by DIMORRISSEY
The brumbies were spread out in a mass of colours and sizes, their manes and tails long and matted, their legs muscled and strong. As the mob rested, one horse stood apart, his black head lifted alertly.
‘Don’t they look proud and free. It seems a shame to break them up,’ whispered Queenie to TR who was studying them through a pair of binoculars. ‘How many are there?’
‘Maybe fifty. Look at the stallion, the big black fella. I bet he’s the leader.’
‘He looks as if he’s a bit suspicious, but he wouldn’t know we’re here — we’re too high, and anyway, we’re downwind. Maybe he just senses something is amiss.’
TR handed her the glasses. ‘There are some nice horses in that mob. A few runts, but they look pretty fit.’
‘Wonder where they came from,’ mused Queenie.
‘All over the place, some escaped from properties, some have probably been breeding out here for years. They travel for miles and miles to find each other, and then form big mobs.’
They continued to watch in silence, sharing the binoculars and studying the horses individually. Occasionally TR would nudge Queenie and point out a particular horse.
A loose rock suddenly dislodged from the opposite cliff and crashed down the cliff face, startling the horses who dashed into a tight group behind the black stallion.
TR and Queenie grinned at each other. ‘He’s the boss, all right. We get him where we want him and all the others will follow,’ whispered TR close to her cheek.
‘He looks a mean sod. You can break him, TR.’
‘Thanks a lot. This isn’t going to be easy with just the two of us and the dogs. It’ll be hard riding, Queenie. And risky.’
‘I can see that. And I’m not nervous. I know what we’re doing.’
‘Okay, don’t bite my head off. Let’s go work out how we’re going to corral them.’ TR slid back from the precipice where they were perched.
Silently they moved back to where they had hobbled their horses and, mounting them, turned back towards camp. Their quarry had been found relatively easily. Catching them would be a lot more difficult.
Queenie relit the small campfire and TR poured water into the billy from a water bag.
‘So, how do you think we should round them up?’ asked Queenie.
‘If we get them down into that dry river bed and herd them up the ravine to the dead end we can pen them and pull out the ones we want. We’ll have to build a bit of fencing and a slip rail gate, but that won’t take more than a few hours if we both swing an axe.’
‘I can swing an axe, TR. I’d figured we’d have to do that anyway.’
‘Just checking that I know what I’m doing, huh? I’m not worried, I have great faith in the dogs,’ grinned TR.
Queenie gave him a slight push, causing him to sit hard on the ground. ‘Dogs indeed. They’re sheep dogs, they’ll do as I say,’ she said, throwing the black tea leaves into the bubbling water, determined TR would not get the upper hand.
Queenie lifted the blackened billy of tea off the fire with a stick as TR sliced a chunk of corned beef and slapped it between two pieces of damper.
‘We’d better leave camp at daybreak and hope we get to them before they hear or smell us,’ said TR, munching through the hunk of bush bread. ‘This afternoon we build the pen.’
They rode back to where the ravine began, taking the packhorses with them, and worked their way down to the floor of the valley. The river bed began at the base of the cliffs where a waterfall would plummet in the rainy season.
It took most of the afternoon to build the trap. Although the spot they’d chosen for the stockyard looked narrow, they still had to erect almost one hundred yards of fencing to stretch along both sides of the valley to the sheer cliffs formed by a glacier in some distant age.
Queenie and TR worked side by side, each knowing what needed to be done without discussion. They swung axes, hauled saplings, lashing them to trees, and used the packhorses to drag fallen trunks along the fence line.
The heat was stifling as the sun rose above them and not a breath of wind drifted down to the floor of the ravine. The birds were silent as if singing was too much effort. Down in the sandy river bed the dogs dug holes in the shade of the bank and lay there panting.
TR dropped his shirt onto the ground. The sweat made his tanned body shine like polished brass. He swung the axe with the rhythmic skill of a bushman and Queenie noticed the iron-hard muscles in his arms that powered the steel blade into the logs needed for the fence.
