A SMALL TRUCK, patched with rust and carrying a stock crate, rolled over the open grassland towards the three riders. A man got out and sprang onto the back of the truck. As it drove alongside the mare, he reached over and slung another heavy coiled rope around her neck, pulling it tight until her face was pressed against the side of the tray.
The truck stopped while he reached for her tail. He grabbed it and pulled it in, so hard that the mare was nearly torn from her feet. She struggled and kicked, but the half-hitched knots around her throat and tail only tightened, bending her body into an arc.
Jess watched in horror as the foal was roped with a slipknot around its neck and then hooked to a small motorised device at the back of the crate. There was a grating noise as the winch slowly dragged the struggling foal to the opening of the crate.
There was no ramp or step. The foal was dragged by the throat off the ground, its stalky legs paddling wildly, knocking against the metal corners of the crate and banging against the doorway. Its body was dragged across the tray. A man jumped in after it and knelt on its neck while he loosened the rope. Jess could see its body heaving to get air back into its lungs.
The man lashed the rope around the side of the cage before allowing the foal to struggle to its feet. Then he pulled it to the side of the cage and tied it there. The man hopped out, slammed the cage doors and sat on the back of the truck with his feet dangling. The vehicle rolled slowly across the grassy hollow with the mare scrambling awkwardly alongside, the riders trotting their horses along behind it.
Jess sank to the ground, too dispirited to see another vehicle rumble out of the forest, flanked by several more riders and a huge black wolf dog.
The frenzied barking and yelling that ensued snapped her out of her hopelessness.
‘Mrs Arnold!’ Jess watched her step out of the fourbie. Another, newer four-wheel drive appeared from the forest behind it. Two men stepped out in full police uniform. ‘Barker!’ Jess ran to them. Among the riders she could see Kitty and Steve, and some other locals from the pub.
Luke was off his horse, struggling to hold onto Fang. The big dog’s hackles stood on end and he fought so hard to get free, Jess was sure that he’d kill someone if Luke let go. The runners’ dogs, propped on all fours, howled back.
‘Hey!’ Jess broke into a run. ‘Guys!’
There was a sharp whistle and the blue dogs suddenly sprinted away. The runners wheeled their horses around and spurred them on, fleeing to the cover of the forest. The runners’ truck lurched suddenly to one side, taking the mare’s feet out from under her as it revved loudly into a U-turn. The mare scrambled desperately to regain a foothold.
‘Cut her loose!’ Jess heard the driver yell. The man on the back crawled across the tray and began furiously sawing at her ropes. He freed her tail first, then cut the neck rope. The truck bumped over the ground faster and faster. The mare toppled over, landing heavily on her side, her legs flailing.
On the truck the foal screamed for its mother. The cage doors were flung open and it tumbled to the ground, flipping end over end in a tangle of limbs.
‘You low-life pigs,’ Jess yelled as she ran.
With a flying leap, Luke sprang into the saddle. He kicked Legsy into a gallop, not stopping for stirrups. Fang raced alongside him. Kitty and Steve followed and they disappeared into the forest amid a drumming of hoofbeats and echoing yells. Barker’s car bumped wildly over the grassy flat, going after the runners’ truck.
Mrs Arnold beat Jess to the mare and held a hand up, telling Jess to stop. She crouched down beside the mare’s body. It didn’t move. Not an ear twitched. The rise and fall of the horse’s sides was the only clue that there was still life inside her. Mrs Arnold waved Jess over.
‘Look through my car and see if you can find any sort of wound spray,’ she said. ‘And get that purple bedspread too.’
‘Did you steal the bedspread again?’
‘They’re handy things, haven’t you worked that out yet?’ Mrs Arnold hissed back. ‘Go. Go. Before she tries to get up!’
Jess raced to the car, where Grace held Dodger.
‘Is she going to die?’ asked Grace.
‘I don’t know. She’s completely shut down. Your mum asked for wound spray.’ Jess paused to run her eyes over Dodger, leg by leg, shoulder, hips, neck, face . . .
