At sunrise, on a glorious morning in mid January, the Bullaroi party, well mounted, wend their way to the appointed rendezvous, from whence the amalgamated forces are to proceed to the brumby grounds.The men and boys are variously mounted. All the horses, however, are used to stock work; some of them, within certain limits, being as intelligent as the men who bestride them. Many of them are what is known as "camp horses"; that is, horses trained for mustering and cutting out work on the cattle camp. Quick to wheel, to dodge, to out-manoeuvre the charging bullock, and even to divine the enemy's intention; skilful in wedging through a pack; ready to advance backwards, so to speak, and to use heels when head and shoulders unavail; needing scarce any control, and with a keen zest for the work, the camp horse is an invaluable auxiliary on a cattle run.Both M'Intyre and Gill were specially well mounted on favourites of the above-named variety. The price of each was regarded by its rider as beyond rubies. Both men were strong-boned, grizzled, and expert bushmen, with not a superfluous ounce of flesh on their bodies. Neville was of the company. He had learned many things in the intervening days; the first, and most essential, was that England could furnish no precedent to Australia in things that are peculiar to station life. He gradually dropped his pet phrase, "The way we do things in England." The scales had fallen from his eyes concerning many things "Colonial."Mr. M'Intyre, who liked him, paid him no little attention. He rode out on the run with him, giving common-sense hints in his dry way, from time to time, which his guest was ready enough to take. He learned to ride fairly well, and, after many mortifying failures, could crack a stock whip without entangling it in the horse's legs.Mr. M'Intyre was dubious about Neville going. The Englishman, however, was so set on joining the cavalcade that to object seemed discourtesy. All hints of the danger attached to this expedition were scouted. So, on this eventful morning, mounted on his host's favourite hack, Curlew, the visitor formed one of the company.The others need no description. With spirits mounting high in anticipation they pass over open plain, through brigalow scrub, along box ridges, and across country on a ten-mile spin to a spot on Rocky Creek called the Glen—a place already decided upon. As there was no knowing to what extent the powers of both men and horses would be tried during the day, the journey was made at a moderate speed, so as to spare them for the arduous task of the drive.The pals, on this occasion six in number, were compelled to curb their tendencies to fun and frolic; though there were some very tempting and well-nigh irresistible inducements to spurts as the game rose or scudded before them. Inviting jumps, too, lured them; but high jump or low jump, kangaroo or emu, charm they never so wisely, are resisted.But their tongues are uncurbed. How they did chatter, to be sure! It did the older members good to hear their gay and joyous prattle. Their views of life in general, and brumby hunting in particular, were novel and unconventional. They settled everything touching the day's proceedings, from the place of the "find" to the number yarded. All that the warrigal might do, and all that they would positively do to circumvent him, together with many other things, were discussed with the self-confidence of youth.In due time the Glen is reached, and the Bullaroi party find that they are first upon the scene."Off saddles all o' you. Must ease the horses a' we can. Saundy, you and the boys mak a fire and get the billy going. Denny, bring the tucker-bag from the pack-saddle. Mr. Neville, what in the name of common-sense are ye tying yure nag to that dead tree for?""What's wrong with it, sir?""What's richt wi' it, mon?""I—I—don't know what you mean.""Boss means yer a fool ter tie the moke up in the blazing sun," said Harry in an undertone, as he passed by the new chum. "Put 'im under a shade tree same as the rest of us.""Beg pardon, yes—er—I see," answered he, mortified for a moment, as he moved from the leafless trunk to a clump of currajongs, whose thick foliage effectually screened the sun's rays."Wot sort of a bloke's that 'ere cove?" asked Jimmy Flynn of Tom Hawkins. "He's a regular greeny, ain't he?""Oh, a good enough sort!" replied Tom. "He's new, but he's a learner. He picks up pretty fast, considering. You should 'a' seen him when he came here first; my word, he was a greenhorn then!""Here's the Captain, father!" sang out Sandy, as three men cantered up the track."Guid-day, White! Guid-day, men! Glad to see you. Off saddle and join us in a tot o' tea and a bite.""Good-day, M'Intyre! By George! you've got quite a troop, man. Day, Dickson! Day, Davidson! What on earth do you townies think you're going to do? Stand a good chance, Dickson, of cracking your skull and spilling all that legal soph—I mean lore, that's bottled up there. Oh, I say, Mac, old Dumaresque's coming along," rattled on the Captain."I'll believe it when I see him, no' afore. The auld boy's better at hame when this wark's on.""Well, all I know is that he sent me word last night by one of the men, and cautioned me to be sure and tell you.""If he comes he comes, and if he disna he'll no' be much missed. Noo, boys, bring in the tea!""By Jove! M'Intyre, your wife's a sensible woman: this is the sort of grub to work on. Last month I was over at the Glenormiston mustering. De Little asked me to join him at midday after a heavy morning's work, and as I was as hungry as ten hunters I readily consented. What d'ye think he produced from his tucker-bag? Some lettuce sandwiches, no less; and cream puffs! De Little's as good as gold, you know, so I couldn't refuse to take some; but, I give you my word, I strolled over to his men as soon as I could get away decently, and got a slice of beef and a chunk of damper.""Hoo's De Little getting on?""Well, between you and me and the billy-can, he's no more cut out for a squatter than for an archangel. Pity he ever left London. He'd be more at home in Rotten Row. Hello! here's the old Colonel and two boys. Seeing will dissipate even your scepticism, Mac."Dumaresque was a choleric but plucky old superannuated Indian officer, who on his retirement came over to Australia and purchased a small cattle run, living bachelor fashion. He was now quite old, yet fancied himself equal to any toil. To hint at his age infirmities was to raise a very sirocco of indignant language."Hello, Cornel! wha'd 'a' thocht that you——""Stop, M'Intyre, stop! I know right well, sir, what you are going to remark. If you, sir, look upon a bit of a brumby hunt as an extraordinary thing, let me inform you that to me 'tis but a trifle. Why, man, when I was stationed on the northern frontier——""Yes, yes, Dumaresque," broke in the Captain, who knew the other's weakness, "we're all delighted to see you. Just in time for a pannikin of tea and a mouthful. Here you, Dick, Tom, Harry, one of you, take the Colonel's horse."A few minutes later the men filed out of the Glen, and proceeded along the creek to a spur in the foot-hills. Then they left the water-shed, crossing the spur, from which they continued up a grassy valley which extended nearly three miles before it broadened out into an open plain, lightly timbered at the upper or ridge side, but perfectly treeless at its other extremity.Two-thirds of the way up the valley, in a belt of box trees, was the trap-yard. The trap mouth, before described, extended across the belt to the outermost verge.After a short inspection of the yard the calico wing was fixed. It was attached to the terminal post of the yard mouth, nearest to the ridge that skirted the valley on the top side. From thence it was taken in a straight line on the ridge side of the valley, until the plain was reached. From this point, inclining slighting outward and made fast at short intervals, it extended right across the plain, ending in a clump of iron-barks."Noo, men, ye'll jist hae a wee bit grub and then we'll stairt."The meal was soon dispatched, and a short consultation ensued. M'Intyre apportioned the men their places. Six, under Gill, were located in the iron-bark clump. Five others were sent back to the trap-yard, two miles distant, to assigned duty there. The remaining sixteen were to execute the task of first "feeling" the enemy; then of outflanking them; and, finally, directing the stampede.CHAPTER XXITHE WARRIGAL'S STRATEGY"Hast thou given the horse his might?Hast thou clothed his neck with the quivering mane?* * * * *The glory of his snorting is terrible.He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his strength.He goeth out to meet the armed men.He mocketh at fear and is not dismayed.