essentialmodernclassics

The Silver Brumby
ELYNE MITCHELL

ILLUSTRATED BY RALPH THOMPSON

DEDICATION

This book was written for Indi who loves horses

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

1. Born in the Wild Wind

2. Yarraman’s Herd

3. Leading the Foals a Dance

4. Brumby Drive

5. Man, the Invader

6. Invisible in Snow

7. Seeking Grass

8. New Wisdom

9. Fight to the Death

10. Man on a Black Horse

11. A Time to Race with the Wind

12. The Coming of Spring

13. Legends of Thowra

14. Swift Arrow

15. Golden the Beautiful

16. Challenge and Escape

17. Thowra in Flight

18. Horse Hunt: Man Hunt

19. Now Golden was the Prize

20. Thowra Searched All Day

21. King of the Cascades

22. Black Man: Shod Horse

23. The Leap from the Cliff

Glossary

Postscript

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One BORN IN THE WILD WIND

ONCE THERE WAS a dark, stormy night in spring, when, deep down in their holes, the wombats knew not to come out, when the possums stayed quiet in their hollow limbs, when the great black flying phallangers that live in the mountain forests never stirred. On this night, Bel Bel, the cream brumby mare, gave birth to a colt foal, pale like herself, or paler, in that wild, black storm.

Bel Bel had chosen the birthplace of the foal wisely. He was on springy snowgrass under a great overhang of granite that sheltered them from the driving rain. There he lay, only a pale bundle in the black dark, while Bel Bel licked him clean and nuzzled him. The wind roared and howled through the granite tors above in the Ramshead Range, where the snow still lay, but there was no single sound of animal or bird except the mournful howl of a dingo – once, twice, it rang out and its echo answered, weird and wild.

Bel Bel lifted her head at the sound, and her nostrils dilated. From the shadowy mass between her forefeet came a faint nickering cry and she nuzzled him again. She was very alone with her newborn foal, and far from her own herd, but that was how she had felt it must be. Perhaps because of her colour, so much more difficult to hide than bay, or brown, black, or grey or chestnut, she had always led a hunted life, and when a foal was going to be born she was very nervous and hid herself far away. Of the three foals she had had, this was the only one creamy, like herself.

Bel Bel felt a surge of pride, but the pride was followed by fear. Her son would be hunted as she was and as her own cream mother had been before her – hunted by man, since they were so strange-looking in the wild herds. And this colt would have another enemy too, every stallion would be doubly against him because of his colour.

The wind roared and the rain was cold, so cold, as if it would turn to snow. Even with the shelter of the rock, the storm was beating down on them, the moving darkness was becoming a thing of terror. The howl of the dingo came again. Bel Bel nosed the tiny colt to get up.

He heaved up his head, stuck his long forelegs out in front of him, and gave a little snort of fear. Bel Bel pushed him up till he stood, his feet far apart, long legs trembling; then she nosed him, wobbling, bending, step by step to the sandy mouth of a cave, and there, just out of the rain, she let him tumble down again.

Soon it would be time to make him drink, but for the moment, out of the wild storm, he could rest. Dawn must come soon, and in this storm there would be no men abroad to see a cream brumby mare lead her newborn foal through the snowgums to where there would be grass for her to eat and longed-for water to drink. Bel Bel really knew that there would be very few men in the mountains till all the snow had gone and they came driving their herds of red-and-white cattle, but the fear of Man was never far from her thoughts.

Dawn came very slowly, showing first the dark outline of the cave mouth against a faintly lighter sky, then, on the hillside below them, reaching long fingers of forest right up to the rocks, the wind-tormented heads of snowgums, driven and lashing as though they must tear themselves up by the roots. The rain had stopped.

Great massing clouds kept racing up over the mountains, but, as the light grew strong, the sky began to look as if it was being torn in shreds by the wind. Flying streamers of rain-washed blue sky appeared and Bel Bel, feeling very hungry herself, decided it was time the foal should drink and that the day would be fair enough for a newborn colt to go with his mother to some better pastures.

“I will call you Thowra,” she said, waking him with her nose, “because that means wind. In wind were you born, and fleet as the wind must you be if you will live.”

On that first day, while the storm blew itself out, Bel Bel did not take Thowra far, only down through the snowgums to a long glade that led to a heather-banked creek where she could drink. That night they went back to the opening of the cave and the foal slept on the dry sand curled up against his mother’s flank.

The next day she decided to take him farther, to a wide, open field in the snowgum forest, where the grass grew very sweetly, even as early in the spring as this, and where the creek ran shallow over a sand and mica bottom.

The storm had died in the night and there was warm spring sunshine. Bel Bel noticed with pride how the foal trotted more strongly by her side. She did not hurry him, often stopping to graze as they moved under the snowgums or in the long glades. She never left the shelter of the trees without first pausing and looking carefully into the open country ahead. Thus it was through a curtain of the leathery snowgum leaves that she looked out on to the wide, sunny field, and saw a bay brumby grazing in the distance by the creek.

Bel Bel became completely still, watching: then she recognised the bay as a mare of her own herd, Mirri, who had been caught by a stockman as a yearling, and managed to get free. Mirri, for this reason, was very nervous of men, and she and Bel Bel had often run together, away from the herd, when they thought the others were too close to the stockmen’s huts.

Now Bel Bel made out a dark shape on the ground near Mirri and knew that the bay mare, too, had her foal. Unafraid, she led Thowra out to join them.

When Mirri saw them coming she gave a whinny of greeting, and Bel Bel arched her neck a little and stepped proudly beside her creamy son, thinking how his mane and tail were silver and would someday look like spray from a waterfall as he galloped.

Mirri was pleased to see her.

“Well met, Bel Bel,” she said, “and what a fine foal you have – creamy too! I must stir my sleepy-head to show him off!” And she nosed the bright bay at her feet.

The bay raised his head sleepily, but, seeing strangers, he became wide awake and struggled to his feet.

“A fine intelligent head,” Bel Bel said. “What do you call him?”

“Storm,” Mirri answered. “He was born in the worst of the weather, two nights ago. And yours?”

“Thowra, for the wind. He was born then too. They will be great mates for a year or so,” and both mothers nodded wisely, for was it not the way of the wild horses that the young colts should run together, after they left their dams, until they had reached the age and strength to fight for a mare or two of their own and start their own herd.

Storm and Thowra sniffed at each other curiously and then both turned back to their mothers for a drink.

Sunny spring days came, day after day, and the grass grew fresh, and green, and sweet. The two mares stayed in Snowgrass Plain, eating, basking in the sun, drinking the cold, clear water, growing strong and sleek after the hard winter, and giving their foals plenty of milk. The foals grew strong too, and romped and galloped, and rolled in the sun.

Soon they learned to recognise the great wedge-tail eagles floating in the blue arch of sky above them, knew the call of kurrawongs, and were unafraid of the friendly grey kangaroos or little brown wallabies.

