Brumby's Run

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Sam ignored the question. ‘I gather we’ll be working together tomorrow,’ she said.

  Spike nodded his head, an amused glint in his intense blue eyes. Sam had never seen eyes quite like them before. The colour of corn-flowers, with a luminous quality that made you feel like an animal transfixed by headlights. Electric blue. Bedroom blue.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, and crossed his heart. ‘I won’t give the game away.’

  She held up her palm. ‘No, I’m coming clean about everything tomorrow. I’ll explain to Bushy, and anybody else who wants to hear, who I am, and how things got so out of hand.’

  ‘That’d be a real shame,’ said Spike. ‘Folks around town are fans of the new Charlie,’ he said. ‘She’s polite, friendly, reliable. She pays her debts. There’s been quite a turnaround in public opinion.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I wonder if they’ll like Charlie’s sister as much. Especially when they find out she’s been playing them for fools.’

  Sam was stunned. She hadn’t thought this through. Of course people would feel tricked – betrayed, even. She didn’t want that. She liked the people of Currajong, and apparently they liked her. Marjorie at the general store had popped a few extra rolls and a jar of homemade blackberry jam into Sam’s order last week. ‘I always make too much anyway,’ she’d said, laughing, dismissing Sam’s protests. And there’d been two extra bags of oats in the delivery from the produce store. When she’d told George he’d simply said, ‘Don’t worry about it. Just keep on doing a good job with those brumbies. I’ve got a soft spot for the mad buggers.’ Harry at the service station had repaired a punctured tyre, then refused payment. ‘In appreciation for fixing that account up, love. And for giving my little bloke a lift when he missed the bus on Tuesday.’ Dozens of little kindnesses, adding up to a community-wide spirit of acceptance. For the very first time, Sam felt like she really belonged somewhere. It was something precious, something to be protected and treasured, not deliberately cast aside.

  Things had been so perfect. Her time in Currajong, in spite of all the difficulties, had been quite simply the happiest time of her life. Free of Mum and all her dreadful expectations. Free of the pressures of school. Living in the true knowledge of who she really was, and where she came from. Perversely, it felt more authentic being Charlie than it had ever felt being herself. Resentment rippled out across the pond of her thoughts. Resentment for her mother, her father, for Mary. And there was no point denying it. A swelling wave of resentment against her sister. Charlie had accused her of stealing a life. What if it was the other way round? What if Charlie had stolen hers? Maybe she was the one who’d been meant to grow up in this beautiful place. Maybe Charlie had been supposed to live with Faith. And because of some stupid mistake when they were babies, they’d been switched. Currajong, Brumby’s Run, the horses … Drew. Maybe they were all really meant to belong to her?

  ‘I’ll help you finish your chores,’ said Spike. ‘Then I’ll take you for a slap-up meal at the pub.’ The matter was apparently settled. Sam hadn’t eaten in town before. She’d not wanted to raise suspicions. But anger made her bold – reckless, even. She wanted to step out with this gorgeous cowboy, wanted to talk and laugh and drink, to socialise. She wanted to have some fun, without always wondering if she’d give the game away. Tonight she’d be whoever the hell she wanted to be. And for one honest, shameful moment Sam wished that Charlie might never come home.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Spike was in one hell of a hurry. He zipped open the swag. ‘Take off your boots and get in.’ His voice was low and urgent. Sam did as she was told and lay very still. Though wrapped tight in the sleeping bag, she still felt exposed, like the eyes of the world were upon her. Judging from the sound of shouting voices, they soon would be.

  This certainly was a crazy competition. Part of the Currajong Festival, it was like some kind of fast-forward day on the farm. ‘In the Station Team Muster,’ boomed the announcer, ‘a team of two people are required to light a fire, boil a billy, cook an egg and eat it, ram in a steel post and pull it out again, split wood, tie a sheep, move a hay bale on the back of a bike, and scull a warm beer, all in six minutes flat. Rafferty’s rules apply, which means they are subject to change at any time, and the judges’ decision is final.’

  Sam held her breath, closed her eyes and waited for the swift kick that she knew was coming. Spike would be winding his way back through the poles towards her. The shouting grew louder and finally she felt his toe in her ribs. ‘Wake up, Princess!’

