It was mid-afternoon when I broke free.
The men had pushed us hard all day. It was dry country, the grass burnt by summer’s heat. Most of the mares plodded, their hides dusty. I took my usual place behind the others, watching for danger.
But danger was all around us. The men, with their whips, and their horses who did their bidding, instead of running free as we had done.
At last we came to a stream, dry like the others, except for a few small holes that smelt of wallaby and possum. I watched the men stretch their white stuff between the trees to stop us getting away. They no longer used brush fencing now we were so used to staying all together.
Most horses follow each other. That is why each mob has a boss mare, who leads the way. That’s why each mob has a king, like me.
A horse who will fight to get away.
This was my chance. If I could get over that white barrier I might get free. And where I led, perhaps the rest would follow…
I eyed the barrier. No, I couldn’t leap over it—there was no room to jump properly with all the other horses around. But now I looked at it more closely the white stuff looked as fragile as a thorn-bush branch. I could push through branches. Why not through this? Why had I never looked properly at it before?
Because I had been scared and shocked. Because I too had followed the others, assuming we couldn’t get away.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Could I do it? I pawed the ground, tossed my head and snorted, and started trotting around the enclosure. The other horses shifted uneasily.
I neighed a warning to White Foot and the others. My own mob looked up, preparing to follow my lead. Even some of the others saw me as their King now. I broke into a canter, did a twisting buck, then turned and galloped from the end of our enclosure toward the barrier.
Nearer…nearer…my chest met the white stuff. It snapped.
I was free!
I felt like trumpeting in triumph but there was no time. I had to get clear before the men could catch me on their horses! Behind me I could hear others following. I slowed to let them pass. Not as many as I’d hoped. But there went White Foot, still leading the way, and her half-grown foal too. There went my other mares…
The men on horses were busy lashing at the others to keep them back, and tying up the white stuff again. I wished the others had the courage to follow me, but I couldn’t mourn them now, or even call them to follow. Two of the men began to ride in my direction, their whips lashing through the air. One had long grey whiskers, and one a red beard.
A whip stung my hindquarters. I galloped after the others, trusting White Foot to find the clearest way. Once again we had the advantage, for the horses following us had men on their backs. They would tire before we did.
Our hoofs thundered on the heat-hard ground. Dust rose about us, dirt and powdered grass. A bang ripped the air behind me. It smelt like lightning.
I heard a yell behind me. ‘Aim for the horse in front!’
Another bang. White Foot fell. Blood gushed from her side. A hole had opened there. Why? How? For a second she struggled to get up, then her eyes glazed, and she lay still.
Her foal screamed in terror. It skittered around her, showing the whites of its eyes. The other horses halted.
The bang came again. Another horse shuddered to the ground. She writhed in the dust, trying frantically to run again, then lay back, panting, as her blood welled.
I cantered around the fallen horses, tossing my head. The men and their mounts circled us, whips lashing. The man with grey whiskers yelled, ‘I’ll shoot the big white one! He’s the ringleader!’ He pointed something long and thin at me.
‘No!’ The man with the red beard reined his horse in next to Grey Whiskers, and pushed the long thing away. ‘He’s magnificent! He’ll fetch a hundred pounds at least.’
‘If you can break him.’
Red Beard showed his teeth. ‘I can break any horse.’
I cantered around White Foot, trembling and snorting, smelling her blood. I could protect her from dingoes, from native cats; I could scare eagles away from her foals. But now I didn’t even know how she had been hurt.
I knew who had done it though. It was men.
I reared. I hated them. I hated every man. I hadn’t hated Highest. That had been an honourable fight, horse to horse. Whatever had happened here had no honour. It was bad.
Around me the other horses milled, whinnying and wondering what to do.
But I couldn’t lead them now.
White Foot was dead because I had tried to lead us all to freedom.