The two foals were equal in strength and size, and when they were able to follow their mothers for quite a long distance, Bel Bel and Mirri, who had become restless to rejoin the herd, started moving off to the south.

For an hour or so they travelled across the ridge tops, in the fringe of the snowgums, and by mid-morning they came out on an immense open hillside, which was half of a great basin in the hills. Bel Bel and Mirri checked the foals at the edge of the tree line.

“Never run out into clear country without first taking a very good look,” they warned.

The foals could see nothing except steep snowgrass and rocks dropping down, down beyond their sight, and away over opposite, a rough, timbered hillside.

“That’s where we will spend some of the summer,” Bel Bel said. “It is too rough for the men and their cattle, but we get a good picking there.”

Neither Thowra nor Storm knew what she meant.

“Down there,” said Mirri, “is the Crackenback River. A nice, cool stream to drink at on hot days, and good sandy beaches, in places, for young ones to roll on.”

They moved out on to the clear hillside, but never went far from the shelter of the trees. Thowra and Storm were too pleasantly tired to want to play and soon dropped to sleep in the sunshine. Bel Bel and Mirri grazed contentedly, a little distance off. All was quiet. There was the far-off sound of the river, running full and strong with water from the melted snows, and the sound of kurrawongs, but otherwise a profound silence. Even the mares had grown sleepy, when all of a sudden there was a shrill whinny of fear from Thowra.

Bel Bel whipped round in time to see Thowra and Storm leaping up from their sleep, and there, grabbing at Thowra as he leapt, was a man. She neighed, calling her foal to come quickly, and started galloping towards them, ready to strike at the man. The foals, with long legs flailing, were racing towards her, wild with fear.

She heard Mirri scream with rage behind her. Then the man turned and ran into the trees.

The mares stopped in their headlong chase to snuff their trembling foals all over and make sure they were unhurt.

Bel Bel was all for chasing the man.

“He was no stockman, he had no rope or whip,” she said.

“No,” answered Mirri, “but even a man alone, walking through the mountains, sometimes has a gun. No, we will thankfully take our foals and go.” She turned to Storm. “See, my son, that was a man. Never go near Man, nor his huts, nor his yards where he fences in cattle and his own tame horse. Man will hurt you and capture you; put straps of leather rope upon your head, tie you up, fence you in, beat you if you bite or kick…” She was sweating with fear as she spoke, and the two foals’ trembling increased.

“And you, Thowra,” said Bel Bel, “I told you you would have to be as fleet as the wind. For your creamy coat and your silver mane and tail they will hunt you, so that they may ride astride your back over your own mountains. Beware of Man!”

Still sweating with fear, the two mares led their foals away, slipping like wraiths between the trees, trotting steeply down, trotting, trotting.

After quite a long way they were getting near the head of the stream. Here the mares went more slowly, stopping to sniff the air.

“It is from this hut he must have come, but he is not back yet,” Bel Bel said.

“There may be others.” Mirri’s nostrils were quivering.

“I can smell no fresh smoke.”

“But, still, let us drop much lower down and cross the stream there, rather than follow the track near the hut.”

Bel Bel rubbed one ear on a foreleg.

“The foals are very tired,” she said. “We had better spend the night near water. A drink for us will make more milk for them too.”

They slept that evening well below the head of the Crackenback, with the singing stream beside them, but occasionally when the north wind blew, the two mares would wrinkle their nostrils and mutter between their teeth, “Smoke!” So when the moon rose, they nosed the foals up on their tired legs and started the long climb up the Dead Horse Ridge. Once up on top, they could afford to rest again, but it took the poor foals hours to climb it, and when they found a soak of water to drink, just beyond the top, the mares let the little ones drop down on the soft ground and sleep undisturbed till daybreak.

From there on the travelling was easy, and Bel Bel and Mirri were not so anxious. They were a long way from the hut, and getting very close to the wild horses’ winter and spring grazing grounds where, until the snows had all gone, they were never bothered by men.

There had been a time once, years and years ago, when four people had come whizzing down the snow-covered ridges with great wooden boards on their feet, and one of them had a lasso and had roped a bay colt; but they had been laughing, laughing – mad, in fact – for all they wanted was to cut off some of his tail to wear plaited and pinned on their coats. This was a legend among the wild horses, a tale every foal heard… but it had happened a long time ago, and Man was not expected in the Cascades until the herds of cattle came for summer grazing.

It was evening when the four of them looked down into a narrow valley off the Cascades, and saw their own herd grazing. Just then the great golden chestnut stallion, leader of the herd, raised his head and saw them and let out a shrill trumpeting cry of greeting.

The two mares neighed in reply and started trotting down the long slope, followed by their nervous foals.

Chapter Two YARRAMAN’S HERD

THOWRA AND STORM were both really frightened by the excitement of the great stallion, their father, and the curiosity of the other mares and foals.

One huge chestnut foal sniffed at Thowra and then gave him a sharp, unpleasant bite on the wither. Thowra dodged behind Bel Bel who promptly laid her ears back and chased the foal away. A small, mean-looking brown mare came prancing up and bared her teeth at Bel Bel.

“That’s my foal, Bel Bel,” she snarled.

“Should have thought as much,” Bel Bel said. “There’s nothing in your looks that a foal could take after, so it had to be the image of its father.” But when the brown mare had moved off and left them, she said to Thowra: “Watch that foal, son. It may only be as much as a week older than you, but it’s much bigger, and, though it’s got its father’s looks, it has inherited its mother’s mean spirit.”

“What’s more,” said Mirri, “Brownie will be trying to queen it over everyone just because she has produced a foal so like Yarraman.” Then she called out loudly to Brownie, “What have you named your colt?”

“Arrow,” came the answer.

Though the weeks that followed were peaceful for the herd, they were not really peaceful for Thowra and Storm. Arrow seemed to hold it against them that they had been born far off below the Ramshead Range, farther and higher than he had ever been. Whenever Bel Bel and Mirri moved off grazing, or the foals galloped away from their mothers, Arrow would appear slyly beside them, giving a quick bite, or kicking as he galloped past. The other foals were mostly afraid of him, too, but apt to follow his lead – when they could be bothered. Fortunately for Thowra and Storm they could not often be bothered, it was so much pleasanter to gallop and prance on the soft grass, or to splash in the ice- cold creek, watching the golden spray fly up.

Bel Bel and Mirri knew that Arrow was bossing all the foals, that he was being particularly spiteful towards Thowra and Storm. They kept an eye on any rough games, but realised that the foals must learn to take care of themselves too.

The days, to the foals, were almost all the same. They drank the good milk from their mothers, slept in the sun, and played. They learned to stand with forelegs far apart so that they could stretch down and nibble the sweet snowgrass. They learnt other things, too. Bel Bel and Mirri taught them to recognise the track of a dingo, whose cry they heard through the darkness of the night, to tell the wombat paths through the damp bush, and the narrow trail of the Evil One, the snake, over sand; they taught them, too, to recognise the hoofmarks and scent of each member of their herd, and to tell when strange horses came close.

