Brumby's Run

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘She didn’t?’

  ‘No. But she mentioned your dad. He’s a complete bastard, apparently.’

  Chiquita whinnied loudly. Drew and Sam looked around to where she and Tambo were tethered beside the yard. The chestnut mare stood to attention, head high, ears pricked towards the gully. It was then they heard it. A close, trumpeting neigh. Chiquita shivered in her skin, pawed the ground and raised her tail.

  A buckskin horse emerged from the stringybark trees. He marched with arched neck and a bold, high-stepping gait, right up to the restive mare. Could it be Jarrang? Chiquita reared and squealed; the high, insistent squeal of a mare in season. Drew leapt up and darted for her head. Too late.

  The brumby stallion laid his ears flat back as Chiquita’s reins snapped. His head snaked to her flank, biting hard. Drew yelled and tried to force himself between the horses. The buckskin lunged straight at him, all bared teeth, slashing hoofs and wild, rolling eyes. The bugger. Drew ducked beneath the rail, and watched as the stallion half drove, half cajoled his mare across the clearing. The pair disappeared at a gallop into the trees. Tambo neighed and danced at the end of his reins.

  ‘Fuck!’ Drew glanced at Sam, standing wide-eyed by the yard. Then he swung bareback onto Tambo and took off after Chiquita.

  The horses headed straight up the hill. The buckskin knew what he was doing. He kept to the trees, staying between Drew and the mare, lashing out with both hind feet whenever Drew came too close. It was all Drew could do to keep pace with him. When they reached the ridge’s rocky spine, Chiquita faltered. It was a precipitous place, and treacherous underfoot. She swung back around into the open. Drew rode at right angles to intercept her, pushing Tambo into her shoulder and grabbing her trailing reins. The buckskin wheeled, but Drew had hold of her now. He spun Tambo around, drew his horses to a halt and faced the stallion. Drew was certain. This was Jarrang, Charlie’s orphan foal, all grown up.

  Jarrang retreated in a series of small, defiant rears, right back to the escarpment. Tambo and Chiquita stood with heaving sides, but the brumby stallion seemed unfazed by the uphill gallop. He’d matured into a striking horse, about fifteen hands, with the deep chest, short back and good length of rein so typical of early Walers. The type of horse that might even impress Drew’s father – if his father didn’t know Jarrang was a brumby, that was. What Drew needed was a rope. Jarrang reared again and boxed the air, as if reading Drew’s mind. Drew leaned down to stroke Chiquita’s damp neck. ‘Come on, girl. Let’s get you home.’

  They turned to go. The buckskin screamed in anger. In a surprise move he thundered back and shot past so close that Drew could have touched him. Chiquita rose high on her hind legs, and Drew impulsively wound her reins around his hand. Bad move. Tambo leapt forward. Chiquita hung back and wrenched Drew to the ground. Even then, he didn’t drop the reins, but Jarrang was determined to have his mare. He galloped straight for Drew, forcing him to dive for cover. The stallion urged Chiquita on with a nip to her wither. With a dreadful, sinking feeling, Drew watched the horses scramble up the scree and vanish behind a rocky overhang.

  For a moment he feared he’d lose Tambo as well, but the bay seemed to understand the stallion would not welcome a gelding for company. Tambo stopped short at the base of the stony slope and played hard to get for a few precious minutes, before allowing Drew to mount. There was no point giving chase. Those horses were long gone. Drew spat on the ground in disgust, and headed back to the hut. His dad would be furious. Merry Christmas, indeed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eight o’clock, Monday morning. ‘So you’re Charlie.’ Sam nodded uncertainly, as if she didn’t believe it herself. Don’t say a word. Her voice would give her away more than anything. She’d been practising talking like Charlie – trying to speak from the back of her tongue, and limiting lip movement a little. And she needed to speed up her speech, and run the words together a bit more. It was like giving herself elocution lessons in reverse. Thank goodness Bushy didn’t seem to expect her to talk.

  Sam had never met an Aboriginal person before. Bushy wore a funny, old-fashioned hat – an iron-grey fedora, like Indiana Jones might wear – along with moleskin trousers, an ancient tweed jacket and a black tie. Quite an eccentric look.