* * * * *He smelleth the battle afar off:The thunder of the captains, and the shouting."JOB."Noo, men, we'll be on the move."The leader sprang to his horse and directed him on to the plain."Where do you expect to pick 'em up, Mac?""Micht sicht them at ony minute, maybe no' for hours; maybe no' at a', Captain.""Willy and Jacky, you gang on aheed and keep your een weel peeled for signs. No sae fast, lads; mustna spoil the sport at the stairt. Let the blacks get weel aheed. We maun sicht them afore they tak alairm, or it'll be a hopeless stern chase."Joe, Tom, and Sandy, greatly to their delight, were with the "flying column." Yellow Billy was with the trap contingent, while Jimmy Flynn was stationed with Mr. Gill in the iron-bark clump. Neville, at his earnest request, was given a place with Mr. M'Intyre.As soon as he touched the myall country, the leader cautiously skirted it, until the party were well out and away from the range of hills that continued on the eastern side. He then took an inward course, and made a slant which carried them back to the foot-hills.So far there was neither sight nor sound of the mob, nor were there any indications of their presence at any recent date. From the range base another tack was taken, which brought them upon the edge of a scrub that had wedged itself into the plain. By this time the column had covered a lot of ground."We'll fringe the timber for a while, and then, if we've nae luck, we'll hae to divide; half to go into the ranges, and the other to keep richt along the plain. Keep weel in, lads, we'll cut that pint," continued the leader, as the men moved on through the outer fringe of scrub; while out on the plain, which was dotted with rosewood and myall clumps, the black boys moved with lithe and stealthy movements."Father, I hear a whistle!""Hist, men! quiet all o' ye!""There it's again!" exclaimed Sandy after a moment's silence, as a low whistle came from the plain. "That's Jacky's whistle, dad, sure enough. I'd know it among a thousand——""A' richt, my boy. Jacky's got something. We'll move oot quietly and see."Wheeling to the right, the column soon arrived at the spot indicated by Jacky's whistle. The black boy stood by the side of his horse, pointing to some fresh droppings and to numerous hoof-tracks."What is it, Jacky?" exclaimed Mr. M'Intyre as the men rode up."Blendy brumby bin here, Boss, few minutes ago."The tracks and signs were so fresh that, as the black said, it was only the question of a few minutes since they occupied the spot."Most fortunate we've got ahint them. They're near by. At ony moment we micht sicht them. Ye'll fa' into a doubble column, men. Captain, ye'll tak seeven men and I'll keep the ithers. We'll hae twa columns a hunder yairds apairt."In this fashion the men proceeded slowly, with a black boy ahead of each column as a scout, and following the tracks of the brumbies. As predicted, in a few minutes Willy held up a warning hand.The columns quickly closed up to the scouts, and their leaders saw, through the willow-like branches of a myall clump, the long-sought-for mob. The horses were standing close together in an expectant attitude. Their suspicions were aroused. Though they had not scented the wind of their pursuers, nevertheless, with that wonderfulsomethingso common in wild things, theyfeltthe enemy's presence.The intervening distance was about three hundred yards. According to arrangement, each column opened out at its head, with the object of outflanking the horses. Silently the columns wheeled to the left and right sharply, and then moved forward. While in the act of executing this tactic their presence was detected, and scanned in a moment. Then, with a snort, or rather a fusilade of snorts and neighs, heads erected, manes and tails streaming, away flew the alarmed steeds; and in swift pursuit, maintaining their formation, the men followed.There was no intention of unduly alarming the brumbies, therefore all shoutings and stock-whip crackings were restrained. And now the hunters begin to feel the ardour of the chase, both horses and men; for so eager were the station horses to join in the hunt that the riders were obliged to take a double pull on them.Neville, in the excitement of the raid, forgot the orders, and broke his line, making a rush for the tail of the flying mob. The Captain, however, nipped his intention in the bud with a few red-hot expletives, ordering the Englishman back to his place in the line.The brumbies, when started, were about eight miles from the wing, and headed directly for it, going off from the jump with a fine burst. The wily warrigal, however, was not going to be run off his legs in a spurt; in a short time the breakneck pace is moderated, and the straggling mob close up.The horsemen hung on the flanks of the galloping steeds, steadying into an accommodating pace, and, as previously directed, making a semicircle, whose points extended beyond the sides of the retreating animals. The station mares were in the mob, capering for the moment as wildly as any in their company. Tallboy lagged somewhat in the rear. He had evidently received scant courtesy from the brumbies. It was observed that his heart was not in this matter. Had they wished, the horsemen could easily have cut him out of the mob.The flying steeds—about fifty, young and old—had covered about two-thirds of the distance to the terminal point of the wing, and had not once swerved from this direction. The men were in high glee. So far it was nothing more than an exhilarating gallop, and they kept up the formation beautifully. The horses, too, although the day was very hot, had not yet shown any sign of distress. It was a different thing with some of the hunted animals, however. There were some very old stock among the mares. The pace and the heat combined were telling heavily upon them, and they that rode could read.One of these was a chronic "roarer," and her distressed gasps were plainly heard above the thunder of the hoof. Two of the mares began to lag in a palpable manner, despite the encouraging whinneying of the stallion, as he turned from side to side with a troubled look.They who belittle the intelligence of animals, and treat them as lacking heart and soul, can have had little experience of their nature and ways. The old sheik of the wilderness was full of concern for his many wives. Love, despite all that the poets may say, is not blind; it is open-eyed and alert. Had he been alone the warrigal would have snorted at his foes with the utmost disdain, and led them such a dance as not all their imaginings had ever conceived. But, alas! some at least of his faithful ones would be overtaken; were even now in peril. Desertion? Never!Rescue! but how? Yes; he will plan, he will outwit. He will use strategy against strategy, and at once, by which he may draw these merciless foes from the weaklings and give them an opportunity of escape.Quickening his pace, he raced along, closely followed by his company—save some half-dozen of the more exhausted mares, who were now widely separated from their mates. Then, wheeling sharply, the flying squadron dashed across the plain towards the foot-hills in a furious gallop.Divining his altered tactics, the Captain and M'Intyre increased their speed, taking no notice of the hindermost horses, and closely watching the head and ruck of the flying squadron.On, on! in mad gallop, whip and spur going freely now, sped the hunted and the hunters; and as they suddenly dashed across the face of the Captain's column, it seemed as if nothing human could stay their flight. The bold Captain and his men, however, nothing daunted nor surprised, wheeled a little more to the left, having some advantage in being well out, as well as being high up on the brumbies' flanks."Now, boys," cried Captain White, "head 'em, rush 'em!" Saying which, he rode straight for the stallion's head—who was leading—with four men pounding at his heels. It was a splendid attempt to head the mob, and succeeded save with one exception. That exception was the warrigal!The bunch of men hurled themselves on the leader, and had he not swerved there would have been a terrific impact, which might have spelled disablement or death to more than one. When a man's blood is up in riotous chase he joyously challenges death in ways that chill him to the bone in cool blood.The grey demon, however, swerved to the right with tremendous speed, and the Captain crossed his course within a couple of feet of his stern; his only revenge being a savage cut with his whip across the retreating animal's flanks. But if the men's rush failed with the leader, they stopped the stampede of his immediate followers.Floss and Jeannie, who were hard on the heels of the warrigal, were intercepted and turned. The stock whips, cracking like a blaze of musketry, played upon the ruck of the confused animals in merciless fashion, scoring their flanks and ribs. In a few seconds they were driven, pell-mell, back to the line of retreat. In the meantime those immediately behind the mob, and those on the right flank, kept the balance going and together. Thus the defeated ones regained their fellows, discomforted, and not a little cowed, in their leaderless condition.And what of the warrigal?To continue the chase of him were only to knock the horses up in fruitless pursuit. No! he must be abandoned. With liberty uncurtailed let him roam the wilds, fancy free. The station runaways remain, as well as others that will be of value and service.So wisely reasoned man, but not so the warrigal. Foiled in his purpose, regardless of his own pursuit, the great equine leader wheeled in a wide circle, uttering the while shrill neighs to attract his consorts. 'Tis for naught, however, that he utters challenge to his enemies and appeal to his mates. The stockmen have ringed the mob, and now at a slower pace they continue the drive; the men opening out, and keeping abreast the leading horses.And now the iron-bark clump is near at hand. To this the enraged stallion gallops. The wing men, on the alert, watch this last manoeuvre, and line out to intercept him should he make for the hills. Such was not his intention, though; and their appearance only accelerates the execution of his determination, which was simply to regain his companions; this he did with a rush, no one saying nay.M'Intyre and his men were careful not to push the driven beasts, but were content to let them make the pace. And now at a swinging canter—old mares well up, despite all fatigue—-they struck the clump, and passed the point to which the wing extended. The wing men, joining in the cavalcade by orders of their leader, pass to the right flank and reinforce the drivers there.They are now within half a mile of the trap. At a preconcerted signal the men close up, and amid an unceasing fusilade of stock-whip crackings the beasts are hustled, the rear men flogging up the lagging ones.The calico wing acts effectually on the one side, allowing a strong line to form up on the other. Barring accidents, the hunt is as good as finished; for in a moment or two the horses will be entering the trap mouth.The outlaw is leading the mob in a direct line for the yard. But, stay! His keen eyes sight the fence.It is a trap! Past adventures flood his recollection and shape judgment and determination. Inside