by Amanda Doyle
“ ’Bye, Charlie. And thank you again.”
“So long, madam. You’re welcome.”
Mattie left Charlie standing on the doorstep, leaning on his broom. His eyes were now screwed up, and he was peering into the sun in the direction of the saddling paddock. He had quite forgotten her.
Mattie took a few more steps, and then she stopped, too. There was a most peculiar look of expectancy about Charlie, a restrained excitement.
Mattie walked a few more paces, and during the seconds it took her to cover that small distance it now occurred to her that none of the men had as yet gone very far away this morning.
Harry and Diamond were leaning on the nearest slip-rail, not even pretending to do very much at all. They were engaged in earnest conversation, with their shapeless felt hats pulled down over their eyes, and their thumbs stuck in their braces.
Thomson wasn’t far off, either. He was wandering about near the machinery-shop, kicking at the ground every now and then, and picking up stray bits of wire with which his foot came in contact. He had some bits in his hand, but not very many. Most of the time, he was facing the same way as Charlie.
Dan Pirrett and young Percy, the two jackeroos, were sorting out chaff-bags at the feed-shed, and they, too, cast interested glances in the direction of the saddling paddock.
Something was afoot.
The air of expectancy was not confined to Charlie alone.
Mattie pulled her linen hat down farther, and screwed up her eyes against the sun, and looked that way, too.
Oh—no! She must be mistaken.
One more searching look told her that she wasn’t. There were two horses tied to the sliprail where the two black stockman stood. They were saddled and bridled, and stood with bowed heads, noses almost touching, each with one hind leg drawn up, displaying a dejected disinterest in all that was going on around them. The sun beat down on them, and they had no intention of moving until they had to.
Ben Burrows and the third station hand, Blue Darcy, were coaxing a restive and unwilling chestnut in the direction of the other horses. It side-stepped, and tossed its head, and their crab-like progress was very slow.
Mattie knew that chestnut. Even at this distance, the white blaze on the forehead and the white off forefoot were distinguishable. His name was Suvio, and he had a lot of breeding about him. He was a well-bred rogue, in fact, and there is seldom a rogue horse as bad as the one with blue blood in his veins. No one on the property could ride Suvio, and Lex Bennett had told them to stop trying. It wasn’t doing the horse any good, he said, being boss all the time. Blue Darcy, the redheaded Irishman, had come the closest to success, and without Blue’s “knowhow”, Mattie was sure Ben would never have got the animal saddled. Close on the heels of her discovery followed another thought. It was only a thought, but she had to know.
She retraced her steps, and stood once more beside Charlie.
“Charlie,” she said, “that horse, Suvio, what are they doing with him?”
Charlie withdrew his distant gaze and focused it on her with reluctance.
“I dunno, madam,” he replied earnestly.
“It wouldn’t be for—for Gib, would it?”
Charlie looked at his boots. They were black ones that he had got out of a Queensland mail-order catalogue, but they hardly merited the close inspection they were enjoying.
“Would it, Charlie?” Mattie’s voice was insistent.
“I reckon so, madam.”
“Oh-h.” Mattie paused. Another thought had occurred to her—even more unwelcome than the last. Unwelcome but not improbable.
“Charlie,” she asked suspiciously, “are they—are they—betting on it?”
“I dunno, madam.”
“Oh, Charlie, you do know! Stop hedging with me.” Mattie was exasperated. “Are you betting on it? You, yourself?”
Charlie stopped admiring his boots and met her inquiring eye.
“I—er—have a small interest, madam, yes,” he confessed with dignity.
“Oh, Charlie!” Mattie let out a reproachful wail.
They were all in it! She might have known!
These outback men only needed an excuse. They , would bet on their shadows if they couldn’t find anything else, and there was no stopping them. As for Mattie, much as she deplored it, she could not interfere.
It was a man’s world out here, and they would not easily forgive her if she did.
Mattie tucked her parcel under her arm, and ran like the wind back to the homestead. She wished, now, that she didn’t know. It would have been easier to face Gib if she had not known what was soon to happen to him.