  He extended his hand, and she shook it, limp-wristed, willing her own hand not to shake. His grasp was firm, and Sam wished she’d applied more pressure. Bushy scrutinised her, hawk eyes peering from a weathered, leather-skinned face. Like with an old saddle, it was impossible to guess his age; fifty? seventy?

  ‘You’re a bit pasty for a country girl,’ he said. There was no answer to that. This was never going to work. Why on earth had she thought she might pass for her sister? ‘You’ve a way with horses, though,’ he said. ‘That’s what they say.’ Bushy gestured for her to follow him. ‘We’ll soon see if it’s true.’

  In the corner of the showgrounds stood a stockyard, and in the corner of the stockyard stood a frightened palomino colt with a flame-shaped star. His eyes were wary, his head held high, forefeet balanced in readiness to flee left or right, as circumstance demanded.

  ‘There’s a little brumby for you,’ said Bushy. ‘Straight off the mountain. Passive trapped, so he’s not been hurt.’ He picked up a rope, and they climbed through the rails into the yard. ‘That colt is as frightened as you’d be, if you were stuck in a room with some fella from outer space. That fella might be friendly, or he might want to have you for supper.’

  Sam jumped as a noose snaked out from Bushy’s hands and landed neatly over the horse’s head. The colt screamed and reared, battling the pull on his neck. ‘Leave it loose to start with. Prove you don’t want to hurt him.’ Bushy handed Sam the rope. ‘I want you to halter-break that brumby.’ He took a pouch of tobacco and papers from his pocket, and proceeded to roll a smoke. ‘You’ve got half an hour. Do that, and the job’s yours – and you get to name the colt.’

  Sam felt sick. She’d be exposed for the fraud she was. But before she gave up, she considered her task. Hadn’t she broken in Pharoah herself? However, there’d been a team of trainers on call, and he’d arrived at the stables as a well-behaved youngster with perfect ground manners. A far cry from this wild, fearful creature. Still, the basic principles were the same, and she was wearing Charlie’s lucky hat to boot. How difficult could it be? Sam cautiously shortened the rope. She’d never used a rope on a horse before, but the stiff noose held its shape, and the large leather eye seemed designed to prevent choking. The palomino fought against the slightest pressure. Sam kept up a firm, light contact, letting the stout rails do the work of containment for her. Dust choked her throat and her pulse was racing. The line lightly slipped and slid along the horse’s flanks and over his rump as he twisted and turned. After a minute or two, he seized upon a new way to escape his captor, plunging round and round the yard with wide, rolling eyes, searching the rails for any weakness. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t evade Sam’s quiet touch. His first terror gone, the colt lowered his head and turned to face her.

  ‘Good,’ called Bushy from outside the yard. ‘You’re halfway there.’

  Sam spat the dirt from her mouth and checked her watch. She’d better be. Only fifteen minutes left. Sam controlled her anxiety, allowing the golden colt to settle down, to appreciate that the rope around his neck was no threat. What now? She played it by ear, swinging the rope softly, slow and rhythmic, so it brushed his muzzle, his cheek, then up to his ear. He flinched, but didn’t move, watching her. She crooned a sing-song stream of reassuring words. There’s a boy, stand up, I just want to pat you.

  ‘Pat him?’ yelled Bushy from the side. He roared with laughter. ‘That’s a new one.’

  Sam ignored him. She forgot about the time. Each nerve tingled in tempo with the palomino’s racing heart. She steadied her breathing. The colt steadied his. Then he relaxed his jaw and yawned. Sam smiled and moved right up to his shoulder, crooning all the while, unable to believe her luck. He examined her with his ve
lvet muzzle, taking her in, the taste and smell of her. She looped the rope into a rough halter and slipped it over his nose, stroking his shivering neck all the while.

  ‘You still gotta lead him,’ called Bushy.

  Sam backed up, in line with the colt’s forefeet, and flicked the rope end. He moved smartly around the yard at a trot. Sam relaxed her body and the brumby dropped back to a walk. With infinite patience Sam approached his shoulder, coiling the rope as she went, keeping pace with him. Soon she had the colt following her around the perimeter of the yard, just as calm as could be.

  She glanced up at Bushy, heart banging with pride. He nodded. ‘You’ll do. Turn him loose.’

  Sam punched the air, letting out a whoop of excitement. The brumby reared, causing the halter to tighten on his nose. He thrashed violently from side to side. Sam dropped the rope and ran for the rails. Bushy slipped into the yard, picked up the line and urged the horse into a canter. When he slackened the rope, the colt turned to face him, and Bushy released him with one expert flick of his wrist.