the trap, death or slavery! Outside, liberty!Is it too late? No! By the ashes of his fathers he will elude his would-be captors! His faithful spouses, naught, alas! will save them. Let those who dare follow him! Away, then!With a wild rush, when within some two hundred yards of the trap mouth, he turns swiftly to the right at a tangent, so as to head his enemies and cut away on the outside of the fence.The gallant grey well deserves his freedom. His courage, devotion, and intelligence should surely prevail upon the men. But the pursuers were not indulging in any sentiment just then, and as soon as his last tactic was revealed the race of interception was begun. He might yet have escaped, for he was full of running, but, alas! the unseen foe!The five men detailed at the trap mouth, were grouped thereat, just behind a cluster of silver wattles, ready for any emergency. It seemed to them that their services would not be required.But, see! the warrigal!There is no time to reason. In a flash they streak out from cover and ride straight at the flying barb. Something must happen. The fearful impact, narrowly escaped but an hour ago, occurs. There is no attempt on either side to avoid the issue. With a mighty bound and a savage snap of his teeth the warrigal flings himself at the foremost, bringing horse and rider down with a crash, both lying motionless upon the plain.At the same moment, and scarce a length behind, came Yellow Billy. His attempt to head the runaway was blocked by the impact of the steeds. Too near to swerve, his horse struck the leading beast on the hind-quarters at the moment of the crash, adding to the confusion, and coming down a cropper.Staggered by the violent collision, the stallion is brought to a sudden stop, but not to the ground. And now an astounding thing happens. Yellow Billy, while falling with his steed, to save himself from the warrigal's feet clutched frantically at that animal's mane, and, by a clever vault, to the amazement of his comrades, sprang upon the outlaw's back.It would be hard to say if at that particular moment the horse himself was cognisant of the act. The pause covered but the fraction of a second. With a bound he leaped the fallen bodies, and, there being no one in front to stay him, tore off in a direction that skirted the trap fence.CHAPTER XXIIHOW YELLOW BILLY BROKE THE WARRIGAL"The snorting of his horses is heard from Dan: at the sound of the neighing of his strong ones the whole land trembleth."—JEREMIAH.The tragic ending of the last rush held all breaths for some brief moments. Such a contretemps had never happened before. It beat all previous experiences. The vanishing horse and rider seemed a wild fantasy of the brain, that passes like the breaking of a soap-bubble. There, before their very eyes, lay the slain; the victims of the mad charge.Several of the men dash after the desperate horse and his acrobatic rider. Simultaneously, a small group of men—among the foremost is Mr. Gill—rush to the fallen men and beasts.Dick Gill, his son, who lies across his horse, was known as a fearless and somewhat reckless rider. At the critical moment, with the lust of the chase upon him, the lad made a mad dash for the racing steed. To swerve him he instinctively felt would be a vain attempt. "I'll ride the beggar down!" With naught of tremor, but with a disdainful scorn of consequence, hawk-like he swooped upon his quarry.But, as we have seen, the outlaw had his own resolves. These, alas! more than defeat the object of the horseman. The warrigal's last hope trembled in the balance. A narrow gap of open space, and—liberty! This way then, with slap-dash speed!We have already related the countervailing efforts to stay that rush: how that hidden horsemen flash from their ambush; how that one, a little in advance, moved to the strike with tornado-like velocity. Then Greek met Greek. Comes the inevitable, the sickening thud; and then—oblivion! Come running men who lift young Dick with all the gentleness of women, and bear him to the shade trees.Yellow Billy's horse lies stone dead with broken neck. Dick's, with broken back, vainly strives to rise. Its great brown eyes look round with painful entreaty that sends Harry silently to the camp for a rifle, and then the handsome filly joins her companion in the happy hunting grounds.Meanwhile, under the shade trees, Dick Gill lies, the image of death. An examination reveals a fractured forearm; while a blue-black bruise on the right temple, as big as a crown-piece, attests the violence of the blow. The general verdict is that Dick, the life and soul of his company, will never more crack joke, sing song, or join in the merry chase; and so the conclusion is, dead, or as good as dead—a distinction with a slight difference.There were two, however, who clung to some shreds of hope; the father of the boy and the Colonel: the latter with obstinacy and emphasis."I've seen 'em on the frontier far worse than your boy, Gill, and get better. The lad's stunned with that dickens of a blow; but he'll rally directly and be as spry as ever.""Poor Dick is alive yet; of that I feel sure, even though I cannot detect any pulsation. What the issue may be, Dumaresque, neither you nor——""Tut, tut, man! he's young, and as tough as leather. Neck's all right. Keep up heart, old man. I'll trot down to the yards and see what they're doing to the brumbies."With that the old officer, whose words were braver than his heart, strode to the yard, where all the others had congregated, save Joe and Sandy, who were in the rear-guard when the accident happened; and who, chilled at heart and filled with apprehension—all zest in sport gone—remain by the side of their companion.When the warrigal broke, the others of the mob were in full gallop, being rushed by the men. They are subjected to a battery of flogging whips, and swept into the trap-yard; down the converging sides of this they hustle, only to find an impasse. There they huddle, a compact mass of sweating, shivering, and cowed brutes.The horsemen form a line across the way of retreat, until half a dozen wires are stretched. The rest is a matter of detail which expert bushmen make small bones about. When all is secure the men inside cut out selected horses under the direction of Mr. M'Intyre, who, with those not actively employed in the arena, occupies a place on the rails. The brumbies designed for use are thrown and branded, etc., then haltered and made fast to the rails. The station runaways were secured early in the proceedings, which, from first to last, consume a couple of hours. The final act is one of horse massacre; all the discarded stock are shot down. It is cold-blooded but necessary work, for brumbies are rightly regarded as a pest on a run.By this time the sun is well down in the west, and having finished their work at the yards, the men repair to the camp for a bite and a drink.To their great surprise and delight they find Dick Gill "nather dead nor spachless," as Denny Kineavy put it.While his father and the boys anxiously watched him, hoping against hope for signs of life, the unconscious lad suddenly stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, as one just awaking from a sound sleep.The as-good-as-dead youth sat up in wonderment, falling back in pain and weakness the next moment. A wave of joy surged through Gill's heart at this manifestation of life. "God be thanked for His mercies!" he exclaimed. Putting an arm under the sick boy's shoulders, and carefully raising his head, he held the Colonel's brandy flask to his lips. "You've had a spill, that's' all. A bit of a knock-out. Your left arm is broken, and there's a nasty bruise on your forehead. Sip a little of this spirit; it'll brace you up."A pull at the flask revived the youth, and he pillowed his head on his father's arm, who laved the bruised head with cold water. This greatly helped in the work of restoration. By the time the men had finished, Dick was able to sit up, and expressed a desire to have a look at the brumbies. Beyond acute pain in head and arm the lad seemed but little affected. He enjoyed a feed with the men, and especially was he grateful for a pannikin of tea. Good billy tea is better for the tired feeling than all the grog ever invented.After a short consultation it was decided that Dick and his father, with Sandy, should proceed to a selector's house about three miles distant. They would be sure to get the loan of Mrs. Mulvaney's spring-cart, and by that means reach Bullaroi. This was carried out despite Dick's protests that he was fit to start on another brumby drive.What of Yellow Billy and the bolting warrigal! Have they been forgotten? Not by long chalks!As soon as Mr. M'Intyre had selected the horses that were to be saved and used, he left the other work to the Captain, and, accompanied by Jacky, started off on the tracks of the outlaw. Before long they met some of the pursuers returning. Their horses were knocked up, and they had failed to trace the runaway. "Deeficult as the country may be," mused Mr. M'Intyre, "Jacky's equal to onything in the trackin' line. It's only a maitter o' time when we'll run 'em doon."There was much speculation at the camp over the fate of the half-caste. It did not lean to pessimism, though jeremiads were uttered by some. The pals, who knew Billy's ability better than the others, had unlimited faith in their mate. Whatever happened to the steed, the boy would turn up safe and sound. The steer rider, in their opinion, could ride bare-back the toughest outlaw that ever sniffed the wind. "You'll see," said Tom confidently to the Captain, "Billy'll more'n hold his own.""Didn't youse tell us the other day thet at your gra-at billy-horse-ma-ale-robbery, the steer slung the yallar bhoy——""Oh!" retorted Tom pettishly, "that was only——"Just then the returning men rode up. They had no good news to relate, but said that by Mr. M'Intyre's orders all were to proceed to the Glen, and if the missing boy was not brought in before dark they were to disperse. Let us now follow