Several other herds of brumbies grazed in the Cascades. They saw one quite large herd one day when Bel Bel and Mirri felt they must wander and took the foals up Salt Yard Hill at the head of the huge Cascades Valley. Thowra became very excited over their tracks, and proud of himself for recognizing them as strangers. He became prouder still when Bel Bel and Mirri showed great interest in one particular set of hoofmarks, one particular scent.

“That’s The Brolga,” they muttered, and blew through their nostrils with excitement. “And he’s got quite a big herd.”

“Who’s The Brolga?” the foals both asked.

“He is a young grey stallion, for he will beat Yarraman when he attains his full strength.”

Thowra and Storm had learnt enough by now to know that this would be a terrific fight, and they wandered up on the grassy hill dreaming of perhaps seeing the great Brolga and his herd.

The restless mares grazed their way on to the southernmost flank of the hill and there, below, on a flat valley floor, were The Brolga and his mares and foals.

Storm started to whinny with excitement, but Mirri gave him a swift nip on the shoulder.

“Be quiet, silly fellow,” she said. “They might not be pleased to see us.”

Thowra was trembling.

“See,” said Bel Bel, “three grey filly foals.”

“Come on,” Mirri nudged Storm, “we’d better get back the other way.”

The sun was lovely and warm, and it was good to be up above the valley looking down on all the familiar country with its gleaming creeks that ran on down till they joined together and rushed over the rocky rapids. These rapids were the start of the huge waterfall that tumbled down, and down, and down, how far, no brumby knew.

That day there was a particularly shining look to all the snowgums, as if the sunlight was dripping off their leaves. The four looked around with satisfaction, grazed back across the face of the hill, slept for a while in the sun, and then started wandering back towards their own herd.

Bel Bel looked behind her several times, as was her usual habit, and just as evening was drawing on, she saw something which made her heart jolt inside her. Nose down to their tracks, following a long way behind, was The Brolga with several other horses – young colts and dry mares, she guessed.

“We’d better run for it, Mirri, as fast as the foals can go,” she said. “Look behind!”

Mirri looked back over her shoulder and snorted quite quietly, but her ears flickered back and forth. “You two should know your way back to the herd,” she said sharply to Storm. “Bel Bel and I will just plod along and keep The Brolga thinking.”

“It would be better to keep together,” said Bel Bel, knowing that even in the dusk her foal would show up clearly. “Come quickly.”

She led off at a hard gallop with the foals following and Mirri bringing up the rear. She knew that The Brolga and his companions would hear them as soon as they started to gallop, but there was a good chance that, despite the slow foals, their lead on The Brolga would allow them to reach their own herd before he caught up with them.

“Hurry,” she called back over her shoulder. “Hurry!” And though she could hear no sound except their own hoofbeats, she caught a glimpse of galloping horses way behind.

They galloped on and on and she could hear the foals beside her blowing. Then she led them splashing through the creek and swung round some rocks and up into the narrow valley where Yarraman’s herd had spent each night for some time now. There, she raised her head and let out a high-pitched neigh for help, urging the foals on.

In the gloom near the top of the valley she saw Yarraman, head up, light golden mane and tail foaming, trotting along, looking enquiringly down the valley. She called again and he and some of the herd behind him started to gallop.

From behind her she heard the wild scream of a stallion. She looked back again. The Brolga was standing at the turn into the valley, one foot raised, his head thrown up as he called.

Bel Bel whistled through her teeth. Now what was going to happen? She slowed up. The foals need not gallop so fast. The Brolga would forget all about everyone except Yarraman.

Yarraman began to gallop in earnest. He went thundering past them down the valley, golden mane and tail streaming out on the wind that was made by his own speed. The two mares stopped and turned round to watch. The Brolga was advancing up the valley, rearing and screaming. Bel Bel looked at Thowra, who was giving little whinnies of fear, his eyes and nostrils dilated.

“Oh, well, he must learn what fighting is like,” she thought, “because he, too, will have to fight.”

As he drew close to The Brolga, Yarraman stopped in his headlong gallop and pawed the ground, screaming. Then the two horses advanced, rearing and trumpeting until they were within striking distance of each other and could aim wicked blows with their forefeet.

Even in the half-light into which, being grey, The Brolga seemed to fade, the other horses could see how much less heavy and less developed he was than Yarraman. They all knew, too, that in years of fighting, Yarraman had learnt every trick. Perhaps, they thought, he will not consider it right or worth his while to kill or maim a much younger horse, and will only punish him for following some of his herd.

The screaming was tremendous. All that could be seen were the two horses, on their hind legs, one a streak of chestnut, pale in the pale light, the other a fainter streak of grey in the gloom, sometimes locked together, biting, striking. Occasionally they broke apart, dropped to the ground and danced around to get in a good position to kick. Yarraman tried not to let The Brolga break away too often because the light, younger horse was more nimble on his feet and he had already managed to give one very savage kick.

All the watching horses were trembling and sweating with fear and excitement. Those from The Brolga’s herd had drawn a little down the valley. Sometimes their neighs could be heard above the noise of the two stallions.

“Listen! They are calling the foolish one away,” said Bel Bel, and added softly, “it grows dark.”

Soon they could barely see the two horses.

“See! They are backing off, looking at each other,” Mirri murmured. “It is too dark, and Yarraman has punished him enough.”

Bel Bel could just distinguish the grey shadow of The Brolga, risen on his hind legs again, but backing down the valley. Then it was night.

Yarraman, snorting, whinnying, and tossing his fine head, a dark stain of blood on his shoulder and neck, came trotting up the valley.

Chapter Three LEADING THE FOALS A DANCE

NOT LONG AFTER this, when the weather was becoming much warmer, Yarraman suddenly led his herd off, away from the Cascades towards the rough range that the mares had pointed out to the foals on the other side of the Crackenback River. When they got there, there was a whole new world to be discovered – not the wide valleys and spacious grassland of the Cascades, with large snowgums and sometimes candlebarks, but rough, rocky ridges and stunted trees, tiny threads of streams, and hidden pockets of snowgrass.

The foals enjoyed it. They played hide-and-seek in among the rocky tors and challenged each other to races down the steep hillsides where the stones broke away from under their hooves and went clattering down, down, even faster than they could go. Best of all were the bathing parties in the Crackenback, when the days grew really hot, and they could splash and blow bubbles in the water where it ran over the cool, brown stones and the shining mica; and then they would chase each other and roll in the sand.

The foals were two months old, and Mirri and Bel Bel had lost no opportunity of teaching them their way around the new country. None of the other mares wandered so far off on their own and, when it came to a really good game of hide-and-seek, none of the other foals knew the country as well as Thowra and Storm did.