  Sam scrambled from the bag, pulled on her boots and used the kindling and newspaper in their box to light a fire. Yes, it had flared with the first match. Sam grabbed the billy and plonked it over the flames, almost extinguishing them in the process. She nursed the fire back to life and cracked the egg into the pan.

  Sam glanced up. Spike had reached the fence with the hay bale still safely on the motorbike, and was now tying the legs of a ram. Close behind him, Drew and another man leapt into the yard and grabbed a sheep each. The fire was going well now. Sam fanned it with her hat. The egg turned white around the edges and the billy began to steam. Spike had said the trick was to roll up the swag once things were cooking. Sam did just that, strapping it together carefully, keeping an eye on the flames at the same time. A quick look at the other teams showed the wisdom of this strategy. Their swags still lay stretched out on the ground while the cooks fussed over their fires.

  Spike sped back, skidded his bike to a halt, almost ran over the campfire in the process, then attacked the pile of firewood with an axe. He split the timber in a few sure strokes, then rammed the metal post in like a mad man, until it was in the ground up to the white line. The arena rang to the sound of axes and rammers. All the while, officials wandered about, observing the mayhem with clipboards and serious expressions.

  The third team was out of contention. Their sheep had freed itself from the tie and somehow escaped the yard altogether. Sam sneaked a peek next door, where Drew was yanking his steel picket from the ground in one powerful movement. Cords of muscle stood out on his neck and his shirt pulled tightly across his broad back. He was on his bike a few seconds ahead of Spike. She caught herself in a silent cheer. Who was she barracking for, anyway?

  Sam lifted the corner of her egg under the watchful gaze of a judge. Good enough. She scraped it onto the slice of bread, and downed the lot in three gulps just as Spike arrived back from untying their sheep. Drew was already sculling the beer, but his cook hadn’t finished rolling up their swag yet. Spike drained the contents of his can, hurled it to the dust and punched the air in victory. The crowd cheered, and some triumphant country anthem burst from the loudspeakers. After a brief conference, the officials gave the nod, and declared Team Morgan the winner. A man with an extinguisher wandered about, dousing the camp fires.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Drew as Sam left the arena. His knock-out smile grabbed at her insides. ‘I needed you with me.’

  Sam braced against a swift stab of shame. She had nothing to feel guilty about.

  Drew shot Spike a poisonous glare, then tipped his hat to Sam. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m on next in the whip crack.’ He disappeared into the crowd, one that seemed far too big for sleepy little Currajong. Sam watched him go, and couldn’t stop her heart from sinking.

  Why on earth had she teamed up with Spike? For a bit of fun, like she’d said? That was part of it. But that wasn’t all of it. A piece of her wanted Drew to feel as jealous and lost as she did.

  The King of the Mountains Stockman’s Challenge was the Melbourne Cup of bush riding, a weekend-long celebration of traditional skills fast disappearing from an increasingly urbanised world. It was uniquely Australian, and the showcase event of the Currajong Festival. Sam could barely wait for it to start. She’d slipped away early that morning to watch the vet, skills and gear checks that were designed to weed out pretenders. Just as well, as the challenge was potentially perilous. A copy of each entrant’s ambulance subscription was
a compulsory requirement. There was no doubt about it. When it came to a test of superb all-round horsemanship, the Stockman’s Challenge was second to none. Bushmen and -women competed in six gruelling preliminary events, set to challenge even the most talented riders and their horses. The top ten gained a place in the two final events, the Brumby Catch and the Stock Saddle Buck-jump. And of course Spike and Drew were top contenders.

  All day the pair had behaved like it was a two-horse race, a head-to-head challenge, just between them. Spike had issued his own private challenge to Sam. He’d dared her to go on a date with him if he was crowned King of the Mountains. A proper date. Spike uttered the word proper in a slow, sexy drawl with an eyebrow raised. The proposition sounded downright dangerous, and left Sam in little doubt about its implications. But she didn’t give herself room to think about that. Spike was more than an instrument of revenge. He was a giddy diversion from her disenchantment with Drew. She was living a modern day fairytale – a knight jousting for his lady’s hand. It was a wild, romantic notion, and as foreign to the old Sam as it could have possibly been.