the fortunes, or misfortunes, of Billy.As soon as he found himself astride the warrigal, the yellow boy held fast with knees and hands, the stock whip over his shoulder trailing in a long line behind the flying pair. To stick on the racing horse was a comparatively easy thing to Billy, unless, indeed, some fiendish trick should unseat him. But to guide the scurrying brute, unbitted, unreined, were as impossible as to turn and check a Mont Blanc avalanche.The first instinct of the horse upon escaping from the trap-yard was to dismount his rider by violent means, but there are eager pursuers on the track—so away!He rounds the trap fence, bolts down the grassy valley apace, twists up a gully with a swerve that almosts unseats Billy, dashes into Glen Creek, and mounts the bank to enter a defile. The first shock over, the half-caste begins to realise his position. For a moment a pang of fear seizes him, and some of the dread possibilities of the ride dawn upon him. This soon yields to a different sensation as they rush through space.There is that in the half-wild nature of the lad which goes out in unconscious sympathy for the bestridden beast. Despite the mutual antagonism, which, after all, is not that of hate, there is in some way a sense of kinship. Wild answers to wild. Man nature comes thus into close gripping quarters with horse nature. There is no intervening saddle. Flesh mates with flesh, and spirit answers to spirit. Whose, then, shall be the victory? The strains of many generations of desert lords is in the quadruped. But what of the biped? A curious admixture of blood there! On the white side are the well salted strains, which hark away back to the old Vikings. On the other and darker, the stream points backwards to the misty past, when his ancestors, subtle and slim, moved southward from the older civilisations of the north, and swarmed the valleys of the Ganges and the Indus, fighting for a foothold.Is not this a challenge to the latent forces in the wild blood of the human? It riots through the youth's veins, giving vim and sparkle to his courage. Who shall win the lordship? Away then, and away!—through the mountain pines till clothes are mere shreds, and breast and thighs are torn and blooded with innumerable scores; slithering down the gorges to the accompaniment of rattling stones; jumping fallen timber, and smashing through the undergrowth, till all pursuit has faded away—the infuriated steed holds his course. On, on! ever up to the inaccessible heights.But, has the half-breed been doing nothing save holding on, meanwhile?With incredible difficulty, owing to the mad career of the horse over the wilds, Yellow Billy has managed to pass his whip thong twice round the brute's neck. This, knotted together, forms just the sort of hold-fast the boy has been accustomed to on his steer rides. The grip gives him a great advantage.But the horse is now scrambling up a gully, which becomes sharper and steeper as he advances, merging into a deep gorge at last, with precipitous sides and frowning, unscalable face. A cul-de-sac, indeed! Even this the indomitable warrigal essays. Again and again does he rush the battlements, and mount some distance; only to tumble back with sobbing breath but dauntless energy.Cannot Yellow Billy now dismount in safety?As easily, oh, reader, as one might slip off a rocking-horse.Why not, then, fling himself off; abandon the desperado, and be thankful for life and limb?What! Billy show the white feather? Billy throw away his chance of the honour and glory of capture thus? Not for all the wealth of Australia! This is the most ecstatic moment of his existence.Foiled in his attempt to scale the heights, Bucephalus begins to think more seriously of the foe upon his back. Were he dislodged, what might not become possible? Here then!So began the battle royal between these well-mated antagonists, to be fought to a finish, there, on that small patch of earth in the rocky fastness; with none in the arena to interfere or to applaud. None, indeed, to witness, save the rock wallaby perched high on a beetling crag, who may have moralised on the unwonted spectacle of the whirling grey-and-brown mass of flesh and blood below. Higher still, wheeling in mid-air, is an eagle hawk, who keenly watches the solitary duel down there, with unwinking eyes of insatiable greed; caring not a doit which wins the mastership, so that the issue may provide a fit object for tearing talons and lacerating beak.But below there!The warrigal, with bloodshot eyes flaming in rage and malice, ears set back, head and neck well down between the forelegs, back arched like a bent bow, bucks and squeals, kicks and twists. Forward, backward, sideward; round and round; up and down; now in the middle of the patch; now trying to rub the boy against the rough sides of the rocky canon, but all in vain. Not even the young Mazeppa, lashed to the wild horse, was more securely bound than was Billy to his steed.There he is; Yellow Billy! Behold him!Grasping with both hands the encircling stock whip, head and shoulders inclined backwards, his knees grip the horse's sides like a vice. The horse's hoarse neighs are answered with shrill shouts. And so, amid battle-cries, dust and flying pebbles, sweat and foam, with evolutions to which those of the circus ring were flat and monotonous, the tug of war for supremacy between man and beast goes on.Presently, however, the bucking desperado moderates. There is a lull. He shifts from side to side, making at the same time a slow gyral movement. Is this premonitory of collapse? He is blowing like the proverbial grampus, and ejecting steam from quivering nostrils like an exhaust pipe. The sweat flows from neck, belly, and flanks to the ground in streams. Spasmodic sobs like those of a broken-hearted child send shudder after shudder through his whole frame. See! his head is hanging upon his breast; the symbol of despair. Yes! he is done, conquered! He is broken. Well done, Billy! But the most dangerous moment of Billy's existence is at hand.Suddenly rushing backwards, the demon rears and throws himself to the ground, almost turning a complete somersault in the act. Crash! down come body and hoofs and—Billy. The boy is taken unawares, and can do little to avert the consequences of this trick. Still, the little saves him. When, in the fraction of a second, he sees the inevitable, a spasmodic jerk flings him just beyond the horse's legs, which are working like the arms of a windmill. Scarce has the animal regained his feet ere, with panther-like spring, the half-caste is reseated. Again the horse is down, but now he is weakening—is rapidly nearing the limit of endurance. All the reserves have been called up.Again, behold! a rapid change of tactics. The outlaw whips round his head with open mouth and snaps at the rider's leg. Again and again, on both sides, and it is only by the utmost dexterity that the lad escapes. This, more than anything else, begets fear; for Billy, like the horse, is fast tiring. With despair in his eyes the boy looks round him for help, and catches sight of the whip handle, which is hanging, with some two feet or more of thong, from where it is tied to the neck. In a trice his knife is out and the thong is severed near the knot. This end, coiled round his hand, becomes a weapon of offence. A loaded stock-whip handle is as formidable as an Irishman's shillelah. And now every snap is met with a cruel smack, and this not for long can even the warrigal stand. Yellow Billy does more, he rains blows upon the steed's shoulders and head with such severity as almost to paralyse the brute. The end is coming fast now. Worn, blown, trembling with weakness, dazed, the battle has indeed turned.There is a point in horse-nature up to which no man may call himself master. In some animals it lies low down. In others, the warrigal, to wit, it is placed at the apex of his mettlesome temper. Let that point in mastery be taken by the adversary and all is yielded. That citadel stormed, there is naught left but the white flag. The independence once surrendered is never regained. In other words, once the complete master, always the master.See now the lord of the wilderness! the equine conjurer of tricks! There he stands with shrunken form, drooping head, lack-lustrous eyes, motionless and clinging tail, subservience incarnate: fit statue of unconditional surrender! The struggle has been gallant, heroic, prolonged; the capitulation is complete. A well planted blow, now, between the ears, and that noble creature; that thing of bone and muscle, of arching neck and glossy coat; that creature of will and courage, which made him emperor among his kind by right of merit—with a stride worthy the envy of Lucifer! Just one blow in the right spot—he staggers, trembles, and falls.Yellow Billy is standing at the horse's head. 'Twas a glorious ride, a royal fight, a grand victory. Nothing is left now but—pity! And so, with soft and cheery word, rubbing the nostrils, wiping the drying sweat, massaging the trembling limbs, the boy is mercifully engaged when footsteps are heard, and in a moment the squatter, Jacky, and a couple of men ride on to the battle-field.
At sunrise, on a glorious morning in mid January, the Bullaroi party, well mounted, wend their way to the appointed rendezvous, from whence the amalgamated forces are to proceed to the brumby grounds.
The men and boys are variously mounted. All the horses, however, are used to stock work; some of them, within certain limits, being as intelligent as the men who bestride them. Many of them are what is known as "camp horses"; that is, horses trained for mustering and cutting out work on the cattle camp. Quick to wheel, to dodge, to out-manoeuvre the charging bullock, and even to divine the enemy's intention; skilful in wedging through a pack; ready to advance backwards, so to speak, and to use heels when head and shoulders unavail; needing scarce any control, and with a keen zest for the work, the camp horse is an invaluable auxiliary on a cattle run.