He came into the kitchen just as she was spreading chutney on the meat. It took only a moment to slap on the lids of bread and wrap the sandwiches in greaseproof paper. She slipped the parcel into a saddlebag and handed it over with his pint pot.
“I’ve replenished your tea and sugar,” she said. “I—I hope that’s all right.”
Her voice didn’t sound natural. It sounded distinctly odd. Sort of high and squeaky.
Gib must have thought so, too. She could feel him looking at her.
“That’s just fine,” he drawled. “Thanks for going to the trouble.” He took the things and made for the door.
“Oh, by the way”—Mattie jumped almost guiltily, wondering what was coming—“I’ve found the maps a great help. I’ve taken a rough sketch of the layout, and Thomson and Pirrett will show me the ropes.”
Gib slapped the breast pocket of his khaki shirt to make sure the piece of paper on which he had drawn the plan was safe. Then he took one step back inside the door.
“Miss Bennett, are you well?” he asked abruptly. “You look kind of—flustered.”
Flustered! That was putting it mildly!
“I’m—I’m fine, thanks,” Mattie squeaked breathlessly. “It’s just—well, I hadn’t any cold meat, and I ran all the way back from the cookhouse with some. It’s—er—quite hot out there now,” she added defensively.
“I see.” Gib’s voice was suddenly kind. “Well, take it easy, and have a quiet day,” he advised her. With that, he swung on his heel, clapped his broad-brimmed hat well down on to his head, and strode off in the direction of the outbuildings.
Phew! A quiet day? That was certainly something he wouldn’t have!
Mattie stared after his retreating figure unhappily, wondering why her conscience should prickle like a traitor’s when she didn’t even like the man.
CHAPTER FIVE
MATTIE combed her hair at the small mirror by the pastry table. She hated to be dishevelled or untidy in any respect. Soon she would put a protective tinted base on her cheeks and forehead to prevent this hot climate from drying her complexion, and she would take time to rub cream into her hands before she began the housework. It was only as she turned away from the mirror that she realized there were no sounds going on about her. There was no clatter of crockery being washed in the sink; no high, thin whine from the separator in the dairy.
No Nellie. No Lucy.
Exasperated, Mattie went through the swing door and out on to the veranda.
Two vivid blobs of cotton moving towards the saddling paddock told her where they had gone. The bush telegraph had told them that something was afoot. Fun was in the air, and they had no intention of missing it.
Mattie hesitated, and then, albeit reluctantly, felt herself drawn in the same direction. She didn’t quite know why she went. She had no wish to witness the man Gib’s humiliation, but there was a little hard core of anxiety inside her that urged her to be near. If he got hurt, she would be needed in any case, and if he escaped with nothing more than a severe bruising and shaking as he fell, he need never know she had been an onlooker.
As she had said before, this was men’s stuff, and not for such as her.
Mattie kept the outbuildings in a line between herself and the yards, so that her approach would not be noticed. First she passed the power-house with its big electricity pl
ant, and then the fowl-run. At the hay-shed she halted. Here she wasn’t very far away, and could have an unimpeded view of what went on. There were sweet-smelling bales of lucerne hay piled at one end of the open shed, with about four feet of space between the topmost bales and the roof. Up here, although she could not be seen, she had almost an aerial view of the stockyards and saddling paddock which lay in front of her. The men’s voices were close at hand, quite distinguishable.
Mattie climbed cautiously up into her nest of bales.
Suddenly she found she did not really want to look at all.
Why had she come?
But she did look, all the same.
The two station horses had now been removed from their former position. Pirrett and Thompson had each claimed his own, and was standing beside it with the rein looped slackly over his arm. They appeared to be waiting for Gib to join them.
The only horse in the yard was Suvio, who stood restively, with his head up, rolling a red-rimmed eye suspiciously.
Gib had been talking to Ben Burrows near the machine-shop. Mattie had to lean forward to see him, away to the left. He was standing with his feet, in their elastic-sided boots, slightly apart, and his hand on his hips, and his hat pushed back off his forehead. He looked handsome and powerful and preoccupied—and unsuspecting.
