The Golden Stranger

by Karen Wood

  The Fairleys’ rig rolled up beside her and within seconds Jess was out, backing Dodger off the loading ramp.

  Shara gave her a huge hug. ‘Have you heard from Luke?’

  Jess shook her head. Shara could tell she was trying to be brave, so she didn’t pursue the subject.

  The Arnolds arrived in their enormous gooseneck truck, several horses snorting with anticipation in the back. Grace hung out the window, loud and enthusiastic, yelling hello and waving madly. In the cabin beside her, Shara could see Elliot, Rosie and Tom all squeezed in on top of each other. Another dozen horse vehicles rolled in, one after the other.

  John Duggin’s truck arrived and Shara’s heart leapt, but she could see that John was alone. What was Corey doing? What horses had he ‘found’? She tried to keep herself focused.

  There was a tap on her shoulder. It was Lurlene from the RSPCA, her violent red lipstick pulled into a smile. She handed Shara several envelopes.

  ‘These are official letters to your local government authority supporting the ban of wild horse races. One is from the RSPCA and I also managed to get some from some other animal welfare groups.’ She sifted through them, showing them to Shara one by one before snapping a rubber band around them. ‘Our letter also contains an information pack, outlining exactly why wild horse races are cruel, just in case they don’t get it.’

  Shara took the envelopes and tucked them inside her jacket. ‘Thanks, Lurlene.’

  Lurlene gazed around the grounds with a pleased look on her face. ‘Well, you’ve certainly rustled up some riders.’

  Shara nodded. ‘It’s fantastic.’

  ‘Thought you might need help directing things,’ Lurlene went on. She held out a loudspeaker and gazed lovingly at it. ‘This is Larry the loudspeaker. We don’t get to spend much time together these days.’ She gave it an affectionate pat and passed it to Shara.

  Shara was aghast. She had never ordered around a huge bunch of people before and she had certainly never barked at them through a loudhailer. ‘Um, thanks. Larry’ll be in good hands.’

  ‘Now, do you have a plan? Have you mapped out the ride and thought about where you’d like people to assemble?’

  ‘I was going to gather here in this front oval. I told the police that we’d march through town at about ten-thirty. We’ll go past the rodeo grounds and along a short mountain trail for a couple of hours and then ride into town. We’ll finish at the council chambers. I sent the mayor a letter telling him I wanted to present him with my petition outside the chambers at two o’clock. We’ve arranged to have media at each different point.’

  Lurlene arched an eyebrow. ‘You are well organised. Well, then, I’ll be off.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to march?’ asked Shara.

  Lurlene gave a little wink. ‘We have our own plans for the Connemans. We’ll be seeing you soon.’ And with that she was gone, striding purposefully back to her car.

  Barry tapped Shara on the shoulder. ‘Time to get going. I’ll round everyone up, if you like.’ He eyed off Larry. ‘Haven’t used one of those since uni.’

  She shoved the loudhailer at him with relief. ‘Go for it, Dad.’

  Barry marched off with the speaker clamped to his mouth, calling people to attention and spouting instructions. Shara joined Jess, Grace and Rosie and their horses on the oval.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to double?’ asked Rosie. ‘Buster won’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll walk,’ said Shara resolutely.

  ‘Look how many people have come!’ said Grace.

  ‘There must be at least a hundred horses here,’ said Jess.

  The horses milled restlessly near the gate. Shara could see the CWA crew at the clubhouse barbecue handing out bacon-and-egg rolls.

  ‘Look! The police!’ said Jess. ‘Your dad’s talking to them!’

  ‘And photographers,’ said Rosie, ‘from the newspaper!’

  Shara breathed deeply and took in the scene. Her mother was right: it was so much easier acting alongside many like-minded people. The sight of all the riders filled her with confidence and determination, and she walked up to her father and held out her hand for the loudspeaker. ‘I think it’s time to make my speech,’ she said stiffly.

  He passed it to her, smiling.

  She turned on her heel, walked to the arena gates and hoisted herself up to the level of the riders. When she pushed the loudspeaker button, there was a long screeching sound followed by a fuzzy echo. Shara winced, waited for a spooked horse to settle, and pressed the button more firmly.