Both M'Intyre and Gill were specially well mounted on favourites of the above-named variety. The price of each was regarded by its rider as beyond rubies. Both men were strong-boned, grizzled, and expert bushmen, with not a superfluous ounce of flesh on their bodies. Neville was of the company. He had learned many things in the intervening days; the first, and most essential, was that England could furnish no precedent to Australia in things that are peculiar to station life. He gradually dropped his pet phrase, "The way we do things in England." The scales had fallen from his eyes concerning many things "Colonial."
Mr. M'Intyre, who liked him, paid him no little attention. He rode out on the run with him, giving common-sense hints in his dry way, from time to time, which his guest was ready enough to take. He learned to ride fairly well, and, after many mortifying failures, could crack a stock whip without entangling it in the horse's legs.
Mr. M'Intyre was dubious about Neville going. The Englishman, however, was so set on joining the cavalcade that to object seemed discourtesy. All hints of the danger attached to this expedition were scouted. So, on this eventful morning, mounted on his host's favourite hack, Curlew, the visitor formed one of the company.
The others need no description. With spirits mounting high in anticipation they pass over open plain, through brigalow scrub, along box ridges, and across country on a ten-mile spin to a spot on Rocky Creek called the Glen—a place already decided upon. As there was no knowing to what extent the powers of both men and horses would be tried during the day, the journey was made at a moderate speed, so as to spare them for the arduous task of the drive.
The pals, on this occasion six in number, were compelled to curb their tendencies to fun and frolic; though there were some very tempting and well-nigh irresistible inducements to spurts as the game rose or scudded before them. Inviting jumps, too, lured them; but high jump or low jump, kangaroo or emu, charm they never so wisely, are resisted.
But their tongues are uncurbed. How they did chatter, to be sure! It did the older members good to hear their gay and joyous prattle. Their views of life in general, and brumby hunting in particular, were novel and unconventional. They settled everything touching the day's proceedings, from the place of the "find" to the number yarded. All that the warrigal might do, and all that they would positively do to circumvent him, together with many other things, were discussed with the self-confidence of youth.
In due time the Glen is reached, and the Bullaroi party find that they are first upon the scene.
"Off saddles all o' you. Must ease the horses a' we can. Saundy, you and the boys mak a fire and get the billy going. Denny, bring the tucker-bag from the pack-saddle. Mr. Neville, what in the name of common-sense are ye tying yure nag to that dead tree for?"
"What's wrong with it, sir?"
"What's richt wi' it, mon?"
"I—I—don't know what you mean."
"Boss means yer a fool ter tie the moke up in the blazing sun," said Harry in an undertone, as he passed by the new chum. "Put 'im under a shade tree same as the rest of us."
"Beg pardon, yes—er—I see," answered he, mortified for a moment, as he moved from the leafless trunk to a clump of currajongs, whose thick foliage effectually screened the sun's rays.
"Wot sort of a bloke's that 'ere cove?" asked Jimmy Flynn of Tom Hawkins. "He's a regular greeny, ain't he?"
"Oh, a good enough sort!" replied Tom. "He's new, but he's a learner. He picks up pretty fast, considering. You should 'a' seen him when he came here first; my word, he was a greenhorn then!"
"Here's the Captain, father!" sang out Sandy, as three men cantered up the track.
"Guid-day, White! Guid-day, men! Glad to see you. Off saddle and join us in a tot o' tea and a bite."
"Good-day, M'Intyre! By George! you've got quite a troop, man. Day, Dickson! Day, Davidson! What on earth do you townies think you're going to do? Stand a good chance, Dickson, of cracking your skull and spilling all that legal soph—I mean lore, that's bottled up there. Oh, I say, Mac, old Dumaresque's coming along," rattled on the Captain.
"I'll believe it when I see him, no' afore. The auld boy's better at hame when this wark's on."
"Well, all I know is that he sent me word last night by one of the men, and cautioned me to be sure and tell you."
"If he comes he comes, and if he disna he'll no' be much missed. Noo, boys, bring in the tea!"
"By Jove! M'Intyre, your wife's a sensible woman: this is the sort of grub to work on. Last month I was over at the Glenormiston mustering. De Little asked me to join him at midday after a heavy morning's work, and as I was as hungry as ten hunters I readily consented. What d'ye think he produced from his tucker-bag? Some lettuce sandwiches, no less; and cream puffs! De Little's as good as gold, you know, so I couldn't refuse to take some; but, I give you my word, I strolled over to his men as soon as I could get away decently, and got a slice of beef and a chunk of damper."
"Hoo's De Little getting on?"
"Well, between you and me and the billy-can, he's no more cut out for a squatter than for an archangel. Pity he ever left London. He'd be more at home in Rotten Row. Hello! here's the old Colonel and two boys. Seeing will dissipate even your scepticism, Mac."
Dumaresque was a choleric but plucky old superannuated Indian officer, who on his retirement came over to Australia and purchased a small cattle run, living bachelor fashion. He was now quite old, yet fancied himself equal to any toil. To hint at his age infirmities was to raise a very sirocco of indignant language.
"Hello, Cornel! wha'd 'a' thocht that you——"
"Stop, M'Intyre, stop! I know right well, sir, what you are going to remark. If you, sir, look upon a bit of a brumby hunt as an extraordinary thing, let me inform you that to me 'tis but a trifle. Why, man, when I was stationed on the northern frontier——"
"Yes, yes, Dumaresque," broke in the Captain, who knew the other's weakness, "we're all delighted to see you. Just in time for a pannikin of tea and a mouthful. Here you, Dick, Tom, Harry, one of you, take the Colonel's horse."
A few minutes later the men filed out of the Glen, and proceeded along the creek to a spur in the foot-hills. Then they left the water-shed, crossing the spur, from which they continued up a grassy valley which extended nearly three miles before it broadened out into an open plain, lightly timbered at the upper or ridge side, but perfectly treeless at its other extremity.
Two-thirds of the way up the valley, in a belt of box trees, was the trap-yard. The trap mouth, before described, extended across the belt to the outermost verge.
After a short inspection of the yard the calico wing was fixed. It was attached to the terminal post of the yard mouth, nearest to the ridge that skirted the valley on the top side. From thence it was taken in a straight line on the ridge side of the valley, until the plain was reached. From this point, inclining slighting outward and made fast at short intervals, it extended right across the plain, ending in a clump of iron-barks.
"Noo, men, ye'll jist hae a wee bit grub and then we'll stairt."
The meal was soon dispatched, and a short consultation ensued. M'Intyre apportioned the men their places. Six, under Gill, were located in the iron-bark clump. Five others were sent back to the trap-yard, two miles distant, to assigned duty there. The remaining sixteen were to execute the task of first "feeling" the enemy; then of outflanking them; and, finally, directing the stampede.
CHAPTER XXI
THE WARRIGAL'S STRATEGY
"Hast thou given the horse his might?Hast thou clothed his neck with the quivering mane?* * * * *The glory of his snorting is terrible.He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his strength.He goeth out to meet the armed men.He mocketh at fear and is not dismayed.* * * * *He smelleth the battle afar off:The thunder of the captains, and the shouting."JOB.
"Hast thou given the horse his might?Hast thou clothed his neck with the quivering mane?* * * * *The glory of his snorting is terrible.He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his strength.He goeth out to meet the armed men.He mocketh at fear and is not dismayed.* * * * *He smelleth the battle afar off:The thunder of the captains, and the shouting."JOB.
"Hast thou given the horse his might?
Hast thou clothed his neck with the quivering mane?
* * * * *
* * * * *
The glory of his snorting is terrible.
He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his strength.
He goeth out to meet the armed men.
He mocketh at fear and is not dismayed.
* * * * *
* * * * *
He smelleth the battle afar off:
The thunder of the captains, and the shouting."
JOB.
JOB.
JOB.
"Noo, men, we'll be on the move."
The leader sprang to his horse and directed him on to the plain.
"Where do you expect to pick 'em up, Mac?"
"Micht sicht them at ony minute, maybe no' for hours; maybe no' at a', Captain."
"Willy and Jacky, you gang on aheed and keep your een weel peeled for signs. No sae fast, lads; mustna spoil the sport at the stairt. Let the blacks get weel aheed. We maun sicht them afore they tak alairm, or it'll be a hopeless stern chase."