Queenie worked just as hard. She too, used an axe, mainly on the saplings for the rails. She had a good eye and made a clean cut, though her muscles and back screamed and the perspiration ran in streams down her body and soaked through her shirt. Blisters began to form on her hands, but she didn’t complain or pause. Strangely, she found it bearable and realised she was enjoying the silent companionship that came from working alongside TR.
The sun was setting as they finished the slip rails that would make the gate and cleared away the scrub at the entrance of the trap so the horses would have a clear run in.
They saddled up to ride back to camp. ‘Well, what do you think?’ said Queenie, critically eyeing their work.
‘Some of your bits look a bit dodgy, but I reckon it’ll do the job,’ said TR with a slight grin.
‘Thanks. You do dinner then,’ said Queenie turning her horse so he wouldn’t see her smile. She knew he had paid her a compliment in the backhanded way of bushmen. If any part of that fence was weak, they’d still be working on it.
Queenie sat by the campfire nursing her cracked and blistered hands. She stared thoughtfully into the darkening sky.
‘The sky seems a different colour and there is a strange smell in the air. Surely we couldn’t be getting rain after all these months,’ she said.
TR glanced up. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing. But I see what you mean. This drought has gone on long enough. Let’s hope rain is on the way.’
He handed her a mug of tea, noticing her sore hands — but he knew Queenie better now, so said nothing.
At piccaninny light, the pearly grey light before the dawn, TR rolled out of his sleeping bag and poked the fire. It flared and he put a billy of water on to boil then checked the hobbled horses grazing nearby. Ten minutes later, holding a mug of steaming tea, he nudged Queenie in her swag with the toe of his boot. ‘Time to move, Queenie.’
Sleepily, Queenie took the tea and sipped it. TR pointed to the sky. ‘Take a look. Your premonition could be right.’
Smudges of black cloud hung above the first streaks of the sunrise.
‘We’ve had a few false alarms. The clouds could disappear by midday. It happens a lot,’ said Queenie.
They had worked out their plan of attack, the signals to each other and the possible loopholes and dangers. They knew their key player was the black stallion — where he went the others would follow.
In the dawn light, as the edges of the sky began to run with lilac pink and gold, they started their slow circuit. Moving in quietly behind the brumbies, they followed slowly as the mob began to graze their way along the ravine.
Timing of their charge was crucial. They had to position themselves behind the group so they would head up the ravine into the narrow mouth where there was no exit and their trap waited.
The tail-enders among the brumbies knew there were two strange horses behind them but took little notice as the horses moved softly and held back. The dogs were out of sight awaiting their call.
The stallion was becoming edgy. He shook his head and whinnied. Picking up his feet he trotted forward, stopped and turned, facing the rear of the mob. Queenie and TR stilled their walking horses. They wouldn’t be able to hold the brumbies back if the stallion turned them and charged at Queenie and TR.
The stallion-hesitated, deciding whether to charge towards the strangers or retreat. In that split second TR lifted his stock whip, snaking it through the air with a shrieking crack that bounced off the c
liff walls like a ricocheting bullet. At the same instant he kicked his horse into a gallop shouting, ‘Now!’
On the left flank, Nareedah broke into a gallop as Queenie let out a piercing whistle to the dogs who bounded forward and raced up the ravine.
The sudden noise and movement galvanised the wild horses. The stallion reared and snorted, thudding his hooves on the dry earth of the river bed. He charged into the mouth of the ravine with the rest of the horses strung out behind him as they blindly followed.
In seconds a cloud of dust enveloped them, but sitting firmly and easily, Queenie and TR raced their horses forward, their stock whips cracking and snapping, the dogs barking and circling the brumbies at the rear.
It was a mad headlong dash into the unknown, and Queenie’s excitement mounted as Nareedah sidestepped ruts and holes, leapt boulders, and swerved to avoid overhanging branches that threatened to slap Queenie cruelly across the face, possibly ripping out an eye, or dislodging her from the saddle.
