“Oh, why don’t we live here instead of by the old river?” exclaimed the girl when they dropped down towards the cluster of neat buildings.
“It is beautiful, Kate, isn’t it?” replied the squatter. “It is unfortunate, though, that the lake is filled so rarely. Remember Thurlow Lake when it is dry and wind-blown, Kate?”
“Yes, it is horrid then. Here is Mrs Watts waiting for us. I’ve never seen her yet without a small child hanging to her skirts.”
A large, pleasant-faced woman, a little more than thirty, opened the gate leading into the miniature garden, when they pulled up before it. Mrs Watts was a bushwoman, one of the small band of heroic women who live cheerfully and happily in the semi-wilds of Australia. The Women of Barrakee were her nearest female neighbours, and Barrakee was seventy-nine miles east. She loved her husband and adored her six children. She cooked for him and them, she gave her children their primary education, and she incessantly struggled with the elements to make the garden a tiny paradise.
“Come in, come in,” she exclaimed in a low, sweet voice. “The tea is made and the scones are just out of the oven. Kate—Oh Kate, my dear, what are the young men doing to leave you still heartwhole? But there,” with a sharp glance at Dugdale, “as George says, the young men today haven’t got much backbone.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” Kate rejoined. “Ralph hasn’t said anything yet, but he’ll be a whirlwind when he starts.”
Mrs Watts’ blue eyes, set wide in her big face, beamed upon the young man. Ralph smiled in his quiet way and said:
“It will be Desdemona and Othello, or the Sheik and the lovely white girl, darkness matched to fairness, black opal against a white diamond.”
“Now, now, we’ll have no Romeo and Juliet just at present,” interrupted the squatter genially. “Wait till we get our wool to Sydney and the advance cheque in the bank. I’ll be richer then than I am now—till the tax-gatherers hunt me up. Where’s George, Mrs Watts?”
“He went out to the Five Mile, Mr Thornton. I’m expecting him back any minute,” she said. “But what are we doing standing here? Come in—come in.”
The child clinging to her voluminous skirt was swept off its feet by the turn she made to lead them into the house liked loved relatives she had not seen for years. Her happiness was infectious. Even Dugdale’s heartache was banished for the time being.
Chapter Ten
Sonny’s Hundredth Case
GEORGE WATTS, returning in time to join them in an early afternoon cup of tea, went off on a tour of the back paddocks with the squatter and Dugdale, leaving Ralph the pleasant task of talking to the two women. He did this till the conversation veered to babies and dress fashions, when, these subjects not being in his line, he drifted across the stockyards, in which he had seen a bunch of horses.
At that time there was engaged at Thurlow Lake a horse-breaker. The popular conception of breaking-in horses appears to be to rope the animal in cowboy style, fling a saddle across its back, mount and ride till either bucked off or crowned with the laurels of victory. As a matter of cold fact, such procedure would not merely break-in a horse, but break it up, too, into a dispirited, abject, miserable animal.
Some of the best horse-breakers in Australia are the worst horse-riders. Such a one was Sonny. No one knew his surname; it is doubtful if he knew it himself. He was no rider, but he had no equal in handling a colt or a spirited filly, mouthing it, training it to lead, to stay rooted to the ground when the reins were dropped, and to step up immediately to a man, if that man wanted to ride it, when commanded by the lifting of an arm. Vicious horses, bucking horses, bolting horses, are in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the result of bad breaking-in. But that afternoon Sonny was in despair with the hundredth case—the born vicious, unbreakable beast.
“I can’t handle him and I can’t ride him,” Sonny wailed when Ralph had perched himself on the top-most rail of the round yard.
The horse was a beautiful, jet-black, three-year-old gelding. Sonny had got the bridle on him with great difficulty, and had been fruitlessly trying to give him his first lesson. With forefeet planted like sticks in the ground, the gelding refused obstinately to move one inch. The short length of rope attached to the bit-rings was taut. The animal’s head was thrust out and down under the breaker’s pull, ears flattened, eyes sloe-coloured in a sea of chalk.