Joe, Tom, and Sandy, greatly to their delight, were with the "flying column." Yellow Billy was with the trap contingent, while Jimmy Flynn was stationed with Mr. Gill in the iron-bark clump. Neville, at his earnest request, was given a place with Mr. M'Intyre.
As soon as he touched the myall country, the leader cautiously skirted it, until the party were well out and away from the range of hills that continued on the eastern side. He then took an inward course, and made a slant which carried them back to the foot-hills.
So far there was neither sight nor sound of the mob, nor were there any indications of their presence at any recent date. From the range base another tack was taken, which brought them upon the edge of a scrub that had wedged itself into the plain. By this time the column had covered a lot of ground.
"We'll fringe the timber for a while, and then, if we've nae luck, we'll hae to divide; half to go into the ranges, and the other to keep richt along the plain. Keep weel in, lads, we'll cut that pint," continued the leader, as the men moved on through the outer fringe of scrub; while out on the plain, which was dotted with rosewood and myall clumps, the black boys moved with lithe and stealthy movements.
"Father, I hear a whistle!"
"Hist, men! quiet all o' ye!"
"There it's again!" exclaimed Sandy after a moment's silence, as a low whistle came from the plain. "That's Jacky's whistle, dad, sure enough. I'd know it among a thousand——"
"A' richt, my boy. Jacky's got something. We'll move oot quietly and see."
Wheeling to the right, the column soon arrived at the spot indicated by Jacky's whistle. The black boy stood by the side of his horse, pointing to some fresh droppings and to numerous hoof-tracks.
"What is it, Jacky?" exclaimed Mr. M'Intyre as the men rode up.
"Blendy brumby bin here, Boss, few minutes ago."
The tracks and signs were so fresh that, as the black said, it was only the question of a few minutes since they occupied the spot.
"Most fortunate we've got ahint them. They're near by. At ony moment we micht sicht them. Ye'll fa' into a doubble column, men. Captain, ye'll tak seeven men and I'll keep the ithers. We'll hae twa columns a hunder yairds apairt."
In this fashion the men proceeded slowly, with a black boy ahead of each column as a scout, and following the tracks of the brumbies. As predicted, in a few minutes Willy held up a warning hand.
The columns quickly closed up to the scouts, and their leaders saw, through the willow-like branches of a myall clump, the long-sought-for mob. The horses were standing close together in an expectant attitude. Their suspicions were aroused. Though they had not scented the wind of their pursuers, nevertheless, with that wonderfulsomethingso common in wild things, theyfeltthe enemy's presence.
The intervening distance was about three hundred yards. According to arrangement, each column opened out at its head, with the object of outflanking the horses. Silently the columns wheeled to the left and right sharply, and then moved forward. While in the act of executing this tactic their presence was detected, and scanned in a moment. Then, with a snort, or rather a fusilade of snorts and neighs, heads erected, manes and tails streaming, away flew the alarmed steeds; and in swift pursuit, maintaining their formation, the men followed.
There was no intention of unduly alarming the brumbies, therefore all shoutings and stock-whip crackings were restrained. And now the hunters begin to feel the ardour of the chase, both horses and men; for so eager were the station horses to join in the hunt that the riders were obliged to take a double pull on them.
Neville, in the excitement of the raid, forgot the orders, and broke his line, making a rush for the tail of the flying mob. The Captain, however, nipped his intention in the bud with a few red-hot expletives, ordering the Englishman back to his place in the line.
The brumbies, when started, were about eight miles from the wing, and headed directly for it, going off from the jump with a fine burst. The wily warrigal, however, was not going to be run off his legs in a spurt; in a short time the breakneck pace is moderated, and the straggling mob close up.
The horsemen hung on the flanks of the galloping steeds, steadying into an accommodating pace, and, as previously directed, making a semicircle, whose points extended beyond the sides of the retreating animals. The station mares were in the mob, capering for the moment as wildly as any in their company. Tallboy lagged somewhat in the rear. He had evidently received scant courtesy from the brumbies. It was observed that his heart was not in this matter. Had they wished, the horsemen could easily have cut him out of the mob.
The flying steeds—about fifty, young and old—had covered about two-thirds of the distance to the terminal point of the wing, and had not once swerved from this direction. The men were in high glee. So far it was nothing more than an exhilarating gallop, and they kept up the formation beautifully. The horses, too, although the day was very hot, had not yet shown any sign of distress. It was a different thing with some of the hunted animals, however. There were some very old stock among the mares. The pace and the heat combined were telling heavily upon them, and they that rode could read.
One of these was a chronic "roarer," and her distressed gasps were plainly heard above the thunder of the hoof. Two of the mares began to lag in a palpable manner, despite the encouraging whinneying of the stallion, as he turned from side to side with a troubled look.
They who belittle the intelligence of animals, and treat them as lacking heart and soul, can have had little experience of their nature and ways. The old sheik of the wilderness was full of concern for his many wives. Love, despite all that the poets may say, is not blind; it is open-eyed and alert. Had he been alone the warrigal would have snorted at his foes with the utmost disdain, and led them such a dance as not all their imaginings had ever conceived. But, alas! some at least of his faithful ones would be overtaken; were even now in peril. Desertion? Never!
Rescue! but how? Yes; he will plan, he will outwit. He will use strategy against strategy, and at once, by which he may draw these merciless foes from the weaklings and give them an opportunity of escape.
Quickening his pace, he raced along, closely followed by his company—save some half-dozen of the more exhausted mares, who were now widely separated from their mates. Then, wheeling sharply, the flying squadron dashed across the plain towards the foot-hills in a furious gallop.
Divining his altered tactics, the Captain and M'Intyre increased their speed, taking no notice of the hindermost horses, and closely watching the head and ruck of the flying squadron.
On, on! in mad gallop, whip and spur going freely now, sped the hunted and the hunters; and as they suddenly dashed across the face of the Captain's column, it seemed as if nothing human could stay their flight. The bold Captain and his men, however, nothing daunted nor surprised, wheeled a little more to the left, having some advantage in being well out, as well as being high up on the brumbies' flanks.
"Now, boys," cried Captain White, "head 'em, rush 'em!" Saying which, he rode straight for the stallion's head—who was leading—with four men pounding at his heels. It was a splendid attempt to head the mob, and succeeded save with one exception. That exception was the warrigal!
The bunch of men hurled themselves on the leader, and had he not swerved there would have been a terrific impact, which might have spelled disablement or death to more than one. When a man's blood is up in riotous chase he joyously challenges death in ways that chill him to the bone in cool blood.
The grey demon, however, swerved to the right with tremendous speed, and the Captain crossed his course within a couple of feet of his stern; his only revenge being a savage cut with his whip across the retreating animal's flanks. But if the men's rush failed with the leader, they stopped the stampede of his immediate followers.
Floss and Jeannie, who were hard on the heels of the warrigal, were intercepted and turned. The stock whips, cracking like a blaze of musketry, played upon the ruck of the confused animals in merciless fashion, scoring their flanks and ribs. In a few seconds they were driven, pell-mell, back to the line of retreat. In the meantime those immediately behind the mob, and those on the right flank, kept the balance going and together. Thus the defeated ones regained their fellows, discomforted, and not a little cowed, in their leaderless condition.
And what of the warrigal?
To continue the chase of him were only to knock the horses up in fruitless pursuit. No! he must be abandoned. With liberty uncurtailed let him roam the wilds, fancy free. The station runaways remain, as well as others that will be of value and service.
So wisely reasoned man, but not so the warrigal. Foiled in his purpose, regardless of his own pursuit, the great equine leader wheeled in a wide circle, uttering the while shrill neighs to attract his consorts. 'Tis for naught, however, that he utters challenge to his enemies and appeal to his mates. The stockmen have ringed the mob, and now at a slower pace they continue the drive; the men opening out, and keeping abreast the leading horses.
And now the iron-bark clump is near at hand. To this the enraged stallion gallops. The wing men, on the alert, watch this last manoeuvre, and line out to intercept him should he make for the hills. Such was not his intention, though; and their appearance only accelerates the execution of his determination, which was simply to regain his companions; this he did with a rush, no one saying nay.
M'Intyre and his men were careful not to push the driven beasts, but were content to let them make the pace. And now at a swinging canter—old mares well up, despite all fatigue—-they struck the clump, and passed the point to which the wing extended. The wing men, joining in the cavalcade by orders of their leader, pass to the right flank and reinforce the drivers there.