  ‘It’s wise not to get ahead of yourself with any horse,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Especially a wild brumby.’

  ‘Do I still get the job?’ asked Sam, breathless.

  Bushy took an extra-long look at her, as if he was contemplating a difficult question. ‘You do,’ he said at last. ‘Come back after lunch.’ The palomino pranced and neighed. ‘You got a name for him?’

  ‘Phoenix,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I’ll call him Phoenix.’

  Sam climbed up on the rails and watched the young brumby buck his way around the yard. ‘It’s a new start for us both,’ she whispered.

  Sam sat in her car and tried calling Charlie again. Her phone had been dropping out badly ever since she’d arrived. Maybe there’d be better reception out here at the showgrounds. Even when she did manage to get through, all calls went through the hospital switchboard. A conspiracy of nurses seemed determined to thwart any attempt to talk to Charlie. Her sister was either asleep, or having tests, or having showers or having lunch. Didn’t they realise these calls were important? Charlie must be going insane, wondering how things were going. ‘One moment please,’ said a voice, and then, miracle of miracles, she was through.

  ‘Sam?’ Charlie sounded excited, and much stronger than Sam remembered. ‘Tell me absolutely everything.’

  Sam launched into a report of her four days so far at Brumby’s Run, guided by Charlie’s enthusiastic inquisition. But an odd thing was happening. As she told her story, she found herself editing the account in little ways. Or maybe they weren’t so little. Bill, for instance. He’d mistaken her for Charlie, and she’d let the impression stand. How could she explain that? How could she convey, on a shaky phone line, how difficult it was to swear that you weren’t who somebody assumed you were? She hadn’t deliberately misled Bill – not like she’d done with Bushy. When Sam got to that part, she told Charlie that she’d taken the job with Bushy in order to hold it for her when she came home. This was true, after all. Totally true … and Charlie had been thrilled to hear it. Any misunderstandings could be cleared up later. And then there was Drew. She mentioned how helpful he’d been – but not the toe-curling kiss they’d shared. She tried to talk casually about him, sure Charlie would be able to see through her nonchalance. But her sister was caught up in her own problems.

  ‘Remember, don’t tell anybody I’m sick,’ said Charlie. ‘They feel sorry enough for me around Currajong already. You should hear them. Poor little Charlie, having a mother like that. A drunk. A druggie. Running around with all those men. No wonder she turned out like she did. Sanctimonious pricks. I couldn’t stand any more pity! And anyway, Bushy might think I won’t be up for the job.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Sam, feeling faint. ‘Nobody knows.’

  ‘What about Drew? What have you told him?’

  ‘That you’re away on confidential business,’ said Sam. Charlie must have thought that was funny. She laughed, loud and strong. There was something about the laugh that Sam hadn’t heard before, a disturbing quality. It took her a while to pick it. Charlie’s laugh was sounding too much like her own.

  ‘He must be mad with curiosity,’ said Charlie finally, a note of immense satisfaction in her voice.

  Now it was Sam’s turn to ask questions. Apparently, her sister’s recovery was proceeding beautifully. She’d be home in a couple of months, touch wood. ‘You’ve saved my life, you know that?’ said Charlie, just before the line dropped out for good. Sam went over the conversation in her head. Her gaze wandered to the imposing blue peaks of the Balleroo Range, to the clear azure sky, to the beautiful brumby dancing in the stockyard. A satin bowerbird, in splendid blue-black plumage, swooped on spilled oats outside Bushy’s feed shed. Its odd creaking cry sounded like the opening of a long locked door. ‘No, Charlie,’ said Sam, as she started the car. ‘I think it’s you who’s saved mine.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bill tossed the last hay bale down. Drew fielded it and stacked it on the tray of the truck. Monday afternoon, and he still hadn’t told his father they were losing the lease for Brumby’s Run. The opportunity was staring at him over breakfast. Bill had been on the phone to Tom about stocking rates for the next year, but Drew hadn’t mustered up the courage. What was worse, his father was talking about buying in more cattle.