Brownie was a lazy mare. She stayed around near Yarraman, queening it, as Mirri had guessed she would, and Arrow learnt little else than to be a nuisance – in fact, what else could Brownie teach him, Bel Bel said – but he was still the biggest and strongest foal in the herd. Several times he had given Thowra or Storm vicious bites, and once Thowra was lamed for a week by a kick on the hock.

Then, one hot, sultry day, with big thunder clouds sitting lazily along the mountain tops, Arrow was stung, it seemed, to thorough nastiness by the great March flies, and he chased Thowra, biting him unmercifully.

Thowra called Storm:

“Come on!” he said. “He won’t catch us!” And away they galloped with Arrow and half the other foals after them.

“We’ll lead them a dance,” Thowra said to Storm, as they galloped side by side down into a steep ravine. “If we can lose Arrow, we will!”

They went crashing down, Arrow and his followers not far behind, down, down the rocky slope and then into some very thick scrub. Here, Thowra pulled up sharply on his haunches, and swung on to a tiny narrow track that led towards the head of the ravine.

They heard the other foals go thundering by straight on down, while they went trotting quietly on, making as little sound as possible. The track turned upwards, and they knew they would be quite a height above the other foals when they got out of the scrub.

Thowra led the way on to the rocky hillside again and, sure-footed as a wild goat, cantered across it upwards to the tumbled mass of rock that formed the headwall of the ravine. He and Storm had found a track through, but he was pretty certain Arrow would not know it. He looked down once and saw the other foals far below, but already starting in pursuit.

They had to let their pace drop to a walk when they reached the rocks, and for a moment it was hard to find the start of their track; then they picked their way carefully through, and round and over the great rough rocks with almost a sheer wall of rock up on one side of them and a tremendous drop on the other.

They could hear the other foals crashing and stumbling across the side of the hill, but they didn’t stop or look back: they had to watch every step they took on their precipice or they might find themselves hurtling down through space to the floor of the ravine, far below. Thowra felt his coat prickling with fear, and then the sweat running on his neck and flanks. How foolish it would be to fall! But at last they were over, and there, safe on the other side, they neighed and mocked at Arrow who was still looking for a way across the headwall.

At this, Arrow became so angry that he started to climb right round over the top. Thowra and Storm could afford to rest before galloping off. Then they were off again, through very broken country of granite tors, rough scrub, and low snowgums, directly away from where the mares had been grazing. There was no grass here, and Thowra guessed that the other foals had never bothered to explore this way.

Both foals noticed how hot it had become. Thowra’s cream coat was all dark with sweat. They stopped for a moment to get their breath and watched black clouds massing over the sky.

“We may be glad we know our way,” Thowra said.

The others were drawing nearer, so they led them on, up a little hill. Already the grey mist was sitting on top of it.

As soon as they saw the other foals following up the hill, they went through the mist and quickly down the other side, then jumped down into a sharp-sided creek bed that cut straight across the foot of the hill. They turned east up the creek and trotted along, presently stopping for a drink.

There was no sound of pursuit, although once Thowra thought he heard a neigh.

“This creek will take us nearly all the way home,” he said.

“Yes,” Storm answered. “Come!”

“I’m wondering about the others.”

They both looked around. Clouds had boiled up and poured right over the mountains, and it was impossible to see more than a few yards.

“It’s all very well to get Arrow lost on a fine day,” Thowra said, “but the weather is changing. Also,” he added, “the mothers of the other foals will be wild with us, even if they do think Arrow deserves all he gets.”

“That is quite true,” Storm said. “Perhaps we had better go and find them.”

They went back along the creek, and scrambled up on to the hillside again. Now, they could hear neighing coming from the top of the hill.

Storm threw up his head to listen:

“I expect they are wandering round in circles,” he said. “Don’t let’s hurry; give them time to get to know what it’s like being lost in a cloud.”

But when they reached the top of the hill they could just make out the group of foals through the cloud, all huddled together in the shelter of some rocks.

Thowra and Storm went up to them, emerging like shadows out of the mist.

“Don’t you know your way home?” Storm asked.

Arrow said nothing, but the other foals came crowding round.

“Can you lead us back even through these clouds?” they asked.

Thowra looked at them without speaking for a moment, then he turned to Arrow.

“Do you want to go home, O swift Arrow?”

Arrow nodded glumly. Just then there was a great roll of thunder, and a whip-like streak of lightning seemed to strike the rocks. Thowra took no notice.

“Are you going to behave yourself and be nicer to everyone else?” he asked Arrow.

There was no answer.

“Oh well,” said Thowra, “Storm and I will go home on our own,” and he moved as if to go back into the cloud and mist. More lightning blazed behind him, and he seemed to be made of silver.

The other foals crowded after them but Arrow stood quite still.

“Arrow will behave, or we will all set on him this minute,” spoke up Star, a brown filly who had always wished she could go wandering with Thowra and Storm and their mothers.

“All right,” Thowra and Storm both agreed. “Follow us then, closely.” Their last words were almost lost in the rumble of thunder and the sudden sound of pouring rain.

Shivering with cold now as well as fear, the foals followed them as they turned and made their way down into the more sheltered creek bed. Here, the noise of the thunder was almost like something striking at them, and Thowra noticed with pleasure that Arrow was as frightened as the others.

In places the creek bed widened, and there was grass or sand over which they could canter; sometimes they walked through stones. Then the creek turned in a long northward curve that led them back towards where the herd had been. Even when they were quite close to the mares, the clouds were so heavy and black that only Thowra and Storm knew they had arrived back.

Quietly they led the foals into the herd. They could tell by the restless moving of the mares that they were worried. Brownie gave a silly-sounding neigh when she saw Arrow and started sniffing him all over.

“What have you been up to?” muttered Bel Bel as Thowra came up beside her for a drink.

“Maybe Arrow won’t be such a bully for a while,” Thowra answered.

“Take care – that colt may always be bigger and stronger than you,” Bel Bel said.

Just then Star’s mother came up.

“No good will come of you teaching your sons to be so independent,” she said to Bel Bel and Mirri angrily, and then turned to Thowra. “Where have you led our foals to, today?” But Star, looking miserable, said:

“It was our fault – and Arrow’s.”

“That Arrow!” said the mare sourly. “He will grow into a bad horse.”

“He’ll be a bad enemy,” said Mirri, looking with meaning at her own son and at Thowra.

Chapter Four BRUMBY DRIVE

ON VERY CLEAR days the wild horses could see the cattle grazing on the other side of the Crackenback River. Sometimes they might meet an odd beast down drinking, but the horses mostly kept to drinking places where the cattle never came, because where there were cattle there could be men.

One day Bel Bel and Mirri and the two foals were climbing up behind a particularly high granite tor. They were still in the trees, and out of sight themselves, when they saw a man standing upon the top of the tor, gazing over the country.