Sonny relaxed the strain on the rope by edging towards the horse, which remained immobile. He gained its side and gave its rump a cut with the light switch. The gelding swung its hind-quarters round away from the breaker, its forefeet pivoting slightly, but still as straight as sticks. The relative positions of horse and man were precisely the same.
“I wish I could ride, you black devil,” Sonny cried. “I’d break you or bust your big, damned heart.”
“I can ride a bit, Sonny,” came Ralph’s musical drawl. “Let me have a go, will you?”
“Well, Mr Ralph, I’ve never let anyone ride my hosses till I say they’re broke-in,” replied the short, powerful-armed Sonny. “But this ’ere beast will never, never be any mortal use. Don’t you ride him, now. He’ll kill you.”
“Not he. Take the bridle off him and hand it to me.”
Ralph Thornton was not exactly a fool. He had learned to ride at a very early age, and had since never ridden an easy horse if a spirited animal was to be had. He was an excellent rider in that he possessed instinctive balance. There are many, many good riders, but few, very few, riders of good balance.
Sonny knew this. And, though he thought he knew that the young man was an inexperienced buck-jump rider, he was aware that a super buck-jumping horse is so after successfully unseating many riders. Sonny reckoned that once Ralph was on its back the gelding would hardly know what to do. Even so he took no chances.
His slim hands quickly undid the neck-strap, the stodgy yet infinitely gentle fingers deftly removed the bridle. Instantly, when free, the horse whipped round and lashed out with both hind hoofs; but Sonny was on the top rail alongside Ralph.
“I didn’t oughter let yer, Mr Ralph,” he said, “and I’m going to only on the condition that you square off the boss if I’ve got to shoot that black swine.”
“Why would you have to shoot him?”
“Why! ’Cos when he throws you, if he does, he is going to kill you if I don’t drop him with a bullet,” Sonny replied shortly. “Don’t you tackle him, now, till I gits my gun.”
Ralph waited confidently. He had no doubt of his ability to stick, once he had his legs across that gleaming black back. As for the horse, he knew that, should Sonny give it up, Mr Thornton would have it shot, for the squatter believed in having not one useless animal on his run.
When Sonny returned he carried a .32 Winchester rifle and a saddle. The saddle he handed up to the young man. The rifle he examined before taking a clear view of all parts of the yard. Ralph, still on the twelve-foot fence, adjusted the stirrup leathers to his length.
“Don’t you shoot, now, unless he gets me down,” he said to the breaker.
“You leave the shooting to me,” replied Sonny gruffly. “I’m going to git the sack for letting you ride him. I’ll git hanged if I let him kill you.”
Smiling, the young man dropped into the yard, swiftly leaning the saddle against the inside of the fence. The horse on the farther side watched him with flattened ears and wicked eyes. Without looking at what he was doing, Ralph adjusted the bridle over his left forearm, so that when the time came there would be no fumbling.
Nothing escaped the blue eyes of Sonny, knowing and poignantly regretting his limitations as a rider.
Ralph made no hurry. For fully a minute he stared into the eyes of the horse, who at first seemed inclined to rush him with white, rending teeth. But, whilst the seconds passed, Sonny saw first uneasiness, then the first hint of fear flicker in the white-rimmed, blazing orbs.
It was then that slowly, arms and head motionless, eyes holding those of the horse in remorseless stare,
Ralph walked across to it, till he stood directly in front of the shining satin muzzle.
“My Gawd, ’e mesmerizes ’im like a black fellow,” Sonny grunted, the rifle held to his shoulder as though in a vice, his right eye glued to the foresight.
Now Ralph was gently patting the sleek velvet neck; his left hand, on whose wrist hung the bridle, rose with the slow inexorability of fate to the animal’s nostrils, rose higher and higher up its face, between its amazed eyes, fondled its ears. The bit seemed to rise into the horse’s mouth without guidance. Five seconds later, the bridle was fixed behind the still flattened ears, and in three more the neck-strap was buckled. And the horse neither moved nor flinched.
