The Horseman

by Margaret Way

  Why be surprised?

  For all of the play Stuart sat beside her in a collapsible chair battling manfully to look and sound enthusiastic. Her mother and Bea, along with the usual socialite friends, were part of the group sitting behind them under the shade of the trees. Tara, always popular, sat on Cecile’s other side looking very fresh and pretty in her favorite blue. A short distance away under striped umbrellas a young group from the Alice had congregated. They were fervent followers of the game and well-known to Cecile; one of them kept up a running commentary that Cecile found both well-informed and funny.

  It was evident right from the start that both teams were pretty evenly matched, which was the charm of the game. The best players—and it immediately became obvious who they were, going by their individual handicaps—were Vince, Chris and Raul, so the rest of the players were allotted to one team or the other to ensure neither team was hopelessly outclassed.

  Raul, charging at full tilt, scored the first goal.

  “Oh, well played!” Tara called excitedly, clapping her hands.

  “That was a bit reckless, wasn’t it?” Stuart whispered into Cecile’s ear. “Frankly this game is so dangerous I think it should be condemned.”

  “Lighten up, Stuart!” she said. “Far from being reckless that shot was played with great finesse. Just look at Granddad down there.” She turned her head to where her grandfather was sitting amid a group of pastoral men, all friends, all former polo players with a vast affection for the game. “He’s loving it. So are the rest of them. Try to appreciate the horsemanship and the courage and skill of the ponies.”

  “I’m just worried some reckless fool is going to gallop right into us.” Stuart shuddered, his eyes on Montalvan as the man made another full free swing. Montalvan’s teammate Brad Caldwell was very wisely giving him plenty of room. Stuart could just see that mallet connecting with Brad’s head, helmet or not. Show-off Stuart thought, upset by the burst of cheering at Montalvan’s dashing display of skill. A few minutes later the crowd leapt to their feet as Vince took a forward pass from Raul, shooting for goal. The larrikin in the crowd beside them let out an ear-piercing whistle that Stuart thought should have startled the horses. But then again, could you startle a horse that was used to having a club swung near its head?

  “What the heck is this all about?” Stuart was driven into asking. He couldn’t follow the game at all, mainly because he didn’t want to. Though he had never dared tell anyone he didn’t actually enjoy the Melbourne Cup—the nation’s and the horse racing world’s big event—all that much, either, except for the socializing and having his beautiful heiress fiancée on his arm.

  “It’s a battle of wits, Stuart,” Cecile explained patiently, knowing Stuart was bored by the game. “See what Raul is doing? He’s endeavoring to eliminate his opposite number. Some do it by blocking, hooking, barging, all sorts of tactics designed to slow the other man down. The crowd’s getting so excited because he’s doing it with speed and intelligence. No roughhousing. They appreciate that.Try to think of it as a very fast game of hockey on horseback. The rules are much the same.”

  “I prefer hockey,” Stuart muttered.

  “God, you’re a spoilsport, Stuart!” Tara groaned. “They ought to put it on your epitaph.”

  “Not behind the door when it comes to airing your opinion, are we, Tara?” Stuart merely lifted supercilious brows. “Lord knows how Ceci has continued so long with your friendship.”

  “Ditto!” said Tara.

  EIGHT CHUKKAS WERE PLAYED with four-minute breaks for the players to change ponies. At halftime the score was 6-4 for the Red team. Three of the Red team’s goals had been scored by Raul, the other three by Vince. Chris had scored three of the four goals for his own team. The rest of the match promised to be the cliff-hanger the crowd wanted.

  And to everyone’s pleasure and excitement it was. The Red team finally won by the narrowest of margins and Cecile presented the impressive trophy to Vince Siganto amid much cheering. It had been a great match and everyone was in the best of spirits. It was now sunset. The barbecue was due to start at 6:30 p.m. In the meantime the crowd was free to roam the station and use the facilities at the staff quarters. The evening’s entertainment would include line dancing, which usually proved to be a lot of fun for all age groups. The only exceptions to the universal good behavior were a couple of youths dressed in flashy cowboy outfits who had obviously been consuming alcohol from their own source.