The wild horses came to a dead stop, nostrils quivering. There the man stood, a wide hat shading his eyes, a red scarf round his neck, wearing faded riding-trousers, and with a coiled whip in his hand.

“Stockman,” whispered Bel Bel. “His tame horse must be somewhere, and maybe a mate or two. Our scent must be blowing straight to him.”

“He won’t smell it,” said Mirri scornfully.

“His horse may, though.”

Sure enough, there came the sound of neighing and stamping, and even the jingle of a bit.

“It’s not very far away. We must go!” Bel Bel turned to Thowra: “Look well at the man, my son. He is your greatest enemy.”

Thowra could not really remember the man who had tried to catch him as he slept on the slopes of the Ramshead Range, but that day had planted the fear of Man deeply in him. All he said now was:“Let’s go!”

They moved away quietly, and that evening, as they grazed with the herd by a wide creek bed, where good grass grew, Bel Bel and Mirri told Yarraman and the gathered mares and yearlings what they had seen.

“I don’t like it,” said Bel Bel. “He was a mountain man and he will have come here for some purpose, not just curiosity.”

“They are sure to know that many of us always spend the summer here,” Mirri said. “It wouldn’t be good if they came back to hunt us.”

“We know this country too well,” boasted Yarraman, but he did not look overpleased.

The two mares kept an even more careful watch on their foals, and would never let them go down to the river except very early and very late when men who live in huts or tents are always busy with their queer cans of water that bubble by their smoking fires.

Once again, the man was seen, this time by Yarraman himself as he and the herd were in their customary grazing ground. The man was standing right above them as though he were cut out of rock.

The news of this was very disquieting to Bel Bel and Mirri, and they kept an even stricter watch.

There were many hot, sleepy days that summer, but though the foals lay in the grass, flat out, their switching tails their only sign of life, the two mothers kept watch in turns, never, during the day, sleeping at the same time. Even so, they were both sleepy enough, standing in the shade of a low snowgum, to get badly frightened when they heard an unusual noise far below them.

What was it? Something was moving through dead timber the way no wild animal would move! Perhaps a tame horse with a man on its back?

They could not smell anything. Nostrils to the wind, they listened. There was the sound again, something unusual going through the bush, they were sure. They roused the sleeping foals and began to move quietly upwards.

When Thowra made to jump up on a large rocky outcrop, Bel Bel nipped him and pushed him back.

“Don’t be so silly,” she said, “making yourself a clear mark for anyone to see! Keep in the trees and keep quiet.”

Sometimes they stopped to listen, but for a while there was no sound except that of a kurrawong and the chatter of gang gangs in the trees. Then, during one such stop, they heard a faint sound of movement, so faint that no one except those who lived in the bush would have heard it, and they knew it was something wild like themselves. Presently three silver-grey kangaroos went hopping by.

Thowra and Storm were delighted to see them, but both Bel Bel and Mirri looked worried. Not long afterwards, they saw four young colts making up the hill too.

They came to a small clear stream where the foals wanted to play.

“Have a drink, but not too much, and come on,” said Bel Bel. Three black cockatoos flew out of the trees by the water, with their weird, wild crying, and the foals jumped back, startled.

Mirri looked back fearfully.

“Something’s happening, I’m sure,” she muttered.

Even a gust of wind rustling the shiny leaves made the mares start nervously, then they saw some of their own herd heading towards their main camping ground which was in an unexpected hanging valley not far from the top of the range. They caught up to these mares and foals, and Bel Bel said: “Have you seen anything strange as you travelled homewards at midday?”

One was Star’s dam, and she answered fearfully:“No, but we heard the sound of horsemen and a faint whip crack. What business have men here?”

Then through the bush, some distance off, they saw several more kangaroos flitting between the trees, upwards, upwards.

Bel Bel turned to Mirri.

“We’re being driven uphill,” she said. “There must be a great many men.”

“Well, we’re going,” said Star’s mother. “We’ll be safer with Yarraman and the others.”

Bel Bel looked at Mirri.

“It must be us wild horses they’re after, not kangaroos,” she said.

“Good luck!” said Mirri to the others, as they jogged away, then to Bel Bel, “Shall we try to go across the hill and escape the men?”

“That’s the best thing I can think of. We might make the ravine and hide there, but the men will probably have dogs and though we might race them, it’s not going to be so easy with the foals – but we must go.” And, as usual, the creamy mare led off, the two foals following her, and Mirri close behind them.

All of a sudden, the bush seemed dreadfully still and hot, so hot, and the scent of the turpentine bush was all around. Bel Bel leapt to one side sharply as a big copperhead snake slid across some warm, bare earth almost under her feet, and she felt the sweat break out behind her ears.

Coming up the hill towards her she saw a pair of brown wallabies.

“Yes, we’re being driven,” she whispered to herself.

Further on they met more brumbies, panting and sweating. The leader only stopped for a second to say to them:“You’ll meet stockmen if you keep going that way. They’re not far behind. Better follow us.”

“There are men everywhere,” said Bel Bel. “The only thing to do is to try and get back between them.”

But the other horses just went on upwards, their flanks heaving and the smell of their sweat heavy on the air.

Bel Bel led off again, faster, threading through thick snowgums, even breaking into a fast canter when they reached a grass glade. As much as possible she avoided rocks on which their hooves would make a noise. If only they could reach the ravine …

Then she saw the first of the men, sitting easily on a neat grey horse, a Queensland blue cattle dog padding along beside him.

She doubled back quickly, driving Thowra and Storm in front of her. Perhaps he had not seen her. Perhaps he would not hear them. If they went back a few hundred yards, and then turned downwards, they might just get through the cordon of men and dogs… but when she turned down, there, galloping across in front of her, was the same man and his dog.

The dog saw the wild horses and rushed to head them, snapping not at her or Mirri, who might have kicked, but at Thowra.

Thowra, who had never seen a dog in his life, turned in a frenzy of fear. Bel Bel galloped after him, trying to swing him back to make another effort to beat the man and the dog downhill, but the dog knew his game too well and kept heeling Thowra. Thowra was soon beyond being able to hear anything his mother neighed to him, and all that Bel Bel could do was to go with him in his mad gallop up the hill, trying to strike or kick at the dog. At last she quietened the blue heeler by galloping at him when he snapped at Thowra’s heel and giving him a nasty bite on the back.

Bel Bel then galloped shoulder to shoulder with Thowra, speaking to him, trying to steady him, and all the time wondering what they should do next. In a few quick, backward glances she could see no sign of Mirri and Storm. The man was a good way behind and had called off his dog. Anyway, the dog had done his job of heading them uphill only too well.

She gave Thowra a gentle nip on the shoulder.

“Slow down!” she said. “They are not following.”

Thowra, who was blowing frightfully, slackened his pace and at last dropped to a walk.

“We will have a little rest in that thick belt of snowgums,” Bel Bel said, “and, from there, try and cut across to the ravine again.” But the time had gone for escape. The men and their dogs were closing in.

