In the big yard of the stock-yard the horses Hugh and the boys had brought in were moving restlessly. Slender stalks of legs, bodies chestnut, bay, brown and black, crowding, hustling, seething; heads alert, turned and glancing, wild eyes slewing, startled; manes and tails tossed and waving, an ace, arrow-head or splash of white flashing out from dark foreheads. Blowing and snorting, the mob went round the yard, backwards and forwards, raising a fog of dust.
When Geary and Cock-Eyed Bob walked up to have a look at the horses with Hugh, the boys were turning mares and foals from the mob into the next yard. Warieda and Chitali singled out the foal they were after, ran him round the yard until he was separated from his mother, then the gate of the crush opened. The young thing found himself between the high rails of a narrow yard just big enough to hold a horse. A gate at the farther end opened; he bounded into the round yard; Wanna slammed the gate and swung a chain across the posts.
Geary and Bob stood up against the rails, inspecting the horses.
Hugh had his horse-book. A fire was smouldering in a log beside rails of the pound. Branding irons were in the fire. Caught by a running noose in the hide rope Chitali and Mick held a colt against the fence. Warieda, on the other side, passed an iron through to Hugh, who held the brand to the colt’s near shoulder. Wanna swung the gate and the colt galloped back to his dam.
“Cooked him that time, Youie!” Geary yelled jocosely.
Hugh, entering the name and description of the colt, with the number of his mare, in the horse-book, did not speak.
The boys had a chestnut filly ready for him. He jabbed her shoulder with the T7W, numbered her on the neck and entered name and number in his horse-book.
Children from the uloo had come to play in the shade of the brushwood shed. They dashed behind Sam Geary and Bob, limbs gleaming through the torn rags of their garments. Charmi had picked up the horns of a dead bullock and, with it on her head, was rushing the other children. Eddy and scream of the children’s laughter flew out from the shadow of the thatched shed, going all through the breaking and branding.
“He’s a good-looker, Youie,” Geary called as a four-year-old stallion, dark bay, galloped madly round the pound, snorting, stopping to gaze with wild terrified eyes through the barred circle of the yard.
“Not too bad,” Hugh agreed.
Caught by the flying noose of Chitali’s hide rope the horse galloped more madly than ever. Banging against walls of the yard, throwing himself down in the dust, he squealed like a pig. The brand fixed, black on his hide, with tail stuck out, head held stiff and straight up, stepping short and high, he was turned from the pound into the next yard.
All the morning Hugh and the boys were busy branding and gelding. While Bob gave a hand Geary stretched on the ground of the shed watching the horses and children.
“Coonardoo’s kids aren’t they, the two little girls?” he asked.
“Eeh-mm,” Hugh replied, busy with his book.
A filly, flashing and sprightly, dashed into the pound. She rushed round the yard, banging the walls, trying to jump them, scrambling up and falling back, squealing and blowing.
“What’ll we call her, Warieda?” Hughie asked.
“Coonardoo’s mare Thetis grow’m.”
“She did, did she?” Hugh looked up. “Let’s call her Thetis, the second, then … and give her to Coonardoo, from me.”
Warieda grinned.
“Mother’s a darn sight better at names than I am,” Hugh explained to Geary. “I’ll have to read up these Dago goddesses a bit.”
At midday the talk round the dinner-table was all of breaking, branding, and the horses in the yards.
“Wild as hawks, they are right enough, missus,” Geary told Mrs Bessie. “And not much good. I noticed a couple of bumble-foots among them.”
“Drought foals,” Saul Hardy muttered. “They get it gallopin’ when the feed’s scarce. Youie says there’s a few good Hera colts, though.”
“Too right. I liked the filly he gave Coonardoo!”
“Coonardoo?”
“It was to please Warieda …” Hugh looked across at his mother.
Gift of a horse from Sam Geary to a gin, her father, or husband, would mean that he expected her to be sent to his camp, Mrs Bessie knew only too well. She knew, also, nothing of the sort was in Hugh’s mind when he told Warieda that Coonardoo might consider the Thetis filly hers. Hot colour flamed in Hugh’s face as he glared across at Geary. He was young enough to detest Geary’s insinuation. A boy with a swag of ideals, Hughie was still, Mrs Bessie realized.