The horse had utterly refused to be led by Sonny. Holding the reins, Ralph slipped backward towards the saddle till brought up by the obstinate gelding. Once more he stared into the black eyes. It was not mesmerism, as Sonny thought, it was not overmastering will-power that compelled the horse to follow, step by reluctant step, the slowly-backing Ralph. In the young man’s fixed eyes the animal saw that which made it shiver, made the delicate nostrils expand to show the red, made its halting walk similar to the rigid action of a sleepwalker.
Saddling was a prolonged operation, for Ralph could not then hold the animal with his eyes. But the impression of his stare remained sufficiently long to enable the saddle finally to be slid over the animal’s back, the girth tightened cruelly; the surcingle followed, then the crupper and the martingale. For the first time in its life the gelding found itself saddled. It was astounded, and, before the stunning surprise could give place to fiendish anger, Ralph vaulted lightly on its back.
Sonny gasped. The horse became a statue. For a full minute it hardly breathed. It was galvanized into a living volcano by the sharp digging of Ralph’s heels.
The gelding seemed to sink. Then it screamed with rage. Swiftly as light it whirled in a half-circle, its forefeet turning within an arc of not more than twenty inches. The perfectly balanced figure glued to its back had not moved the breadth of a hair out of the saddle.
Then came a succession of routes round the circular yard. First away from the fence, then towards it, out again, in again, always kept from the rails by a narrow margin.
The dust rose in a cloud. Again came the demoniac scream of rage, this time attracting the two women from the house. Now in the centre of the yard, the horse paused for two seconds. Again it appeared to sink, again it pivoted on its forefeet, rose again directly its hind hoofs touched the ground, came down on all fours, its legs like sticks.
Ralph was jarred by that springless drop. His knees were grazed, though he did not realize it, by the terrific unyielding pressure against the saddle-flaps. Between the rails Kate and Mrs Watts followed every movement with wide eyes and beating hearts. Kate even then wondered why Sonny held a rifle at the ready.
For the third and last time the horse screamed. Then it went mad. Rearing, it walked on its hind legs. Ralph, lying along its neck, tried to stop it, but it reared over and backwards to crush the demon, the unshakeable demon on its back.
Mrs Watts cried out. Kate’s heart stopped. Sonny swore, for horse and man were invisible in the rising dust-cloud. In its centre writhing figures moved. The watchers did not see that Ralph had leapt clear, that before the horse regained its feet he was once more in the saddle.
Horse and man came charging out of the dust. Sonny determined to shoot the mad thing at the first chance presented. Buck! The horse behaved like an old hand.
It tried to get its head round to tear at one of Ralph’s legs. It rushed the fence to roll against it and sweep its rider off. Failing, it entered into so terrific a buck that it somersaulted heels over head. Ralph flung himself sideways out of the saddle, landing lightly on his feet, the end of the reins still in his hands.
The horse was on its back. It was Sonny’s chance, but he did not shoot. His love of horses overcame his common sense. Besides, Ralph was on his feet. A wriggle, a heave, and the gelding was kneeling like a camel. A feather dropped on its back. Ralph was again in the saddle.
Lathered with sweat, the horse was caked, every inch of it, with mud. When it scrambled to its feet the wind whistled through its distended nostrils like escaping steam.
And then it stood quietly for a spell. Not beaten. This was only the end of the first round, which it had lost on points.
But the strength of the horse was greater than that of the lad. Ralph could not afford to give his mount any time to regain its wind. He snatched off his felt and slapped the gelding’s ears.
It seemed that in the first round the black fiend had gained the experience of years. There followed a succession of lightning bucks and spins, lasting second by second beyond a minute. The terrific motion told on Ralph. He began to feel the muscles of his legs grow laggard to respond to his will. A tearing, ripping pain in his side made breathing intensely difficult. He could have cried from the agony of impending defeat when he had been so sure he had the battle won.
The horse suddenly changed its tactics. It flung itself to the ground. Ralph never knew how his feet got out of the irons. But he was standing at the horse’s head whilst it rolled over and back again, in a frenzied effort to free itself from the galling saddle. The deep loose sand prevented damage to the harness.
Sonny had his second chance to end the battle, but, though he sighted the horse’s chest several times, his finger refused to press the trigger. Mrs Watts clung to the rails, her face like marble, her breathing checked. Kate, had she been able, would have screamed out idolatrous praise of the dauntless lad.