Bel Bel found herself and her foal driven relentlessly uphill. Each time she hoped to cut across she saw a man. Presently they came up with several trembling mares and foals, and they could hear others moving on ahead. Bel Bel made one more bid to break away south to the ravine, but just then she heard a whip crack, and another, from the direction of the ravine, and some more brumbies came galloping towards her.

“Don’t try to go that way,” they said. “Lots of men and dogs there. Quick, quick!” and they galloped on in terror.

Bel Bel realised that they were all being swung round in the direction of their main camping ground.

“The men will have made a yard somewhere,” she thought, because this was not the first time she had been caught up in a big hunt when the stockmen came after the brumbies. She wished Mirri was still with her. Mirri was a good friend, and she understood more about the habits of men. Mirri would know where they would build a yard in which to catch wild horses. As for Bel Bel she could think of no place more likely than in the narrow mouth of the valley at its farthest end.

She tried to talk to Thowra before he got completely infected with the panic that was gripping all the other horses.

“Son,” she said, “you must stay absolutely beside me. Somewhere these men will have put up fences with which to stop us escaping. If you stay right with me, I may be able just to miss going into their yard and we might escape.”

Thowra thought he would never forget all that happened after that. First he heard sticks and branches breaking as though hundreds of men and horses were chasing them, then he heard the unknown ring of a shod horse’s hoof on stone, and then whips cracking, many whips, cracking and cracking, right behind them.

The brumbies really started to gallop, and he and his mother with them.

The little foal stretched his legs out beside his mother, stretched his neck too. He could feel his heart thundering unevenly in his chest. They were right in the centre of the mob. It was Brownie’s shoulder that touched him on his near side, and he felt her hot breath. Everything was bound up with the tremendous pounding, thundering of hooves on hard ground, the pounding and thundering of his own heart, the blowing of breath, the gasping of all the horses.

A snowgum branch whipped him across the eyes, and brought stinging tears. He could hear his own breath sob and felt as though his pounding heart would burst. His legs and hooves seemed no longer to belong to him.

Then they were out of the trees and they spread apart a little in the open valley of the camping ground. The men forced them together again into a mob that moved almost as one horse, but, while they were spread out, Thowra had felt Bel Bel pushing him over to the left wing, not quite on the outside of the mob, because their colour would be too noticeable there, but just near the edge. He heard his mother give a gasping sort of whinny, and, through the tired haze that was over his eyes, recognised Mirri and Storm on the wing.

The noise of whips never ceased now, as the men drove them faster and faster. The horses were in a frenzy of fear. Thowra wanted to cry out with the terror that seemed to run like a flame through the mob, but he had no breath for anything except to keep going. Bel Bel spoke to him several times and he hardly heard. Then he knew she was saying something that mattered.

“In a second we will swing to the left,” she said, “through the gap in the trees.”

With a tremendous effort he focused his eyes on something other than the outstretched noses and heaving flanks beside him, and saw that they were nearly at the end of the valley.

“Now!” said Bel Bel, and edged him out of the mob, neighing to Mirri as they went.

Only a few strides and they would be in the trees. Thowra realised it was Storm beside him and that the two mares were driving them. He felt a searing cut across the face from a whip. A dog fastened on his heel and he heard Bel Bel’s scream of rage, but his mother and Mirri forced him on.

There was a jumble of men’s voices, one calling:“Hold the ones we’ve got!” Another singing out:“No! I swear I’ll have the creamies.”

Then they were in the trees and pounding over rocks, one man and his dog still with them. Bel Bel raced into the lead and Thowra suddenly knew why. There was quite a drop ahead of them, over some rocks. He and Storm had played there often and knew just where to jump. All at once he felt strong enough to go at the faster pace that his mother was setting.

Bel Bel leapt over the edge, jumping on to a little rocky shelf, sliding down from it on her haunches, jumping again, and he was following, legs trembling so much that he could barely stand up when he landed.

Standing at the foot of the little cliff, legs apart, shaking, shaking, he looked up. Mirri and Storm were nearly safely down, but the man had reined in on the top and was left behind.

“Come on,” said Bel Bel, and the four brumbies vanished into the trees.

Chapter Five MAN, THE INVADER

THAT NIGHT THE weather changed suddenly. Stars faded under cloud, a whining wind crept around the rock tors and down the grassy lanes between the snowgums. Far up on the range, the dingoes howled.

Where Mirri and Bel Bel and their two foals lay, there was no other sound except the whining wind and the dingoes, but nearer the top of the range there were rustlings and stealthy movements. Kangaroos that had been driven from their usual haunts were carefully looking around and starting home again. Birds were disturbed and anxious, unable to settle for the night. Brumbies who had escaped the hunt or broken out of the yard, footsore and exhausted, moved fearfully into the back country.

A large camp fire blazed in the grassy valley and nearly a dozen men slept around it. In the rough yard they had built, there were about fifteen brumbies. There would have been more, but a great heavy colt, in trying to jump out, had smashed one corner of the yard, and quite a few, including Brownie and Arrow, had escaped. Yarraman and others of the herd had never been in the original round-up.

All night long the brumbies trapped in the yard neighed and called, walked and walked, and neighed. Rain came in fitful showers, hissing in the fire, steaming on the brumbies’ sweating coats. Raindrops woke Bel Bel and Mirri, who were barely sleeping anyway, but no raindrop could have disturbed the two exhausted foals. They slept deeply, occasionally half-neighing at the ugliness of a dream.

During the next day they lay quietly hidden in thick snowgums and hop scrub by a water soak where the wombats and shy brown wallabies came to drink. They could hear the noise of whips and voices, but knew that it was only the sound of the preparations the men were now making to take the brumbies away with them. It was very unlikely that there would be any more hunting unless the creamies were seen, so it was better to lie low till the men had gone.

Before midday, the sounds of whip cracks had become far distant and by afternoon the bush had returned to its usual silence – silence that is not silence but the blend of water music, the sound of wind, of moving branches and moving soft-footed animals, and the song of birds. All that was different was the hanging smell of smoke; and there, in the camping valley was the trampled, spoiled grass, the dead fire, and the hidden remains of the trap-yard.

Bel Bel and Mirri did not go to see what was left; they took their foals and skirted round the valley to the north and east, searching till they found brumby tracks, and the tracks of Yarraman himself.

Yarraman’s tracks were over a day old, but there were fresher ones – Thowra gave a squeal as he found Brownie’s and Arrow’s – and they followed along the tracks for some miles till Yarraman had apparently deliberately gone over a great rough cliff of rock and stone, where no track would remain.

“I know where he’s gone,” said Bel Bel. “He will have headed for the Hidden Flat,” and she struck off across the cliff.