“Warieda said the filly was out of Coonardoo’s mare, Thetis,” Hugh went on. “And the mare got fairly knocked up while we were out. I reckon —”
“Coonardoo’s fairly earned this filly,” Mrs Bessie broke in. “So do I, Hughie.”
“Well, I reckon you treat your gins pretty well on Wytaliba,” Geary said. “Not long before you’re treatin’ ’em as well as we do on Nuniewarra.”
“Aw, shut-up,” Bob muttered.
He smiled at Jessica vaguely, and she smiled at him sensing something infinitely delicate in his feeling for her isolation among all these strange people.
“Are you going to give me a horse, Hugh?” Jessica asked, in the awkward silence about her.
Geary spluttered.
“Come up to the yards and choose one for yourself this afternoon,” Hugh said.
His glare at Geary held fire. Mrs Bessie caught his eye and held it, her gaze wavered to Jessica. Hugh understood and controlled himself. He was sitting at the head of his own table and recognized what was expected of him.
“I’ll have something to say to you when we’ve finished dinner, Mr Geary,” he said.
Jessica’s gaze passed from one to the other of the men, as if they were talking in a language she did not understand. She glanced at Mrs Bessie, whose eyes lay on Sam Geary, cursing him, if ever a curse lay in grey-blue eyes with a clear and steady stare. Geary, however, looked as if he were thoroughly enjoying himself. His raw pink face glowed; his eyes popped and swam joyously, as he sat there, teasing Mrs Bessie and appreciating Hugh’s discomfiture.
Chitali had a colt in the pound when Mrs Bessie and Jessica went up to the yards, after their afternoon rest. A mad, wild young thing, well made, big in the bone, with short back, deep barrelled, he beat round and round the rails, scarcely visible for dust.
In the yard behind, Warieda and Mick were singling the Thetis filly from a score or so of mares and young horses. Turning this way and that, the mob surged and swayed. Over and over again the filly with swift cunning dashed past the gate into the crush which Wanna held back for her. Then Warieda cut her off; there was only the open crush-gate to make for. Wanna slammed the gate on her dancing quarters, and the filly found herself jammed in the narrow yard before she knew where she was.
Geary, Bob and Hugh were standing talking, out from the stock-yard, as Mrs Bessie and Jessica came up from the house. Hugh opened a gate for them, and they went across to the brushwood shed. Mrs Bessie spread the little camp-stool she liked to sit on while she watched the boys and horses in the yards and Jessica sat on a log beside her.
Chitali had let the young horse in the round yard go until he was blown. Tall and spidery, long legs in blue trousers, grey-blue shirt tucked into his belt, elastic-side boots pulled over the end of his pants, and felt hat tucked under at either side, he approached the horse.
Standing in the centre of the yard, a long pole in his hand, Chitali stretched it out and laid it on the back of the young horse. But away the colt flew as the pole touched him; Chitali swung round and round with the pole and the galloping horse. He rubbed the pole over the horse, up and down, down and up; then he slipped a halter on the end of his pole. As the horse stood trembling and blowing, Chitali rubbed the halter on the end of the pole, over his wet dark back, dropped the halter over the horse’s head, threw the pole round which the rope had been twisted to the ground, and held the colt by a hide rope. Away the wild thing went again.
The Thetis filly was throwing herself about frantically in the crush between the pound and the big yard, although there was not room for her to turn in it.
“Yukki!” Coonardoo called, watching her with the children, from the far side of the big yard. And there was the filly, clambering and scrambling over the high rails of the crush. She raced round the outer yard and was over the six-railed fence like a bird, away and flying across the plains. Warieda and Wanna went after her, taking saddled horses from the outer fence of the stock-yard.
“She’s a bird, not a horse, Coonardoo,” Mrs Bessie called.
“Sooner you handle ’em when they’re wild and gallopin’ the better!” Geary shouted.
Hugh lit his pipe and pulled on it. He had only just taken to a pipe. It comforted and soothed him to smoke; a pipe gave him a sense of age and assurance. He had said his few words to Sam Geary after dinner, and felt better for them.