She glanced across to where TR charged ahead, swinging his whip as he closed in on the stragglers to one side.
Then, like a tidal wave parting, the horses streamed on either side of the black stallion who had suddenly balked and swung about to face his pursuers. The mob slowed, reluctant to charge without their leader. In this moment of truth it seemed to Queenie the stallion was glaring defiantly into her eyes.
Queenie didn’t hesitate. She spurred Nareedah forward, running straight at the great black horse, daring him to charge her. With the dogs barking shrilly at her heels and as she brought her whip down in a powerful crack, Queenie was unaware she was shouting at the top of her voice. Nareedah didn’t flinch but surged forward, obeying Queenie’s command.
Confronted with this fearless and frightening charge, the stallion swung about and raced on up the ravine.
Above the noise of the pounding hooves Queenie heard TR shouting, ‘You little beauty!’ The slip rails were down, open and waiting, and the stallion raced in, followed by the fastest of the brumbies.
Too late they realised there was no way out. By the time they had turned, and in the confusion of the others following on their heels, TR and Queenie were down on the ground racing to lift the rails in place. Some of the horses hadn’t made it and they paused, unwilling to abandon their leader but fearful of the strangers in their midst. Then they crashed away as Queenie and TR lashed the ropes around the slip rail gate.
Some of the brumbies, including the stallion, reared and smashed their hooves against the confines of the pen, but the yard held firm. TR slapped Queenie on the back as he looped the last of the rope in place. ‘Well done. I thought that black bastard was going to try and run you down.’
‘Another second and he would have!’ Exhilarated, Queenie surveyed the two dozen trapped horses. It had taken less than an hour.
Carefully, they inspected all sides of the pen. ‘It’ll hold okay. The horses will settle down soon.’ TR wiped his forehead and pointed to the ground. A trail of ants were leaving their nest, climbing in single file up a tree. ‘Rain.’
Queenie glanced at the glowering sky and back at the nervous horses in their makeshift pen.
‘We’d better get the horses on the move before it starts.’ TR pointed beyond the cliffs to where a dark grey curtain was suspended between clouds and the ground. ‘Already raining over there by the look of things.’
‘Dad will be pleased — the dams are practically empty.’
‘Let’s go eat. We’ll let them settle down and tomorrow we’ll pull the ones we want and let the rest go. We should be able to keep them with us once we chase away the rest of the mob and the leader,’ said TR.
They spoke little as they unsaddled the horses at the end of the day, lit a fire and prepared their simple meal. In the afternoon they had broken camp and moved closer to the pen in the ravine. Both were almost too tired to talk or eat.
‘I reckon we’ve got about six good horses in that lot,’ said TR. ‘It’ll be a long hard ride back with them. You going to be okay?’
‘Of course,’ said Queenie.
They ate silently, occasionally looking skywards where the stars were fast disappearing behind clouds.
TR checked their horses tethered to a rail rigged between two trees near the camp. Taking another worried look at the sky he rolled into his swag.
Echoing his thoughts Queenie muttered, ‘Let’s sleep while we can, I feel the rain could hit sooner than we think.’
It was shortly before midnight when the rain began. It came with a great gust of wind — a solid sheet of water as if from a bottomless, upended bucket. The storm brought an incredible cacophony of sounds — thunder, lightning, wind and rain.
Pulling on oilskin coats, they rolled up blankets and swags.
TR grabbed the saddles. He bent close to Queenie’s ear and shouted through the rain, ‘Follow me, I remember where there’s a cave. We’ll take the horses.’
Queenie and TR led their horses with the packhorses tied behind. TR scrambled ahead, moving up to where the ground began to rise steeply towards the cliffs. The wet dogs tagged along behind the horses.
It took a while in the dark but eventually they found the opening to a small cave. They tethered the horses and ducked under a rocky overhang and into the welcome cavity that dulled the noise of the storm.
In the thin beam of light from TR’s torch it looked dry and safe. ‘No snakes, wallabies or ghosts,’ said TR with satisfaction.