It was evening when they reached a narrow, grassy flat deep down in a gorge. Since the walls of the gorge were so steep, and the trees on its side so tall, no one approaching could see down into the Hidden Flat, and they did not know if the others were still there till they reached the grass. Then they heard a welcoming neigh from Yarraman as he came trotting to meet them.

The herd stayed around the Hidden Flat till the days grew shorter, the nights frosty and bright; till the rivers were stilled with the cold, and shining so that one could see each stone clearly in the bottom, and every reflection infinitely clear and yet deep, so deep. Then the wild things in the mountains knew that the snow must be coming soon and the stockmen would be too busy mustering their cattle to have any more brumby hunts. It was safe to go back to Paddy Rush’s Bogong and listen and watch over the other side of the Crackenback for the going of the herds, when they could return to the Cascades for the winter and spring.

Thowra and Storm had both grown a lot, but Arrow was still the biggest of all the foals. He was arrogant and mean- minded, but, since Thowra and Storm had so easily lost him in the clouds and brought him ignominiously home again, he had left them in peace from petty bites and kicks.

The other foals had learnt to hate him and yet rather to admire him, but, while Thowra and Storm knew the country better than he, and knew all the signs and sounds of the bush, Arrow, even though he was bigger, stronger, and faster, could never be acknowledged leader of the foals. Also it was well known among the mares that Yarraman admired Bel Bel and Mirri and never bossed them around like he did the others: after all, mares that could fend for themselves and who knew the mountains better than he did could hardly be bossed by a stallion.

Autumn was a happy time for Thowra and Storm and their mothers.

The brumbies listened to the sounds of herds of cattle being mustered above the Crackenback, and finally saw that the last bullock and the last man had left the mountains, and there was no more smoke coming from the chimneys of the huts. Thowra and Storm were as eager as any of them to cross the shining Crackenback and climb back upwards to return to their barely remembered old home at the Cascades – to find again the great wide valley of springy snowgrass where one could gallop and gallop.

Chapter Six INVISIBLE IN SNOW

THOWRA AND STORM were naturally very frightened of men and dogs since they had been hunted, but they were also very curious.

After they had been some weeks in the Cascades, they gathered up their courage and climbed on to the little knoll where the slab and shingle stockman’s hut stood above the creek. Though it had been empty for a long time now, there were still strange smells lurking round it, and some salt spilt on the ground, which they licked up. Salt was good. There were natural salt-licks in the bush, but not many of them, and sometimes one could find a little left round the places where the men salted their cattle.

Thowra sniffed all round the hut looking – looking for something, he didn’t know what. The cold wind blew a tin billy that had been left hanging under the eaves of the hut. He jumped backwards and Storm snorted with amusement.

“Come away,” he said. “There is nothing here. The sky looks very queer, and the others are a long way off.”

The wind rustled the golden everlastings that grew in the grass about their feet, and in the trees close by its low moaning sounded.

“The clouds seem heavy,” said Storm, “as though they are pressing down. I never remember a day like this before.”

“O stupid one,” said Thowra with a toss of his head. “You’ve never lived through a winter before. Mother said we must not go too far today because of the weather, but let us just go and listen to the sound the wind is making in the big trees.”

There were some tall trees, candlebarks and the first of the great mountain ash, near the Cascades hut, and the two foals had already discovered the fun of playing “Tug-you- last” around the great tree-trunks and up and down the clear glades. Now, as soon as they were in the timber, they could hear the wail of the wind in the tree-tops, far above, and the soughing and sighing of streamers of bark that hung down the trunks.

They felt very small and alone – and very excited.

“What was that?” asked Thowra nervously, as something white and feathery floated down from the dark sky and landed, freezing cold, on his nose.

Storm jumped to one side and shook his head as another cold white feather fell on his ear. They cantered away under a big tree, but, even there, floating so slowly and lightly on the air, the white feathers came, in ones and twos at first but thicker and thicker till the air was filled with floating whiteness.

It was a long time before they thought of looking at the ground.

“Look!” cried Storm. “It is even making the ground white. We should go home. Perhaps it will be difficult to find our way.”

It was all right while they were in amongst the tall trees and had the trunks to guide them, but out in the open valley all was a blinding whirl of blown whiteness. The shape of tracks could still be seen, and Thowra jogged along one, his nose to the ground. Storm ran right beside him, almost bumping into him.

“You will tread on me,” Thowra complained. “What is the matter?”

“I can hardly see you in this queer white stuff,” said Storm, and he sounded afraid. His own dark coat showed up clearly, but Thowra was almost invisible.

Thowra looked around him then and felt half-afraid too. Nothing could be seen except the swirling, whirling flakes; no contours of hill or ridge, not even the loops of the streams, but the hollow of track still showed just at his feet.

“Quick, we must follow it before it gets buried,” he said. “By then we should be at the creek.”

When they reached the stream they stopped to watch the strange white flakes which almost hissed as they touched the water – and then vanished.

They waded through the ice-cold water and followed the stream on the other bank, knowing they should soon come to the little creek that flowed down from the herd’s camping valley.

They kept shaking their heads to try and free their eyelashes and nostrils of the queer white stuff. Their forelocks, solid and wet, hit their eyes with each shake.

When they had gone a little way Thowra suddenly stopped, raised his head and neighed loudly. He could see nothing at all but the white storm, but ahead came answering neighs and he broke into a canter. Bel Bel and Mirri had come down to the junction of the valley to wait for them.

They could see Mirri from several yards off, but were almost on top of Bel Bel before they saw her.

“What’s happening to the world, Mother?” asked Thowra, feeling very glad to be safely with her.

“Why, this is a snowstorm, Son. It’s heavy for early in the winter,” she said, her voice worried, “and it’s heavy for down here. We may go hungry before the spring.”

The two mares led their foals back to the herd who were huddled together in the shelter of some trees. There they spent the cold, stormy night, with the wind howling and the snow lying thick on their warm coats.

By morning the snow had stopped falling but it lay nearly a foot deep on the ground. Trees were bowed down with it, each leaf coated in white crystals. There was no grass to eat unless one scratched away the snow with a hoof.

Disconsolately, the herd wandered down into the main valley.

“The sun will come out soon,” said Bel Bel, “and then the snow will thaw and we will have grass to eat again.”

When the sun did come out and warm them, all the foals soon found that they could have great fun chasing each other up and down the glittering white hills.

Thowra was no longer invisible, now that the air was clear of the wind-swivelled flakes, but somehow the snow seemed to be his kingdom, and the other foals soon saw that he was swifter and more sure-footed in it than Arrow. Of course if one knew where every hole or little watercourse was, one did not make any stupid mistakes. Arrow forgot that there was a little tiny stream at the foot of one ridge. He went galloping down, chasing Thowra and never noticed Thowra’s flying leap at the bottom. His forefeet broke through the snow into the creek and, in a wild flurry of snow, he turned a complete somersault, finishing up almost buried.