They are now within half a mile of the trap. At a preconcerted signal the men close up, and amid an unceasing fusilade of stock-whip crackings the beasts are hustled, the rear men flogging up the lagging ones.
The calico wing acts effectually on the one side, allowing a strong line to form up on the other. Barring accidents, the hunt is as good as finished; for in a moment or two the horses will be entering the trap mouth.
The outlaw is leading the mob in a direct line for the yard. But, stay! His keen eyes sight the fence.It is a trap! Past adventures flood his recollection and shape judgment and determination. Inside the trap, death or slavery! Outside, liberty!
Is it too late? No! By the ashes of his fathers he will elude his would-be captors! His faithful spouses, naught, alas! will save them. Let those who dare follow him! Away, then!
With a wild rush, when within some two hundred yards of the trap mouth, he turns swiftly to the right at a tangent, so as to head his enemies and cut away on the outside of the fence.
The gallant grey well deserves his freedom. His courage, devotion, and intelligence should surely prevail upon the men. But the pursuers were not indulging in any sentiment just then, and as soon as his last tactic was revealed the race of interception was begun. He might yet have escaped, for he was full of running, but, alas! the unseen foe!
The five men detailed at the trap mouth, were grouped thereat, just behind a cluster of silver wattles, ready for any emergency. It seemed to them that their services would not be required.
But, see! the warrigal!
There is no time to reason. In a flash they streak out from cover and ride straight at the flying barb. Something must happen. The fearful impact, narrowly escaped but an hour ago, occurs. There is no attempt on either side to avoid the issue. With a mighty bound and a savage snap of his teeth the warrigal flings himself at the foremost, bringing horse and rider down with a crash, both lying motionless upon the plain.
At the same moment, and scarce a length behind, came Yellow Billy. His attempt to head the runaway was blocked by the impact of the steeds. Too near to swerve, his horse struck the leading beast on the hind-quarters at the moment of the crash, adding to the confusion, and coming down a cropper.
Staggered by the violent collision, the stallion is brought to a sudden stop, but not to the ground. And now an astounding thing happens. Yellow Billy, while falling with his steed, to save himself from the warrigal's feet clutched frantically at that animal's mane, and, by a clever vault, to the amazement of his comrades, sprang upon the outlaw's back.
It would be hard to say if at that particular moment the horse himself was cognisant of the act. The pause covered but the fraction of a second. With a bound he leaped the fallen bodies, and, there being no one in front to stay him, tore off in a direction that skirted the trap fence.
CHAPTER XXII
HOW YELLOW BILLY BROKE THE WARRIGAL
"The snorting of his horses is heard from Dan: at the sound of the neighing of his strong ones the whole land trembleth."—JEREMIAH.
The tragic ending of the last rush held all breaths for some brief moments. Such a contretemps had never happened before. It beat all previous experiences. The vanishing horse and rider seemed a wild fantasy of the brain, that passes like the breaking of a soap-bubble. There, before their very eyes, lay the slain; the victims of the mad charge.
Several of the men dash after the desperate horse and his acrobatic rider. Simultaneously, a small group of men—among the foremost is Mr. Gill—rush to the fallen men and beasts.
Dick Gill, his son, who lies across his horse, was known as a fearless and somewhat reckless rider. At the critical moment, with the lust of the chase upon him, the lad made a mad dash for the racing steed. To swerve him he instinctively felt would be a vain attempt. "I'll ride the beggar down!" With naught of tremor, but with a disdainful scorn of consequence, hawk-like he swooped upon his quarry.
But, as we have seen, the outlaw had his own resolves. These, alas! more than defeat the object of the horseman. The warrigal's last hope trembled in the balance. A narrow gap of open space, and—liberty! This way then, with slap-dash speed!
We have already related the countervailing efforts to stay that rush: how that hidden horsemen flash from their ambush; how that one, a little in advance, moved to the strike with tornado-like velocity. Then Greek met Greek. Comes the inevitable, the sickening thud; and then—oblivion! Come running men who lift young Dick with all the gentleness of women, and bear him to the shade trees.
Yellow Billy's horse lies stone dead with broken neck. Dick's, with broken back, vainly strives to rise. Its great brown eyes look round with painful entreaty that sends Harry silently to the camp for a rifle, and then the handsome filly joins her companion in the happy hunting grounds.
Meanwhile, under the shade trees, Dick Gill lies, the image of death. An examination reveals a fractured forearm; while a blue-black bruise on the right temple, as big as a crown-piece, attests the violence of the blow. The general verdict is that Dick, the life and soul of his company, will never more crack joke, sing song, or join in the merry chase; and so the conclusion is, dead, or as good as dead—a distinction with a slight difference.
There were two, however, who clung to some shreds of hope; the father of the boy and the Colonel: the latter with obstinacy and emphasis.
"I've seen 'em on the frontier far worse than your boy, Gill, and get better. The lad's stunned with that dickens of a blow; but he'll rally directly and be as spry as ever."
"Poor Dick is alive yet; of that I feel sure, even though I cannot detect any pulsation. What the issue may be, Dumaresque, neither you nor——"
"Tut, tut, man! he's young, and as tough as leather. Neck's all right. Keep up heart, old man. I'll trot down to the yards and see what they're doing to the brumbies."
With that the old officer, whose words were braver than his heart, strode to the yard, where all the others had congregated, save Joe and Sandy, who were in the rear-guard when the accident happened; and who, chilled at heart and filled with apprehension—all zest in sport gone—remain by the side of their companion.
When the warrigal broke, the others of the mob were in full gallop, being rushed by the men. They are subjected to a battery of flogging whips, and swept into the trap-yard; down the converging sides of this they hustle, only to find an impasse. There they huddle, a compact mass of sweating, shivering, and cowed brutes.
The horsemen form a line across the way of retreat, until half a dozen wires are stretched. The rest is a matter of detail which expert bushmen make small bones about. When all is secure the men inside cut out selected horses under the direction of Mr. M'Intyre, who, with those not actively employed in the arena, occupies a place on the rails. The brumbies designed for use are thrown and branded, etc., then haltered and made fast to the rails. The station runaways were secured early in the proceedings, which, from first to last, consume a couple of hours. The final act is one of horse massacre; all the discarded stock are shot down. It is cold-blooded but necessary work, for brumbies are rightly regarded as a pest on a run.
By this time the sun is well down in the west, and having finished their work at the yards, the men repair to the camp for a bite and a drink.
To their great surprise and delight they find Dick Gill "nather dead nor spachless," as Denny Kineavy put it.
While his father and the boys anxiously watched him, hoping against hope for signs of life, the unconscious lad suddenly stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, as one just awaking from a sound sleep.
The as-good-as-dead youth sat up in wonderment, falling back in pain and weakness the next moment. A wave of joy surged through Gill's heart at this manifestation of life. "God be thanked for His mercies!" he exclaimed. Putting an arm under the sick boy's shoulders, and carefully raising his head, he held the Colonel's brandy flask to his lips. "You've had a spill, that's' all. A bit of a knock-out. Your left arm is broken, and there's a nasty bruise on your forehead. Sip a little of this spirit; it'll brace you up."
A pull at the flask revived the youth, and he pillowed his head on his father's arm, who laved the bruised head with cold water. This greatly helped in the work of restoration. By the time the men had finished, Dick was able to sit up, and expressed a desire to have a look at the brumbies. Beyond acute pain in head and arm the lad seemed but little affected. He enjoyed a feed with the men, and especially was he grateful for a pannikin of tea. Good billy tea is better for the tired feeling than all the grog ever invented.
After a short consultation it was decided that Dick and his father, with Sandy, should proceed to a selector's house about three miles distant. They would be sure to get the loan of Mrs. Mulvaney's spring-cart, and by that means reach Bullaroi. This was carried out despite Dick's protests that he was fit to start on another brumby drive.
What of Yellow Billy and the bolting warrigal! Have they been forgotten? Not by long chalks!
As soon as Mr. M'Intyre had selected the horses that were to be saved and used, he left the other work to the Captain, and, accompanied by Jacky, started off on the tracks of the outlaw. Before long they met some of the pursuers returning. Their horses were knocked up, and they had failed to trace the runaway. "Deeficult as the country may be," mused Mr. M'Intyre, "Jacky's equal to onything in the trackin' line. It's only a maitter o' time when we'll run 'em doon."