Once more the horse hunched its legs to rise. Once more Ralph leapt a full yard to the saddle. In it, he was shot up by the springing horse.
And then again came the eternal succession of whirling spins, high-flung rear-hoofs, back-rearing with fore-hoofs clawing the sky, humped arched back, gathered bunched feet, then up, up, to be suspended between earth and Heaven and down with terrific force on four stiffened legs. Buck, spin, rear; rear, spin, buck. On and on and on, without cease.
Horse and man were covered with bloody foam. Lethargy stole over the weaker. Less and less grew the pressure of knees against heaving flanks. Every bone in Ralph’s body felt as though crushed to dust.
Buck, buck, buck. Spin and spin again. Buck, rear on forefeet, rear on hind-legs, fore-feet thrashing the dust-thickened air. Rear, spin, buck, and buck again. In and out of the dust-cloud maddened beast and puny human charged in sickening lurches, whirls, and undulating rushes.
Mrs Watts did not see the end. She slumped down against the rails in a faint. Kate clung to the great fence as though all strength had ebbed from her limbs. Nothing of her moved but her eyes. Sonny was stunned.
Horse and man were enveloped in the dust, invisible. It seemed to Kate that something awful had happened. The world ceased to be. Movement stopped. Everything—time, her heart—stood still. Slowly the dust was wafted aside by a zephyr wind. Like the picture on the developing plate there came into her vision the still, mud-caked form of a horse lying stretched out, stiffened in death, its heart broken. And standing, regarding it pitifully, Ralph Thornton, the reins yet in his hands.
She saw him raise his head slowly. She saw his handsome face disfigured by dust, and the dust on his cheeks was furrowed by great, slow-falling tears. From a far distance she heard him say, plaintively:
“Katie, Katie! Oh, Katie, I’ve killed him!”
She saw him close his eyes and fall as if shot across the body of the great horse.
Chapter Eleven
Poor Old Bony
DUGDALE DROVE Kate Flinders and her uncle back to Barrakee the next afternoon. Ralph had been left behind, enthroned in the hearts of the overseer and his wife, and occupying the position of a god to the worshipping Sonny.
He had recovered from the faint of exhaustion to find himself in the horse-breaker’s arms, whilst that alarmed man was carrying him to the house, followed by the two women, Mrs Watts having been revived by Kate.
But the next morning, though he was quite uninjured, the young man could hardly walk.
He was wearing a pair of the overseer’s trousers—his own having been frayed to ribbons—but the inner sides of his legs were red raw from the friction of the saddle, and walking was extremely painful. Kate and the squatter agreed that Mrs Thornton must not see him like that, or even know of his strenuous ride, for of late the Little Lady had complained of her heart.
“I think, Kate, we were wise to leave Ralph behind for a day or two,” the squatter remarked, after an unusually long silence. “We must tell your aunt that Watts required additional help. What have you been thinking about?”
“Ralph.”
The squatter waited, but Kate did not continue. He fell to wondering if his niece had discovered that she loved Ralph. Sincerely he hoped so, for her marriage to his and his wife’s adopted son had been their joint dream. The girl had come to them at the death of her mother ten years earlier, her father having died but one month before. She occupied a place in his heart similar to that occupied by Ralph in the heart of his wife. After an interval, she said:
“What did you say to Sonny, Uncle?”
“Quite a lot,” he replied grimly. “But, after all, he was not much to blame. He knew Ralph could ride, and like all of us who know horses, he didn’t dream that the gelding would fight like that, certainly not that the brute would go mad. No, he wasn’t much to blame, and he had the sense to get his rifle ready for use if the horse had thrown the lad and gone for him.” For a moment he hesitated. “By gum, I’d have given a thousand pounds to see that ride.”
“I would never have believed that a horse could have bucked so,” she said with shining eyes. “And never would I have believed that any man could have ridden him. Ralph was just wonderful.”
“He’s got sand all right, Kate. He’s altered a lot during his last school term. He is quieter, and I have the idea that he is thinking a great deal.”
The Barrakee Mystery Page 6