  ‘I want you to inspect those Benambra weaners for me next week,’ Bill said as he dusted down his hands. ‘Make sure they bring in the bloody lot, so they can’t hide the tail.’ The tail was the inevitable percentage of poorer calves in any yarding. Bill had been caught out last year, buying a motley, weedy mob based on an unrepresentative sample of yarded stock. It was Drew who’d warned Bill against them, so there was a certain irony in Bill’s words of caution. ‘And don’t act too keen. Buying paddock mobs is like playing poker, and you’ve never been much good at poker.’ Bill walked away whistling, looking pleased as punch.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ muttered Drew to himself. Gloom gathered over him like his own personal cloud. Why shouldn’t Dad look pleased? He’d had a win, no doubt about it. Thanks to the recently elected state government, cattle were going back into Balleroo National Park – as a trial to start with. A phone call that morning confirmed the cattle would be mostly from Kilmarnock. It didn’t hurt that Bill and the new environment minister were old school mates. So now, Bill had plans to move the cows and calves from Brumby’s up into the park, and put a few hundred new weaners onto Mary’s land. Drew needed to tell his father to back off before things got out of hand. And he needed to do it soon.

  Drew was ready to jump in the cab when Bess began to bark. Sam’s bright-blue beetle was scooting up the drive. From his vantage point at the hayshed, Drew watched his father stride down to meet her. After a minute or two Bill raised his voice and Sam retreated to her car. With a dismissive wave of his hand, Bill marched back to the house. Drew headed down the hill at a run. Charging around the corner of the verandah, he cannoned headlong into his father coming the other way. Too late: the beetle was heading off. Drew mumbled an apology to his father and tried to appear offhand.

  ‘The Kellys are back,’ said Bill. ‘Hate to think how they got their hands on that car.’ He shook his head. ‘The girl, Charlie. She was just here.’ Bill gave Drew a shrewd look. ‘Don’t you go getting keen on her again, son. She’s not for you.’ Drew took a long, steadying breath. Just ignore him, don’t give him the satisfaction. ‘She says Mary won’t renew the lease. Damned if I know why.’

  Drew put on a look of suitable surprise. ‘Well that scotches the cattle-buying trip, then.’

  ‘It bloody well doesn’t!’ barked Bill. ‘Mary will come round. You’re still going, right after you round up those damned horses and get Chiquita back for me. I’m not losing my top mare to some mongrel stallion, not the way Don Campbell did at Jindabyne.’ Yes. The little issue of Dad’s mare. ‘I’m sending Ted to repair the yards up at Dead Man’s Hut. Then I want those brumbies run in.’<
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  ‘What do I do with them?’

  ‘Shoot them, dog them, I don’t care – just get Chiquita back.’

  Bill walked off, still looking pleased with himself. Drew remembered the horror of running the brumbies the year before on Maroong Mountain. One thing was certain. This time things would be done differently.

  The sun still blazed low in the western sky when Drew set off for Brumby’s Run. He’d packed a box with Christmas leftovers – cold meat and salad, mince pies, fresh fruit. A bottle of wine sat on ice in the esky.

  This was Drew’s second try today. The first time, he’d gone by just on spec and Sam hadn’t been home yet. He’d hightailed it away, scared she’d catch him on his way out and think him desperate. This time he’d had enough sense to try her mobile, and score himself a proper invite. Sam was waiting for him outside the house, wearing Charlie’s clothes – jeans, a plaid shirt and an akubra. She looked tired and happy, her skin flushed, her face sunburned. She was even prettier than he remembered. Bess scrambled off the tray to meet her before Drew had a chance to lift the dog down.

  Sam had put a card table under the peppercorn tree out the back, and set it with plates and cutlery. Charlie’s pet crow cawed from a low branch, causing Sam to jump in fright. ‘That’s Condor,’ said Drew, throwing the friendly bird a piece of ham. ‘Charlie hand-raised him after Dad shot his parents. Poor little fella must be missing her something shocking.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ said Sam. ‘And to think I’ve been chasing him off.’ Sam held out a piece of bread to Condor, by way of apology. The big black bird received it with great dignity. ‘That’s an unusual name for a crow.’

  ‘You know what a nature nut Charlie is,’ said Drew. ‘Condor’s named after those big American vultures, cause he’s a bit of a scavenger. And by the way, don’t let Charlie hear you calling Condor a crow. He’s an Australian raven, apparently, although I’ll be buggered if I can tell the difference.’