  ‘Welcome to everyone who has come today to ride for better treatment of brumbies and to help stop wild horse races at rodeos. In the words of Mahatma Gandhi, “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” ’

  There was a spattering of claps and murmurs of approval.

  ‘This barbaric and inhumane event takes horses from the wild and places them in an arena, where teams of men lasso them, hold them down and saddle them, then attempt to ride them. They are often roped around the neck and forcefully and brutally pulled to the ground where they are jumped on, saddled and then encouraged to buck purely for the entertainment of the crowd.

  ‘We are not here today to stop rodeo. Most rodeos follow strict guidelines for animal welfare which they themselves have helped to develop. However, this event is not a traditional rodeo event. It is not competitive under official rodeo charters and clearly constitutes an offence under the Animal Care and Protection Act of . . . ummm . . . 2001.’

  She saw some heads nodding. Mrs Arnold brandished her banner, nearly taking out the eye of a bystander.

  ‘The Australian brumby is an icon. It has served and died for us in two world wars, it has worked our outback stations and helped us build a nation, yet this animal is repaid with the indignity and trauma of rodeo events like this.

  ‘Today we are going to march to the council chambers and present the mayor with a petition, asking the council to ban all rodeos that hold this particular event. We’re also going to present the petition to rodeo organisers asking them not to hold these events anymore – and not to contract stock from unethical and dodgy livestock suppliers like the Connemans.’

  Shara coughed and cleared her throat. How to end? ‘Umm, and that’s all.’

  There was a cheer, and the riders pushed forward towards the road – nearly a hundred of them, all bumping and jostling. All around Shara was a sea of horses’ manes; greys and chestnuts and bays, all tossing and pulling with anticipation.

  As she stepped down off the gate, Shara felt her father’s hand take the loudspeaker. ‘Well done, love.’ Her dad smiled warmly at her. Beyond his proud face, a white Hilux ute rolled into the showgrounds.

  Corey! She could see the shadows of two horses’ heads inside the float behind, one noticeably shorter than the other. There were loud squeals, and a banging of hooves kicking at the tailgate.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said, handing him the loudhailer. She began to walk over, wondering what on earth Corey had found for her to ride. Corey stepped out of the car. He wore dark wraparound sunnies and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He lifted his sunnies and scanned the showgrounds. She waved.

  A look of undeniable relief crossed his face and he lifted a bandaged hand to wave back as he walked out to meet her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she called past several other riders.

  He smiled, that wickedly gorgeous smile that made her tummy twist.

  ‘You really did come.’ She wanted to throw her arms around him.

  He nodded.

  ‘You gonna unload these horses, Corey?’ called John.

  ‘In a minute,’ said Corey, not taking his eyes from Shara. ‘Luke lent me a horse.’

  ‘Legsy?’ Luke only had one riding horse. The only other horses he had were brumbies, young and unbroken, except for . . .

  Corey shook his head. ‘It’s an absolute nightmare of a thing,’ he s
aid, his tone changing to annoyed. ‘Nearly wrecked my float. Didn’t stop kicking the whole way home. Tried to bite me every time I stopped and opened the door. So did your horse, so between the pair of them . . .’

  ‘What horse are you talking about?’ She was confused. It couldn’t be the one she was thinking of.

  ‘I don’t know her name,’ said Corey, turning back to the float, where the banging and clashing was getting louder. ‘Luke wanted to bring her back home anyway, so he said I may as well ride her. Went on the float all right, but then she kicked the whole time. Just wouldn’t stop.’

  He marched ahead of her and Shara ran to catch up. She reached out to grab him by the arm. ‘Wait!’

  He lifted his sunnies again and stared down at her. ‘What?’

  ‘But all Luke’s horses are at . . . ’ She searched his face to check he wasn’t joking. It would be a cruel joke if he was. ‘Did you drive to Blakely Downs?’ she whispered.

  He smirked.

  Shara mentally tallied up the hours since she’d last spoken to him. He must have driven like the wind, with no stops, no sleeps. She looked at him questioningly.