  Cecile saw Jack Doyle lead one away, probably to give him a good talking-to, the other, less boisterous and sedate enough until Jack was out of sight, then took it into his head to dart in and out of the milling crowd like an exuberant ten-year-old. Had he continued what he was doing he would have eventually been stopped and by someone, only soon he changed tack and made off quietly toward the enclosure where the polo ponies were being held. Once there, he slipped under the rope, whooping softly. The ponies began to bunch up, tails swishing, not happy to have him there.

  “Hey, fellas! Take it easy!” The youth tried to cajole the restless animals. It would really cap a great day if he could get on one’s back. “Only havin’ a bit of fun!” he explained, looking around him in case a horse minder turned up. Horses thrilled him, not that he could afford one of his own. Maybe he could catch himself a brumby and train him. That Argentinian guy was the quickest and most daring rider he’d ever seen. He’d give anything to be able to ride like that.

  Cecile walked down the path to check on the animals.

  God, what the hell is that kid doing here? She wondered. The silly fool is going to spook the horses.

  Cecile picked up her pace, her level of alarm rocketing as she saw the youth raise his arms to shoulder height before spreading them out like wings. Who was he supposed to be, Batman? Next he lifted himself up onto the toes of his boots, and before she knew what he was about, kicked out vigorously as though at an imaginary ball.

  “Get out of there!” she yelled, breaking into a run.

  He didn’t even appear to hear her. Instead, to her acute anxiety, he gave vent to a great raucous squawk like a bird. Perhaps he was supposed to be an eagle? The string of ponies reacted just as she knew they would-with fright. Didn’t he know horses could inflict a lot of damage on a person? The horse closest to him reared in at display of raw animal power. Too small to be trained as a racehorse, it was nonetheless a threat.

  Too late the cowboy saw how very precarious his position was. He gave one long drawn-out wail, which only served to further spook the horses. The most troubled horse reared again, its front legs beating the air, before it broke free of its restraint and plunged past the youth, who miraculously was able to throw himself out of the way.

  “Yikes!” he screamed, tears gushing spontaneously into his eyes with the agony of a struck elbow.

  Oh my God!

  Cecile stopped running and stood her ground as the horse bolted out onto the rough path. Those that had wandered into the vicinity frantically fell back, looking for cover. No one was prepared to intervene or stop the horse’s mad flight for the very real fear they would get kicked or trampled.

  Cecile, herself, felt an instant of paralysis, but she stalwartly spread out her arms, calling “Whoa!” in a voice not all that much above normal level but with enough command in it for the horse to get the message and skid to attention. It was all about communication. She rarely encountered the horse that wouldn’t do what she wanted. She hoped to deflect the runaway to the side opposite the packed crowd.

  The horse read her signals and faltered in its tracks. This was a horse well used to commands. But Cecile’s hopes were short-lived. There was a loud whooping yell from behind the trees and the animal was spooked again, breaking into a gallop…

  FARTHER OFF, Raul had been waylaid by an elderly polo aficionado who was bent on congratulating him for his fine play, but even so he noticed the crowd had changed shape. Always alert, especially when crowds and horses were in close proximity, he held up a
staying hand to his companion, concentrating all his attention on what was happening around him.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said to his admirer, then without looking back, took off down the path toward the pony enclosure.

  “What’s happened?” he called to a middle-aged couple who were beating a hasty retreat through the trees.

  “Bloody horse loose, mate!” the man answered, still running. “Some stupid bugger spooked it.”

  He knew, and afterward he marveled that he did know, she was in danger.

