These paintin’s very ol’ Jack. Tell the ’istory of our people, animals … stories of our Dreamtime …’ His voice trailed off his mind imagining the people chiselling designs with pointed stones, then using natural earthy materials, rocks or clays of different colours ground to powder and mixed with water or spittle to produce paints.