‘He pulled a shoe,’ said Grace quickly. ‘But otherwise he’s fine. Try in the glovebox.’
Jess flung open the glovebox and began unceremoniously tossing out papers and plastic crap. ‘Antiseptic cream! Perfect!’
‘The foal is over there, behind the trees,’ said Grace. ‘It was limping.’
‘Okay, good. Don’t lose sight of it.’
Mrs Arnold had two hands on the mare’s neck. ‘You hold her neck firmly down, you hear me? Do not let her lift her head or she’ll kick mine off my shoulders.’ She eyeballed Jess. ‘Got it?’
Jess placed her hands on the mare’s neck and lightly rested one knee on her as well, just in case. Mrs Arnold took the cream and began smearing it all over the cuts on the mare’s tail and over the wounds on her neck. When she had finished, she took the purple chenille and began rolling it up into a long floppy sausage. She slid it under the mare’s neck.
‘Help me pull her up,’ said Mrs Arnold, handing Jess one end.
Together they pulled and pulled until the mare lifted her head.
‘Come on, old girl. Get up or the dingos will get you.’ Mrs Arnold heaved again. ‘Come on, darlin’.’
The mare put one leg out in front of her.
‘Good girl. Let her rest a minute.’
Jess stood quietly next to Mrs Arnold, waiting.
The mare rolled back onto the ground and groaned.
‘No, no you don’t!’ Mrs Arnold began pulling again, harder this time. ‘You have to get up,’ she said angrily. She kicked at the mare with her boot and yelled at her. ‘Gwan, get up!’ She yanked mercilessly at the bedspread.
From the trees the foal gave a frightened whinny. With a final surge of effort, the mare struggled to her feet and Jess and Mrs Arnold jumped back. She stood on shaky legs, looking dazed. She had skin off all over.
Mrs Arnold cursed under her breath. ‘Sweet Jesus, what have they done to you?’
‘We need Rambo,’ said Jess. ‘He’ll take care of her.’ She took off for the rock platform, bounding through the swampy grasses, her boots squelching and sucking at the mud.
At the platform she leaned over into the gully below and called as loud as she could.
‘Rambo!’
‘Rambo!’
‘RAMBO!’
She didn’t know how many times she screamed his name.
While they waited, they ushered the mare to the shelter of some trees and let her be. They shut themselves in the car and watched for the foal to come to her. She gave one small nicker and her baby emerged and began suckling from her, butting and nuzzling anxiously.
‘There you go, you little squirt,’ said Grace, watching through the back window of the car.
It seemed hours before the big old horse came clumping out of the grey gums. He did little, but stood close by, keeping an ear turned towards the mare and her foal.
‘She’s just so exhausted,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘Rambo will take care of her until she’s rested up.’
‘Wish I could give her a bucket of water,’ said Jess.
‘She wouldn’t take it.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Rambo lifted his head and the foal started anxiously rubbing up against his mother again.
Luke rode out of the trees with Kitty and Steve alongside. Something about the way they sat in their saddles told Jess they’d been triumphant.
‘Barker’s got the truck driver and his sidekick in handcuffs,’ Luke said as he pulled Legsy to a stop. ‘The riders got away, though. They rode like maniacs.’
‘You did the right thing pulling up. Not worth wrecking your good horse,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘They’ll keep.’
They gathered by Mrs Arnold’s car as Barker’s white fourbie rolled up the hillside and onto the grassy flat. As it went past, Jess could see the two men in the back, with their hands cuffed. They weren’t the runners they had met the day before.
‘What, is there some sort of national brumby-running convention on up here or something?’ Mrs Arnold stared in through the car window. ‘How many of you grubs are there?’
The men snarled and said nothing.
Barker winked and kept driving. Mrs Arnold began slowly clapping as they drove off. Grace joined her and together they cheered and waved to the brumby-runners as they were escorted off the mountain.
‘I hope that’s the last we see of them,’ said Luke.
‘Scum,’ muttered Jess, as they disappeared from sight.