“See here, Mr Geary” — Hugh had not beaten about the bush at all — “I’ll thank you never to speak again at my mother’s table, and before a girl, as you did today.”
“What are you givin’ us, Youie?” Geary expostulated. “Have I got to mind my bloody p’s and q’s when I open me mouth on Wytaliba these days?”
“Too right you have,” Hugh assented.
“You’re one of these god-damned young heroes. No ‘black velvet’ for you, I suppose?”
“I’m goin’ to marry white and stick white,” Hugh said, obstinate lines settling on either side of his mouth.
Geary laughed.
“Oh, you are, are you?” he jeered. “What do you think of that, Bob? Well, I’ll bet you a new saddle you take a gin before a twelvemonth’s out — if ever you’re in this country on your own.”
From the grey fringe of the mulga Warieda and Mick had turned the filly and were bringing her to the yards.
Jessica left her own log by the fence, and climbed to the top rail of the stock-yard to watch them. Hugh went to stand near her. Through Jessica he intended to keep faith with himself. Beside her he felt safe from Geary’s sneer.
“No stud gins for mine — no matter what happens,” he swore to himself, disturbed and irritated.
Slowly, carefully, with infinite patience and perseverance, in the round yard, Chitali had imposed a bridle on the colt he was breaking. The colt, moving restlessly, shifted the saddle, bucked it off. But at last Chitali had crupper and saddle in position; girth and surcingle were fastened. He crawled over the horse. Wanna opened the gate. Horse and rider dashed into the big yard. Up and down it the colt went, slewing, rooting, pig-jumping, while Chitali sitting back, grinned complacently. Anticipating every move, swerve and dive, he rode until the horse stood in his tracks.
“How do you like it?” Hugh asked Jessica.
“Oh, it’s fascinating, isn’t it, Hugh?” she cried breathlessly. “But I’m scared to death. Are you sure he won’t get hurt?”
“Chitali?” Hugh laughed. “This is child’s play to him. He’s broken more horses than any man on Wytaliba; but Warieda’s better than he is, really. How would you like this horse?”
“I’d love him!” Jessica gasped. “But I’d never dare to ride him.”
“He’s called Nessus,” Hugh said, “and he’s yours. Chitali’ll handle him until he’s fit for you to ride. We brought in old Hera yesterday. Coonardoo says she’s as good as gold yet; can be trusted to behave herself. What about going for a ride tomorrow?”
“Oh, Hugh.” Jessica hesitated. “I’d love to! But you know I’m terrified of your horses up here.”
“You’ll soon get over that.” Hugh was watching Chitali through the rails.
“You got him where you want him now, Chitali,” he called. “Of course, we ought to mouth ’em a bit first,” he added to Jessica. “Let a young horse stand with roller and ticklers for a day or so before he’s ridden. The boys are just showing you what they can do.”
Chitali dug heels into the colt’s sides, let him play about, kick and screw till he was tired, then rode him into the yard and let him go there, to chew over his bit. Taking a pipe from his belt, Chitali lit up, and swung over towards the round yard into which Warieda had turned the Thetis filly.
Pressed against the fence, near the killing yard and the gallows, Coonardoo too was waiting to see Warieda handle the bright bay filly with jetty mane, tail and socks. The boys had told her Hugh said the Thetis cooboo was to be hers. In her dark-blue gina-gina, eyes wide and radiant, Coonardoo watched the filly bend nearly double racing round the pound, beating the earth into a haze. Twice the filly tried to climb the fence, and the third time, scrambling and clambering, over she went, alighting on the far side; but the boys had her before she could fly the fence of the outer yard, and turned her back into the crush and the pound again. How everybody laughed and exclaimed! It had been done before, but not many horses contrived to scale the high rails of Wytaliba pound.
In the centre of the yard Warieda stood watching, as the filly dashed round and round, becoming giddy fell in the dust, picked herself up and went on again. Gradually her pace slackened. As if she had got used to sight of the man, standing there in his blue trousers, striped shirt and old grey felt hat, the little mare stood off from him, blowing and snorting, dripping sweat, wild-eyed and apprehensive.
Warieda held himself quite still, waiting and watching her. He spoke quietly, moved towards her. The filly shied and fled from him; but again and again Warieda went through the same movements, uttered the same word.