  ‘I knew Luke was coming back for the brumby ride, so I asked him to put some extras on the truck. He dropped them off at my place this morning.’

  ‘Rocko?’

  ‘And that white thing,’ said Corey. ‘He hates her. She hates him too. Between the two of them . . . ’

  Shara turned and ran to the Hilux. She reached the long black float attached to it and clawed at the front door–handle, squealing like an over-excited puppy. ‘ROCKO!’

  A white nose and a nasty set of teeth lunged at her and she slammed the door shut again. ‘Whoa! Wrong side! Sorry, Chelpie!’

  She saw her father approaching the float. ‘Rocko’s here!’ she said, running around to the other side. ‘Oh my God. I thought I’d never see him again!’

  She wrenched the door open and this time a chocolate bay face looked out, ears pinned back and muzzle tight. Rocko’s ears flicked forward as his eyes met Shara’s.

  ‘Hey, my beautiful boy,’ she said, squeezing inside the float. Her heart all but dissolved when Rocko turned his fat quarter-horsey cheeks to her and nickered, his voice deep and old and throaty, totally familiar. She wrapped her arms around his satin-smooth neck and buried her face in his thick mane. She felt his chest rumble as he nickered again. ‘I never got to say goodbye,’ she whispered. ‘My bestest horse in the whole world. Have you missed me?’

  Then her heart stopped. Did her dad know? Was this allowed?

  ‘Your dad said I could go and get him,’ said Corey from outside the small door.

  She relaxed back into Rocko’s neck and exhaled.

  When she pulled her head out of his mane and looked through the back of the float she could see Barry, smiling. ‘Better saddle up and get riding, you still haven’t earned the right to keep him.’

  Without another word, Shara ripped the quick-tie knot undone. Corey dropped the tailgate, and she had Rocko saddled in minutes. She led him around to where Corey was struggling with Chelpie, trying to girth her up.

  ‘She’s a rescue mare,’ Shara explained. ‘She’s always been sour. Luke took her from the RSPCA.’

  The white mare pulled a malicious face and tried to cow-kick him. He jumped forward out of the way and lifted an elbow, blocking her bared teeth. ‘She’ll be okay,’ said Corey.

  ‘You’ll lose Sampson for good if you come on this ride.’

  He wrinkled his nose and shrugged. ‘I already have, so it makes no difference now.’

  Corey cut a ridiculous figure on Chelpie. His legs hung well below her belly and his big hat and wraparound sunnies just looked all wrong on the little white show pony. He held the reins in one hand, swung his legs about and sung a country-and-western tune as Chelpie let a few pigroots fly. ‘Wa-hoo!’ he hooted as he kicked her up.

  Shara swung herself up into one of Corey’s big roping saddles and sank into its couch-like seat. ‘Nice,’ she murmured, looking down at the pommel. She twisted around and ran a hand behind the cantle to find a big metal plate. ‘Trophy saddle?’

  ‘From the Coachwood Show,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, yes, that show,’ said Shara awkwardly, trying not to remember the day Corey had watched her tumble head-over-heel off a stockyard rail.

  Corey chuckled and looked away.

  ‘Let’s not go there,’ said Shara, kicking Rocko up. ‘Come on. Let’s ride, cowboy!’

  People laughed and called out to each other, bits and spurs jingled and horses whinnied. The entire crowd surged forward.

  Shara sat tall as she rode. At last she could put things right. She had her friends and her family and her community behind her, she had her good horse beneath her and she felt totally unconquerable. She patted the fat bundle of petitions that sat snug beneath her jacket, and urged Rocko onward.

  24

  THEY LEFT THE soft grassy oval behind, and a hundred horses’ shoes clopped and clattered on the bitumen. It was an awesome noise, like the beginning of a summer rainstorm on hot corrugated iron, building into one big thundering downpour.

  The road had been cleared and four empty lanes stretched ahead. Shara felt like royalty as she led the ride towards the rodeo grounds behind a single police car. Corey, Jess, Rosie and Tom rode to the left of her. Elliot clung on behind Grace on the steel grey, with his glasses half falling off, looking mildly terrified. John and Mrs Arnold were on her right. A photographer snapped away, dashing and dancing backwards in front of them. Shara rode with one hand, settling into the rhythm of Rocko’s keen stride.