There was much speculation at the camp over the fate of the half-caste. It did not lean to pessimism, though jeremiads were uttered by some. The pals, who knew Billy's ability better than the others, had unlimited faith in their mate. Whatever happened to the steed, the boy would turn up safe and sound. The steer rider, in their opinion, could ride bare-back the toughest outlaw that ever sniffed the wind. "You'll see," said Tom confidently to the Captain, "Billy'll more'n hold his own."
"Didn't youse tell us the other day thet at your gra-at billy-horse-ma-ale-robbery, the steer slung the yallar bhoy——"
"Oh!" retorted Tom pettishly, "that was only——"
Just then the returning men rode up. They had no good news to relate, but said that by Mr. M'Intyre's orders all were to proceed to the Glen, and if the missing boy was not brought in before dark they were to disperse. Let us now follow the fortunes, or misfortunes, of Billy.
As soon as he found himself astride the warrigal, the yellow boy held fast with knees and hands, the stock whip over his shoulder trailing in a long line behind the flying pair. To stick on the racing horse was a comparatively easy thing to Billy, unless, indeed, some fiendish trick should unseat him. But to guide the scurrying brute, unbitted, unreined, were as impossible as to turn and check a Mont Blanc avalanche.
The first instinct of the horse upon escaping from the trap-yard was to dismount his rider by violent means, but there are eager pursuers on the track—so away!
He rounds the trap fence, bolts down the grassy valley apace, twists up a gully with a swerve that almosts unseats Billy, dashes into Glen Creek, and mounts the bank to enter a defile. The first shock over, the half-caste begins to realise his position. For a moment a pang of fear seizes him, and some of the dread possibilities of the ride dawn upon him. This soon yields to a different sensation as they rush through space.
There is that in the half-wild nature of the lad which goes out in unconscious sympathy for the bestridden beast. Despite the mutual antagonism, which, after all, is not that of hate, there is in some way a sense of kinship. Wild answers to wild. Man nature comes thus into close gripping quarters with horse nature. There is no intervening saddle. Flesh mates with flesh, and spirit answers to spirit. Whose, then, shall be the victory? The strains of many generations of desert lords is in the quadruped. But what of the biped? A curious admixture of blood there! On the white side are the well salted strains, which hark away back to the old Vikings. On the other and darker, the stream points backwards to the misty past, when his ancestors, subtle and slim, moved southward from the older civilisations of the north, and swarmed the valleys of the Ganges and the Indus, fighting for a foothold.
Is not this a challenge to the latent forces in the wild blood of the human? It riots through the youth's veins, giving vim and sparkle to his courage. Who shall win the lordship? Away then, and away!—through the mountain pines till clothes are mere shreds, and breast and thighs are torn and blooded with innumerable scores; slithering down the gorges to the accompaniment of rattling stones; jumping fallen timber, and smashing through the undergrowth, till all pursuit has faded away—the infuriated steed holds his course. On, on! ever up to the inaccessible heights.
But, has the half-breed been doing nothing save holding on, meanwhile?
With incredible difficulty, owing to the mad career of the horse over the wilds, Yellow Billy has managed to pass his whip thong twice round the brute's neck. This, knotted together, forms just the sort of hold-fast the boy has been accustomed to on his steer rides. The grip gives him a great advantage.
But the horse is now scrambling up a gully, which becomes sharper and steeper as he advances, merging into a deep gorge at last, with precipitous sides and frowning, unscalable face. A cul-de-sac, indeed! Even this the indomitable warrigal essays. Again and again does he rush the battlements, and mount some distance; only to tumble back with sobbing breath but dauntless energy.
Cannot Yellow Billy now dismount in safety?
As easily, oh, reader, as one might slip off a rocking-horse.
Why not, then, fling himself off; abandon the desperado, and be thankful for life and limb?
What! Billy show the white feather? Billy throw away his chance of the honour and glory of capture thus? Not for all the wealth of Australia! This is the most ecstatic moment of his existence.
Foiled in his attempt to scale the heights, Bucephalus begins to think more seriously of the foe upon his back. Were he dislodged, what might not become possible? Here then!
So began the battle royal between these well-mated antagonists, to be fought to a finish, there, on that small patch of earth in the rocky fastness; with none in the arena to interfere or to applaud. None, indeed, to witness, save the rock wallaby perched high on a beetling crag, who may have moralised on the unwonted spectacle of the whirling grey-and-brown mass of flesh and blood below. Higher still, wheeling in mid-air, is an eagle hawk, who keenly watches the solitary duel down there, with unwinking eyes of insatiable greed; caring not a doit which wins the mastership, so that the issue may provide a fit object for tearing talons and lacerating beak.
But below there!
The warrigal, with bloodshot eyes flaming in rage and malice, ears set back, head and neck well down between the forelegs, back arched like a bent bow, bucks and squeals, kicks and twists. Forward, backward, sideward; round and round; up and down; now in the middle of the patch; now trying to rub the boy against the rough sides of the rocky canon, but all in vain. Not even the young Mazeppa, lashed to the wild horse, was more securely bound than was Billy to his steed.
There he is; Yellow Billy! Behold him!
Grasping with both hands the encircling stock whip, head and shoulders inclined backwards, his knees grip the horse's sides like a vice. The horse's hoarse neighs are answered with shrill shouts. And so, amid battle-cries, dust and flying pebbles, sweat and foam, with evolutions to which those of the circus ring were flat and monotonous, the tug of war for supremacy between man and beast goes on.
Presently, however, the bucking desperado moderates. There is a lull. He shifts from side to side, making at the same time a slow gyral movement. Is this premonitory of collapse? He is blowing like the proverbial grampus, and ejecting steam from quivering nostrils like an exhaust pipe. The sweat flows from neck, belly, and flanks to the ground in streams. Spasmodic sobs like those of a broken-hearted child send shudder after shudder through his whole frame. See! his head is hanging upon his breast; the symbol of despair. Yes! he is done, conquered! He is broken. Well done, Billy! But the most dangerous moment of Billy's existence is at hand.
Suddenly rushing backwards, the demon rears and throws himself to the ground, almost turning a complete somersault in the act. Crash! down come body and hoofs and—Billy. The boy is taken unawares, and can do little to avert the consequences of this trick. Still, the little saves him. When, in the fraction of a second, he sees the inevitable, a spasmodic jerk flings him just beyond the horse's legs, which are working like the arms of a windmill. Scarce has the animal regained his feet ere, with panther-like spring, the half-caste is reseated. Again the horse is down, but now he is weakening—is rapidly nearing the limit of endurance. All the reserves have been called up.
Again, behold! a rapid change of tactics. The outlaw whips round his head with open mouth and snaps at the rider's leg. Again and again, on both sides, and it is only by the utmost dexterity that the lad escapes. This, more than anything else, begets fear; for Billy, like the horse, is fast tiring. With despair in his eyes the boy looks round him for help, and catches sight of the whip handle, which is hanging, with some two feet or more of thong, from where it is tied to the neck. In a trice his knife is out and the thong is severed near the knot. This end, coiled round his hand, becomes a weapon of offence. A loaded stock-whip handle is as formidable as an Irishman's shillelah. And now every snap is met with a cruel smack, and this not for long can even the warrigal stand. Yellow Billy does more, he rains blows upon the steed's shoulders and head with such severity as almost to paralyse the brute. The end is coming fast now. Worn, blown, trembling with weakness, dazed, the battle has indeed turned.
There is a point in horse-nature up to which no man may call himself master. In some animals it lies low down. In others, the warrigal, to wit, it is placed at the apex of his mettlesome temper. Let that point in mastery be taken by the adversary and all is yielded. That citadel stormed, there is naught left but the white flag. The independence once surrendered is never regained. In other words, once the complete master, always the master.
See now the lord of the wilderness! the equine conjurer of tricks! There he stands with shrunken form, drooping head, lack-lustrous eyes, motionless and clinging tail, subservience incarnate: fit statue of unconditional surrender! The struggle has been gallant, heroic, prolonged; the capitulation is complete. A well planted blow, now, between the ears, and that noble creature; that thing of bone and muscle, of arching neck and glossy coat; that creature of will and courage, which made him emperor among his kind by right of merit—with a stride worthy the envy of Lucifer! Just one blow in the right spot—he staggers, trembles, and falls.
Yellow Billy is standing at the horse's head. 'Twas a glorious ride, a royal fight, a grand victory. Nothing is left now but—pity! And so, with soft and cheery word, rubbing the nostrils, wiping the drying sweat, massaging the trembling limbs, the boy is mercifully engaged when footsteps are heard, and in a moment the squatter, Jacky, and a couple of men ride on to the battle-field.