  Sam had spent most of the day helping Bushy out with the brumby demonstrations in the main arena. But it was hard to concentrate on her work, with so many marvellous things going on all around her. She couldn’t resist ducking off, and the event which really grabbed her attention was the bareback obstacle course. Entrants not only competed without saddles, but collected extra points if they rode just with halters. Horse-and-rider teams backed over bridges, jumped hedges, wound their way through hanging obstacles and negotiated tyres and gates – all against the clock. They finished with a thirty-second freestyle opportunity to impress the judges.

  She’d been lucky enough to arrive just in time to see Drew compete. At an invisible signal, Clancy had lain down, flat out on the ground, and allowed Drew to crack a stockwhip over his body. This showed more than good training. It was a remarkable trust exercise for both horse and man. But the most spectacular performance of all was Spike’s. Exercising perfect control, he cantered his rangy, coffin-headed chestnut around the course without saddle, bridle or halter – revving a chainsaw in one hand, for God’s sake. Spike pipped Drew at the post on points. So did Spike’s best mate, a pinch-faced, redheaded stockman named Rowdy. Sam frowned as Rowdy spurred his horse past her, hands harsh on the bit. The three of them would go into the next event neck and neck on the scoreboard.

  The elegance and discipline of high-school riding seemed a world away from this rough and ready country carnival. Yet it was impossible for Sam not to connect the two. In the course of the practical events, these stock horses routinely performed flying changes, roll backs, spins and stops that would be the envy of any national dressage-squad hopefuls. And just like in dressage, the competition was designed to display the horse’s athleticism and ability, while exhibiting the rider’s horsemanship. It was a reminder to Sam that modern high-school riding had its practical origins in the ancient cavalry. The same skills that lent a horse grace in the ménage also allowed it to twist from the course of a slashing sabre or maintain the precision of a cavalry charge. Jumps in the air, like the capriole, could have cleared entire lines of enemy infantry at once, while momentary halts like the levante perfectly positioned riders for well-aimed sword strokes or musket shots.

  An announcement blared from the loudspeaker. ‘In a few minutes, there’ll be a brumby-handling display in the main arena for all those interested, proudly sponsored by the Brumby Coalition of Victoria.’

  Sam raced back to the yards. Spike was already lunging Allawarra, a pretty piebald filly, in side reins and a roller. They were the picture of calm control. Hard to imagine it was only a few weeks since this young horse had first laid eyes on a human being.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sam told Bushy breathlessly. ‘Everything’s just so interesting. Spike was fabulous in the bareback obstacle – you should have seen him.’

  ‘Spike’s a bloody good horseman, all right,’ he said. ‘Now will you get Phoenix ready? Or is that too much trouble?’ Sam apologised again. She saddled the colt and mounted, waiting in the wings with bated breath for Spike to finish his mouthing demonstration. It took her right back to her days of performing with Pharaoh in the dressage arena, the heart-in-her-mouth excitement, just before she acknowledged the judges and commenced her round.

  ‘In you go,’ said Bushy, as The Man From Snowy River theme music started up. Sam took a deep breath and urged Phoenix forward, cantering around the arena, then she put him through his paces. She could hear the appreciative oohs and aahs of the crowd. The beautiful golden colt had a special presence, a certain charisma. Phoenix made Sam feel like a star herself, made it easy for her to throw caution to the wind. He made her reckless. Spike and Drew were both watching from the rails, standing opposite each other.

  ‘This stylish little colt was wild-caught off the mountain not two months ago,’ said the announcer. ‘He’s a fine example of the character and versatility of some of these brumbies. Let’s give him and the little lady a hand.’

  Phoenix bowed low, then cantered out to an enthusiastic burst of applause. Now Spike drove Bushy’s Holden Rodeo into the ring. The audience wouldn’t believe this next stunt. Sam had barely believed it herself when she’d seen it that morning in rehearsal.

  Bushy clambered bareback onto Banjo, his black brumby stallion, and they made their entrance. The announcer cranked back into gear. ‘Bushy Nandawarra caught this brumby as a ten-year-old stallion, after it had spent years sneaking into his paddocks and getting his stock-horse mares pregnant.’ There was loud laughter from the crowd.