‘Shine the torch back near the mouth,’ said Queenie. ‘There’s a dead tree branch, it’s still pretty dry. We can use it for a fire later.’
Together they dragged the gum branch into the cave, pulled their swags from the packhorses and unrolled their blankets.
‘Dry enough for me,’ said Queenie, stretching out on the floor of the cave. ‘I’m beat. I just hope there aren’t any bats in here. Hate the things.’ She was soon asleep, breathing evenly, curled in her swag.
TR leant against the wall of the cave and dozed uncomfortably, while the dogs crouched out of the rain under the overhang at the mouth of the cave, their noses between their paws.
Some hours later TR stirred, feeling cold and stiff. He cocked his head, listening for the sounds of Queenie’s soft breathing. Switching on his torch, he swung its beam around the cave. Queenie wasn’t there. Shining the light on his watch he saw it was three o’clock. It was still pouring with rain and he wondered if Queenie had needed to step outside. Then he heard it.
Above the sound of rain came a steady roar. He knew immediately what it was and where Queenie had gone.
‘Damn her,’ he muttered, ‘why didn’t she wake me?’ Angry and alarmed he called the dogs and headed out into the wet, dark bush.
As he slipped and stumbled down the rocky slope he could hear more clearly the sound of rushing water. The once dry river bed was now a fast rushing torrent of water. Queenie had gone to the brumbies, knowing they would be trapped.
The dogs raced ahead of him and he could hear them barking.
‘Queenie!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’ His words were whipped away in the wind and rain, and he knew shouting was useless. He broke into a stumbling run, tripping on the undergrowth, fearful for Queenie’s safety.
Sheet lightning illuminated the sky like a crazy neon sign as he reached the pen at the end of the ravine. The water was gushing down the hillside from the waterfall and swirling around the flanks of the frantic horses. Queenie had loosened some of the ropes around the sides of the pen and was waistdeep in the water, her oilskin coat swirling about her as she struggled in the dark.
TR could see that the horses would spring straight through the gap and knock her over if she did manage to drop the barrier.
He waded through the water and grabbed her arms. ‘What the hell are you doing? You’re going to get trampled,’ he shouted.
‘They’re going to drown unless we get them out,’ she yelled back.
‘So are you! Here — take this and cut the ropes
from that tree.’
TR unsnapped the pocket knife from his belt. ‘I’ll clear it down here. Then stand back. They’ll rush through the gap.’
She took the knife and splashed through the river to the bank and began hacking at the ropes around the tree. TR, cursing at his previous thoroughness, began fumbling with tight wet knots.
Queenie cut through the rope and began to wade back across the foaming river to TR. When she was halfway over, the ropes and submerged slip rails were pulled free by the force of the water.
The panicked horses seemed to sense there would be a way out if they followed the water. The stallion was first to splash and kick his way through the opening, missing Queenie by inches.
‘Look out,’ shouted TR as he raced back to the river, grabbed Queenie and pulled her out of the water.
She handed him his knife as her knees gave way and she sat trembling on the ground. TR cut the last rope and it was swept away as the mob of horses, half swimming, half running, kicked their way along the river and up on the bank.
‘You’re bloody mad. Why didn’t you wake me up?’ demanded TR. ‘I’m responsible for you, and you nearly got yourself killed.’
‘I can look after myself,’ shouted Queenie.
‘No you can’t! Come on.’
Grabbing her roughly under the arm, TR pulled her to her feet and began leading her back up the hill. His grip on her arm didn’t lessen until they were back in the cave where Queenie sank to the floor hugging her knees, her teeth chattering.
Silently, still angry, TR stripped off his sodden jacket and hastily began pulling the leaves and twigs from the old tree. In minutes he had a fire crackling by the entrance to the cave. As the smoke swirled out into the wet night the rain began to ease. He turned and looked at the miserable, soaked figure in the firelight.
Queenie’s wet hair streamed down her back and puddles were forming under her boots.