  The road was lined with brush box trees, and beyond them lay quiet paddocks from which cows looked up, alarmed at the commotion, and hustled their calves away. It took a good fifteen minutes to come within view of the Kympania rodeo grounds, by which time there were more photographers and a news crew standing by a white van. A cameraman hoisted a large black box to his shoulder and began shooting.

  ‘How good is this?’ said Shara. ‘I can’t believe how big this has turned out to be.’

  But Jess’s answer was not so awestruck. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  The cameraman pivoted and began filming in another direction. From a side road, not a hundred metres from the rodeo grounds, a huge red semitrailer rumbled directly across in front. It slowed to a stop, blocking the entire road, and hissed as its brakes were let off. Across the cabin door, in gold swirly letters, were the words:

  Bred to Buck

  Conneman Brothers

  Rodeo Stock Contractors

  ‘Holy . . . ’ Shara brought Rocko to a stop and heard the rising murmur of the riders behind her. A shout went up and ricocheted back down the line. But she could feel the restless energy bustling up behind her, unwilling to slow. John rode to the front.

  A cabin door swung open and Graham Conneman slid to the ground. He stood, arms folded across his chest, jaw set stubborn and hard under a broad-brimmed hat. Mark Conneman, shorter and more wiry, stepped down from the other door and walked around to join him. They stood side by side like king brown snakes, provoked, territorial and clearly angry.

  Three stockmen descended from the trailer, and Mandy appeared behind them. She stepped forward and stood next to her father with hands on black-jeaned hips.

  All around the sound of hoofbeats continued and the rumble of voices rose. Shara looked quickly to John.

  ‘Just carry on riding,’ he said calmly. ‘They have as much right to be here as us.’

  ‘In the middle of the road?’

  He paused. ‘Let’s see what the police do.’

  Shara was relieved to see the police car stop and two officers get out.

  John urged his horse into a jog and took the lead. ‘We’ll go around them.’

  But the truck stretched from the side road to the opposite fence and the Connemans’ stockmen filled any gap. The ride was blocked. Behind Shara and her friends the procession still bustled, and she felt Rocko bei
ng nudged forward. The horses were now flank to flank, locked together in a steady push. They lifted their heads and whinnied nervously.

  Shara yelled over her shoulder for the riders to back off as she tried to hold Rocko steady. He reared beneath her. She threw her arms forward to go with him, and felt the envelopes inside her jacket slip. The bundle dropped over her leg and onto the ground. ‘The petitions!’ Rocko spooked and leapt sideways, slamming into another horse.

  Envelopes tore open under a stampede of hooves. Papers spilled out, were picked up by the breeze and carried between the horses’ legs. They whirled and flapped and a current of panic shot through the horses.

  Voices yelled, horses shied, papers whipped with the wind, photographers snapped. Before Shara knew it, the ride had not only come to a complete halt, but it had begun to break up, backwards, sideways, all over the place.

  ‘No, don’t give up,’ yelled Shara. ‘We can go around them!’

  From the sidelines, Anita looked at her and shook her head.

  ‘No . . . ’ Anita pointed to the side street. Shara followed her gaze. Another police car rolled slowly up behind the semi–trailer and three more officers got out. They were followed by an RSPCA van. A door flung open and Lurlene Spencer stepped out. From the other side came Mr Hoskins.

  Graham Conneman roared, ‘You’ve got no right to take my animals. They’re my livelihood!’

  ‘The RSPCA are seizing the brumbies,’ said Shara, spinning around and facing Corey, who was holding a prancing Chelpie steady, pulling at the bit as she drummed her hooves on the bitumen.

  ‘Yyyup! They’re seizing all the Connemans’ animals.’

  ‘Sampson?’

  ‘Hope so!’

  Shara felt a rush of hope that in some way she might have helped him get ownership of his good horse. ‘Oh my God, this will shut down the whole rodeo! The Connemans are supplying all the cattle, too.’