  ‘So what you’re seeing here today is a horse that spent the first decade of his life untouched by human hands. He’s a real tribute to the temperament of these brumbies, ladies and gentlemen. Banjo is now a registered sire with the Brumby Studbook. Those foals by Bushy’s stock-horse mares, incidentally, are all appendix-registered brumbies now. And I might add they’re fetching good prices, and competing nationally in campdrafts and barrel races.’

  Banjo had an extensive repertoire of tricks. He could count, play fetch, and answer questions by nodding or shaking his head. He lay down on command, sat up like a dog, and amused children by pulling the saddle cloth off with his teeth every time Bushy turned his back to fetch the saddle. He reared on cue, and even balanced on a tractor tyre while cracking a whip held in his mouth. The most amazing trick of all was when Banjo casually jumped onto the tray of the ute, and stood there calmly while Spike drove a lap of honour around the arena. ‘This bloke will put float companies out of business!’ the announcer said. Bushy and Banjo galloped from the ring to the sound of thunderous applause. It really was an astonishing act.

  A clown with a performing mule entered the ring to the laughter of children. ‘Go on with you,’ Bushy said, as Sam looked longingly across the showgrounds. ‘I won’t need you for a while.’ Sam thanked him and dashed off. Past the yabby-burger stand. Through a throng of tiny boys wearing too-big cowboy hats. They already had the swagger. There was still so much on. A tent-pegging display by the Australian Light Horse, a horse-shoeing competition, the cross-country obstacle course; she couldn’t see it all. Sam settled down to watch Drew in the Patterson Packhorse, part of the Stockman’s Challenge.

  ‘This challenge,’ said the announcer, ‘shows our younger generation how things were done before the trayback truck.’

  Drew had to load up a horse, ensuring his packs were evenly balanced. He had to lead it through an obstacle course, maintaining the balance of the load, then unsaddle the packhorse. There was a fifteen-minute time limit. Drew completed the event with ease. Sam felt a surge of pride.

  Spike was next in the line of competitors. He saw Sam at the ropes, dismounted in a single leap, and was suddenly beside her. ‘A kiss for luck,’ he said. Before she knew it his lips had found hers, eager and insistent. When she pulled away Drew stood nearby, face black as thunder. Spike grinned, saluted him and swung back on his horse.

&nb
sp; She burned with embarrassment, unable to stand the accusation in Drew’s eyes. Sam slipped off into the crowd. She was playing with fire. The two men were still behaving like personal rivals. It was a competition within a competition, and if she was honest with herself, it was flattering to think she might be the prize. Problem was, she couldn’t decide who she wanted to win. Her head was with Spike … but her heart was with Drew.

  Next up was the stock-handling challenge. Sam watched the first rider and a dog briefly chase some cows around the arena. What was the point of it? A middle-aged woman sitting beside her must have noticed Sam’s confused expression. She introduced herself.

  ‘I’m Faye. Is this your first Stockman’s Challenge?’ she asked. ‘You look a bit puzzled.’

  ‘I am,’ Sam admitted.

  ‘Shall I explain the rules?’

  ‘Please.’ A new challenger, Rowdy, entered the ring, and Faye talked Sam through the round. ‘He leads his horse in and ties it up. Then the five-minute time limit starts.’

  ‘Five minutes for what?’ asked Sam.

  ‘He walks over to the yard – that’s called the camp – and is scored on cutting out three unmarked steers on foot. If he lets out more than three, or any marked ones, he’s eliminated.’ Sam noticed that some of the cattle had different-coloured splashes of paint on their shoulders or rumps. ‘Then he mounts up and signals for his working dog to be released. The rider and dog have to move the steers through the gate and into that little yard.’

  A red heeler loped from the pen, eyes trained on the cattle. At a nod from Rowdy it sank low to the ground, and a rough dance commenced between the man and the animals in the arena, all to the staccato beat of a cracking stockwhip. After a few minutes a bell rang, signalling that the competitor had failed to complete the course in his allotted time. Sam flinched when Rowdy surreptitiously kicked his dog.