At last, arresting, magnetic, with a greeting, like a brumby boss, head thrown back, eyes challenging the wild bright eyes before him, his own as wild and bright, Warieda went up to the horse, his arm, the dark sinewy arm of a black that was like the branch of a tree, stretched out before him. Imperious, irresistible, he approached, something swaggering, gallant, of a triumphant lover, in his attitude. His hand going straight to brain communicated the spell of the man, in language of the flesh, an old forgotten flow of instincts. Warieda was nearer to the horse than any of the white men about him. Handsome, aboriginal as he was, that was perhaps the secret of his power.
Warieda’s hand reached the forehead under the forelock of silky black hair. The filly quivered and broke away; but came up again when Warieda held out his arm with thin fine fingers stretched. Talking quietly, Warieda moved closer to the horse. Gently, every gesture slow, restrained, he rubbed her between the eyes, under the forelock, along the nose; the little mare snuffled the dark hand, so caressing, reassuring, sleeking and rubbing her. It passed over and over her thick-haired pelt which had known no touch but the wind’s, or a leafy branch, on the hills.
With her sensitive nose the filly sniffed Warieda; nostrils, flaring scarlet butterflies, went over the man; her lower lip quivered.
And Warieda talked murmurously.
“Wiah! Wiah! Menoo, yienda Thetis cooboo!”
Rails of the stock-yard were hard and dark against the light-blue fall of the sky, as Warieda stood there talking to the horse, caressing and rubbing her, while she quivered to him, her tail stuck out, the long tail of a wild two-year-old.
“It’s a miracle,” Sam Geary said. “I never seen anything like Warieda’s horse-breakin’ in all me born days, and I seen Jim Penny and some of the best of them.”
“Warieda was Jim’s boy for years,” Mrs Bessie said, “and learnt all he knows of horse-breaking from him.”
The filly and Warieda stood caressing, embraced. He put his arm over her head: she seemed content to stand smelling him.
“If anybody told me that could happen to a horse, jumpin’ the stock-yard rails half an hour ago, I’d have said he was a liar, a bloody liar,” Sam remarked cheerfully.
After the bridle was on, carefully, steadily, Warieda lowered a saddle across the mare’s back. She shivered, and shied the saddle off. Fled, but returned as Warieda called: came up to him again.
She threw the saddle, and again and again, with infinite patience, Warieda went over each gesture and movement, fondling and rubbing her, until the saddle sat forgotten on her back. Catching the swinging end of the girth with a piece of hooked wire lying on the ground and holding the filly by one ear, he tightened the girth and surcingle; then adjusted the crupper. The filly jumped and kicked. Warieda fell to miss her swift-flung heels, as she dashed bucking and rooting round the pound.
“She’ll deal you a full hand, Warieda,” Hugh exclaimed.
Warieda smiled.
“A Thetis filly all right, eh, Coonardoo?” Mrs Bessie called.
Coonardoo smiled at her, the slow, equable smile of her pride and happiness.
“Thetis was by Ironstone. You remember the big bay Ted got off Britte-Britte?” Mrs Bessie said to Geary.
“Remember?” Geary growled. “Didn’t Ted lend him to me once, the brute. He’d go for a bit and start buckin’ again.”
“Had a horse once, bucked for a mile,” Bob said. “It was when I was on Illigoogee. He’d begin with a flyin’ root and a couple of high bucks … and go on buckin’ and rootin’ in a circle. Knocked himself up buckin’. Did in his fetlock and had to be left out on the run.”
“Go on?” Hugh’s eyes were on the yard where Warieda had left the Thetis filly against a fence to chew over her bit, and get used to the feeling of girth and crupper before he rode her.
Nobody believed Bob’s yarn, or took much notice of it. It passed for one of Bob’s lies and fell flat. Bob looked apologetically towards Jessica and seemed to shrink a little. He knew he was lying and that everybody else knew he was lying. But Jessica — he hoped she did not think so. It was for her he had told the story; to loom a little in her eyes.
Mrs Bessie got up, shaking her white skirt, folded up the stool she had been sitting on while she watched horses and men through the rails.
“Oh, well,” she said, “I’d sooner watch Warieda horse-breaking than do anything I know.”