  Raul had never run so fast in his life. It was as though he had been given a shot of a powerful speed-enhancing drug, He saw station men coming from all directions. He was by far the closest. Cecile was standing perfectly still in the horse’s path. He heard her call “Whoa!” in much the same sort of voice he himself would have used in the same circumstances. The animal obeyed, nearly skidding to a stop. All might have been well, only from near‘ a stand of trees someone let out a great whoop. The horse was off again.

  He could wait no longer. Any thought of revenge on the Morelands evaporated like smoke. This was Cecile. Raul arced like an arrow out of the crowd and shot toward his target then gathered her to him. Strangely it wasn’t fear he felt but a crazy kind of exultation born of his iron determination to free them of danger. “Here he comes!” he told her, locking his arms around her like a vise.

  Cecile’s heart seemed to cease beating. She thought he would crack her ribs such was the steel of his grip. They would go down together. Another dreadful accident for the Morelands. Perhaps fatal.

  Time crystallized. So this is how it happened, she thought. Her uncle Jared’s face sprang to mind. Did he know terror with a rampaging bullock coming right at him? Or like her did he feel the numbed acceptance of someone facing a firing squad?

  T0 THE CROWD who witnessed what happened—and would talk about it for many a long day—it was an extraordinary act of bravery. It didn’t seem like mortal man could react so swiftly. It was more a blur of movement that brought to mind the spring and pounce of a lion. Transfixed with horror, people looked on in sick fascination as two entwined bodies blasted as if out of a cannon across the rough track before crashing to the ground on the other side. It was mere seconds before the horse exploded past the very spot where Cecile had been standing and continued on its mad flight. The man had turned his body at the last minute so the woman was almost completely cushioned from the worst of the fall.

  “God almighty!” A brother of one of the players gasped in high relief and admiration. “That’s the gutsiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  There was a ragged chorus of agreement.

  A DISTANCE OFF, Chris Arnold and Brad Caldwell, working together, had managed to get the trembling polo pony under control. The pseudo cowboy, formerly full of mischief and now condemned as a “brainless young fool,” was moaning and groaning, his arms pinned behind his back by a big burly spectator. “Arrest me. Go on, arrest me. I didn’t mean no harm. How did I know the bloody horse was going to bolt?”

  Ashen-faced and panting, Justine Moreland ran awkwardly, to her daughter who could so easily have been run down and pummeled into the dirt. “Cecile!” she cried, her mouth working with emotion. “You bloody idiot!” She turned her head to vent her rage on the youth with a passion she rarely showed. Her brother Jared’s death inevitably came to mind. “I’m going to press charges! You wait and see!”

  Joel Moreland, who had moved off some time before, now arrived back on the scene, his tall frame crumpling at the sight of Cecile and Raul lying prone on the ground. For a moment he had to be supported by his friends. “Tell me they’re all right?” he begged as Jack Doyle ran to him. “Go to them, Jack.”

  Cecile was the first to sit up, though it was obviously a struggle for her.

  “Thank God! Oh, thank God!” Justine’s face was ghastly with shock.

  Cecile couldn’t speak. She was winded and hurting, but she reached out a hand to her mother, looking dazedly into Justine’s tortured face. For all the difficulties between them it couldn’t have been plainer her mother loved her. Behind her mother were Bea and Tara, their faces similarly pale and stricken. There was no sign of Stuart, but Cecile wasn’t looking for him. He had probably run for his life.

  Cecile twisted her aching torso to look down at Raul. He was lying with his eyes shut, apparently unconscious, but her fevered inspection revealed no external signs of injury, apart from a rapidly swelling lump on his head. Blood trickled from where the skin had been broken. There was blood on her white halter top. His blood.

  “Oh, Raul!” She found her voice, bending over him with breathless concern. Her tone of voice and the expression in her eyes reflected her powerful feelings for all to see, but she was oblivious to everyone but him.

  “He’s coming round,” Justine said with relief, putting aside for the moment the fact that starkly revealing expression on her daughter’s face was deeply perturbing. “Look-he’s opening his eyes.”