Now she saw him throw his cigarette-end on the ground and grind it carefully beneath the heel of his boot. Then he hitched his trousers and pulled his hat down over his eyes again, and lifted one hand in a salute to Burrows as he moved away.
He was walking this way.
He paused now beside Thomson, and jerked his head towards the big chestnut, which was partially obscured by the stockrails of the yard that enclosed him. Mattie, from her elevated position, could see much more of the animal than Gib would see at ground level. He wouldn’t have a proper view of him until he opened the gate to lead him out.
“We’re ready, then? Is that my horse there?”
“That’s ’im, Gib,” Thomson assured him innocently. “That’s Suvio. A decent bit o’breedin’ in ’im, too—real class, ’e is.”
The other man still did not suspect. He walked over to the gate and pulled back the bar, and as he did that, the scene changed with subtle speed.
To Mattie, perched where she was, it all happened so swiftly and quietly that the people might have been well-trained silent actors, moving over the stage under the directorship of some fastidious producer. Gib’s hand on the bar of the gate had been the unspoken signal for them to change position.
Diamond and Harry were now poised like a pair of battered black crows on the topmost rail of the fence, with their feet tucked behind the lower bars to secure their balance. Harry had already placed a filthy, unlit pipe in his mouth, which meant that he was preparing to settle down to enjoy the spectacle indefinitely. Dan Pirrett and Thomson had brought their mounts in close, and sat in the saddle for a better view. Ben Burrows had stationed himself on a post to the right of the gateway, and Percy poked his head excitedly through the railings next to him. Charlie Doherty, in his white cap and apron, leaned on his broom a short but respectful distance away, and at the last moment, Nellie and Lucy ran with a gaudy flutter of colour from behind the silos, to occupy a less cautious position on the rails nearest their own men. They didn’t sit on the rails, though.
They toed their way up to the middle ones and leaned over the top, grinning sideways at Diamond and Harry, who didn’t take their eyes off Gib.
Blue Darcy must have been standing on the other side of the nervous Suvio, Mattie realized. Now he stepped quietly backwards until he was at the fence, and clambered up to the top to await developments.
There were only Gib and Suvio in the yard now, and all eyes were upon them.
Gib had walked right into a trap.
There was complete silence, except for Mattie’s own heart, which began to thud inexplicably loudly. She wondered that every head did not turn in her direction at the sound it made, but they were still looking at Gib. They wanted to see what he would do.
Mattie found that her hands were clasped so tightly that they hurt. She supposed it was because she was a woman, and she had been away too long. She had lost touch. She had forgotten that a gamble had always presented a heady temptation to these men who had no fun except what they made for themselves. And if the fun had risks attached, so much the better. And if some “unlucky coot” had to pay the price in a broken limb or a broken neck, well, it was all in the game, mate.
No one was forcing him to take up the challenge, were they? He could always cry off, and risk the label “yellow or “lily-livered”, or “jelly-bellied”, or possibly an even more expressive denunciation even than those. That way, he didn’t have to risk any injury, even if he wasn’t worth a flippin’ bet anyway. No one was making him do anything against his will were they now? It was all fair dinkum, and if this cove wouldn’t play, they’d just have to put their dough away again, and wait for one who had more stuffing in him. Better luck next time, eh, mate!
The eternal voice of all Australian bushmen, past, present, and future, was speaking reasonably into Mattie’s ear. It was telling her that the men didn’t expect their womenfolk to applaud, or even to understand. They just did not want them to interfere or pass judgement.
Mattie managed to steady her hands and look again.
Gib was standing, quite still, in the middle of the yard. His feet were a little apart again, and his thumbs were looped through the narrow, rolled belt that supported his low-slung khaki trousers. He must have handed his saddlebag and pint pot to Ben Burrows, because they now reposed on the top of the post next to where Ben sat.
Suvio had swung side-on to the rails to face the man who had entered the yard. He snorted softly, and there was no slack left in the bridle. He made no further movement, but a quiver ran right through his magnificent body.
“Suvio, did you say? That’s interesting. How is he bred, then?” Gib’s voice was quiet and controlled and carried quite clearly to where Mattie was. She thought, he’s just doing that to steady the horse and get him used to the sound of his voice. He didn’t sound worried or perturbed or frightened. Just calm.
“Reckon ’e’s by Italio out of the Souvenir mare over at Moxton’s place. The boss fancied ’im as a colt.” That was Blue Darcy talking now.
“I see. Well, Suvio boy, that’s a nice bit of breeding, old feller, it most certainly is.” Gib advanced steadily as he was speaking. He seemed to have made up his mind about something.
Suvio was facing directly towards him now, and the quivering had become more apparent, but Gib came on steadily, right up to him. Then he laid his hand dead centre below Suvio’s forelock. He did not move his hand down towards the horse’s nose, or attempt to caress or pat him. He just kept it flat and strong and firm on Suvio’s forehead as if he were speaking to the horse through his hand. Suvio appeared to get some sort of message.
Gib unlooped the reins from the rail, and did the same thing again.
He took unhurried steps forward, and placed a firm hand on the animal’s head. It was as if he had cast a magic spell over the nervous horse. Mattie knew it was an accepted method of approach when breaking in youngsters, but she had never witnessed it before, and certainly not on a mature animal that had defied man’s attempts to subdue him. It had had a miraculous effect so far, but Suvio was obviously playing with his opponent. He had allowed men to put a bridle and saddle on him only because he knew it was never long before their bodies left that saddle and their hands relinquished the bridle. He didn’t let them stay there long.
Gib was now leaning close in against the horse, drawing the reins over his head. He shortened his hold and faced towards the animal’s rump, still leaning against him and keeping up that magic bodily contact, with his shoulder against Suvio’s neck now, instead of his hand. There was no sound from the spectators. They watched, silently. There wasn’t even a giggle from Nellie.
The next second Gib was in the saddl
e. It happened so quickly that Mattie wasn’t sure of the exact moment when he left the ground. Suvio seemed uncertain of the kind of treatment he had thus far had. He stood still, puzzled, until Gib urged him forward.
And then Suvio’s old, accustomed habits reasserted themselves. The spell was broken. With a sudden plunge of his head, he attempted to unseat his rider. Gib lost his broad-brimmed hat, but not his place in the saddle. The horse bucked and reared and rooted. He swung on his hind legs, and swerved and spun, but mostly he bucked—backbreaking, jolting, short, sharp bucks that took him prancing round the yard in a flurry of dust.
Gib was still there, grim with concentration.
Then Suvio appeared to go mad. There was foam at his mouth and bloodshot flecks in his eye. Twice his hind legs went from under him in his crazy gyrations, and once he threw himself against the rails, and Mattie found herself wincing for Gib’s leg.
Then Gib bit out an order.
“Open the gate!” he rasped, and Ben, who was nearest leapt to do his bidding, stepping hastily aside as the animal plunged to his freedom. Gib dug his heels into the heaving flanks and Suvio shot forward in a fast gallop.
In less than a minute horse and rider were out of sight behind the buildings.
Awestruck silence hung over the little crowd gathered at the yard.
Blue Darcy was the first to break it.
“Skin the flamin’ lizards!” he uttered, and hopped down off the top rail.
“Well, if that don’t beat all!” Ben Burrows contributed more elegantly.
Harry took his evil-smelling pipe from between his clenched teeth and turned to Diamond.
“Reckon dat-feller Suvio don’ know right yet who’s de boss, but ’im bin find out plurry quick one time,” he predicted gloomily.
It was quite a while before Gib and Suvio appeared again, and when they did, the horse was walking. He was a lather of sweat from withers to flanks, and he looked tired and defeated.
His rider looked tired, too. Even from where she was, Mattie was aware of the uncompromising set of the lean jaw that contrasted strangely with the weary slump of the man’s body in the saddle.