  “Let me take a look there, lovey.” Jack Doyle was with them, dropping to his haunches beside Cecile. Swiftly he took in the disposition of Raul’s limbs. Everything looked normal. “Praise the Lord, that’s all I can say!” Jack breathed. “I reckon he’s okay.” Jack looked into Raul’s dark eyes. “How yah goin’ there, fella?” he asked gently, taking note of the bump on Raul’s head where his hair was matted with blood. “How many fingers, mate?” He held up three fingers of his right hand.

  “Three,” Raul answered instantly, putting a hand to his bleeding head. “What did I hit?”

  “The tree.” Jack chuckled. “You must have a pretty hard head there, mate. Like to squeeze my hand? Right. Let it go.”

  “Let’s get them both up to the house, Jack,” Justine said, some color returning to her face. “That head wound needs a sterile dressing. Ahh, here’s Daddy. He looks terrible. Oh, poor Daddy! This shouldn’t have happened. Sometimes I hate bloody horses,” she raged. “They’re so unpredictable, the brutes! Daddy’s got George Nelson with him.” George Nelson was Joel’s friend and personal physician.

  “There’s the Jeep coming,” Jack said. “Let’s have Dr. Nelson take a look at you both before we do anything else.”

  “I’m all right,” Raul protested, pushing himself up into a sitting position, though he was very pale beneath his dark tan. “I’ve had plenty of spills before today. How are you, Cecile? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.”

  “Hold on, mate!” Jack gave Raul several comforting pats on the shoulder. “You’re a bloody hero!”

  “No! No way!” Raul shook his head, then winced.

  Cecile, whose eyes were blazing out of her face, reached out to lay a tender hand along his cheek. “We’re both safe, Raul.”

  Dear Heaven! thought Justine, all her worst fears confirmed. When had she ever seen such a frank expression of love on a woman’s face? When had she ever seen her daughter look at Stuart that way? The answer was never: Where the hell was he, anyway? Wherever he was, it was too late.

  “Chris and Brad have the horse under control,” Jack Doyle was saying. “That kid and his mate will never be allowed on Malagari again.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” Raul said, Benjie’s fate never far from his mind.

  “Don’t you go worrying about a thing, Raul dear,” Bea exhorted him. “You saved our darling Ceci’s life. I’m going to include you in my nightly prayers for the rest of my life,” she declared fervently.

  “You, Bea?” Justine whipped her head around to challenge her aunt. “When did you start praying?”

  “About five minutes ago, Justine,” said Bea. “Aren’t you glad they were answered?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE BARBECUE WENT AHEAD. Everything was in readiness, the crowd had to be fed, so as they said in the theater the show must go on. Cecile couldn’t claim she remembered much of it afterward. Shaken and bruised—the discolorations were already coming out—she was fussed over all night. Good-hearted efficient women cheerful
ly banded together to take the running of the party off her hands. They were all very experienced at these outdoor events and had no difficulty feeding the large crowd and keeping them happy.

  For once her grandfather had retired early, reassuring them he was feeling fine, only a little shaken by the events of the afternoon. George Nelson had checked four patients over: Cecile and Raul, and also Joel and Bea, the latter of whom had had a sudden attack of tachycardia. All four had been given the all-clear, though Dr. Nelson had recommended they have an early night. Even so he had checked on Raul, Joel and Bea at frequent intervals during the evening. In Raul’s case, though he was a splendidly fit young man, any injury to the head was potentially serious. Raul admitted under questioning to “a bit of a headache,” but he showed no other worrying symptoms.

  Both men, however, took the doctor’s advice and made a reasonably early night of it.

  “I’ll never forget what you did today, Raul,” Joel Moreland told him as they said good-night. He squeezed Raul’s hand in gratitude. “If there’s any way I can help you—with anything—you have only to say.”

  “You’ve already been kindness itself to me.” Raul could speak with sincerity. “There are a few questions I might ask you one day.”