Thowra saw exactly what happened, and by the time Arrow had got to his feet, shaken all the snow out of his eyes and ears, and gingerly tested his legs, Thowra was rearing and neighing on top of a high rock on the next ridge.

If Arrow had had any sense, he would have taken no notice, but he got in a fury of anger at the sight of the beautiful creamy, who was almost white now, in his thick winter coat, his silver mane and tail gleaming and glittering in the sun, as he pranced and reared.

Arrow made after him, with all the watching foals, neighing and snorting, kicking and pawing up the snow.

Thowra waited until the chestnut was three strides away from the back of the rock, then he reared up and pirouetted on his hind legs, gave a squeal of joy, and leapt off the steep side of the rocks on to the soft snow, then away down the ridge, bucking and snorting.

Bel Bel and Mirri were at the bottom.

“That’s enough, my son. You are making a bad enemy for yourself,” said Bel Bel, but she had enjoyed Thowra’s pranks, and there was a gleam of pleasure in her eyes. Her cream colt had looked so joyously beautiful rearing up on the snow-covered rock. “Come now,” she went on, “we will go down the mountainside a little way and see if we can find some food.”

Mirri called Storm and off the four of them went, down the valley and into the tall timber where Storm and Thowra had watched the start of the snowfall the day before. Here Thowra suddenly stopped dead, snorting at the ground. Right at his nose was a set of fresh tracks in the snow, little tracks just like a child’s bare feet, but the foals did not know that. Where the snow was very soft and deep, there was a gutter in between the feetmarks.

Bel Bel and Mirri said nothing when the foals began following the trail, noses down. Suddenly Thowra, who was leading, stopped and nearly sat back on his haunches with fright. Only a yard or two ahead of him was the round, furry back of a wombat who was grubbing for food. The wombat took no notice whatever but just went on grubbing through snow and mud with his sharp little nose. Bel Bel and Mirri watched, their muzzles twitching a little.

Thowra stood up and stretched out his neck to sniff the thick fur. The wombat turned round surprisingly fast, his beady eyes angry. Thowra nearly sat down again, as the wombat waddled on, his round, fat middle making the gutter in the snow.

The horses kept jogging on downwards, nibbling at wattles and odd shrubs. At last, when the snow got thinner, they turned off the spur on to the northern slope where, as the mare well knew they would, they found tussocks of snowgrass.

That night as they camped by a clear singing stream, Bel Bel sniffed the air and looked at the sky.

“There’ll be a frost tonight,” she said, “and another fine day, but I can’t help feeling there’s going to be a lot of snow, and we’ll have to find somewhere else to winter, lower than the Cascades.”

“Well, the nearest lower country with good grass belongs to The Brolga,” said Mirri.

Storm and Thowra both pricked up their ears.

Chapter Severn SEEKING GRASS

HEAVY FROSTS MADE ice on the creeks and froze small, still pools quite solid. In the wonderful bright days that came after each frost, though some of the more weather-wise mares might be worrying about the hard winter that was coming, the foals played and had mock fights with wild exuberance. The biting cold and the bright sun, as Mirri said, had put the devil into them.

Then one day, after an iron-hard frost, clouds came up before the dawn and a moaning, icy wind came from the north. Just as the grey light crept over the valley a flock of black cockatoos flew screaming, crying, to the south, borne on the wind.

“Hmph,” said Bel Bel to Yarraman. “I don’t like it.”

Yarraman looked as if he had not heard her, but as the light grew stronger he started grazing his way into the main valley and then south-east – just steadily south-east all day, without haste, but never turning back.

The clouds grew heavier and darker, the wind colder. No ice melted that day.

“We haven’t seen any other horses,” Thowra heard his mother whisper to Mirri. “The Brolga must have already decided to go to his lower pastures.”

That night they sheltered in an unaccustomed valley and just at nightfall the snow started to beat down in the wind.

The herd moved around under the trees all night, stamping and whinnying softly. Sometimes a foal dropped down on the hard, cold ground and slept; mostly the sense of disquiet throughout the whole herd kept even the young ones from sleeping soundly.

Thowra did not know what made him feel excited and yet afraid. He did not realize that his mother’s anxiety since the first heavy snowfall had been communicating itself to him, or that the strange feeling which all the grown horses had slowly begun to get – that a hard winter was coming – had somehow made everyone touchy, apt to gallop, kick, or bite. He only knew that the howl of the wind and the cold lash of the snow made him want to gallop now, even in the pitch darkness, and leap on to a high rock, rear and neigh loudly to the sky. He could imagine the wild neigh ringing out and the thought of it sent cold shivers down his backbone.

Suddenly he realised that Arrow was passing him and he lashed out with his heels. Arrow gave a squeal of rage and pain but Thowra had cantered off into the storm and the night. Unable to bear his own feelings any longer, he lifted his head to the falling snow and neighed with all his strength. There was a sudden hushed silence in the herd, and then from far to the south-east came an answering, distant neigh.

Thowra stiffened, tingling with a mad excitement, but Bel Bel came up at his side then, and she nipped him on the wither.

“Be quiet, silly one,” she said, not unkindly. “Yarraman will punish you if you make too much noise. Don’t you realize we are no longer in our own country, and that he may have to fight for our food?”

“Are we in The Brolga’s country?” Thowra was quivering with nervousness.

“Yes, we are, and we will have to go further into it yet, to get out of the heavy snow.”

“I wish daylight would come.”

“The winter nights are long,” said Bel Bel. “Sleep while I stand beside you. Tomorrow you may have to fight Arrow for that kick you gave him. We may travel a long way too. You will need your strength.”

When the dawn came, grey and beating with hard, wind-driven snow, Yarraman led off immediately, still south-east, but upwards, over a gap in the hills.

There were strange horse tracks at the mouth of a small valley. Yarraman sniffed them curiously but went on his own way. Bel Bel and Mirri both branched off up the little valley for a few yards, looking carefully at the tracks.

“No more than four young horses, I should think,” Bel Bel said. “Certainly The Brolga is not with them.”

Just in the few minutes while they looked at the tracks, the herd had vanished into the storm and their tracks were fast getting covered. Thowra and Storm were both quite bothered, but Bel Bel and Mirri trotted upwards, and kept trotting till the herd came into sight, shadow horses behind a dense curtain of flying snow.

All day long the wind howled and drove the snow in this impenetrable curtain. Often the horses were almost carried along by the wind.

They were getting hungry now, and the only water they had was when they broke the ice on a pool. The foals demanded, and got, milk from their mothers, but there would not be much milk if they had to keep going like this, driven on the storm, and never finding grass. Even the mares were tiring, perhaps because the cold was so intense, and if they stopped they got colder still.

At last, when they had gone a long way down the other side of the gap, Yarraman turned into a side valley that ran across the wind and had plenty of trees for shelter, and there they spent another restless, anxious night.

At dawn the storm still swirled and beat around them. They set off again, cold, tired, and hungry, and filled with a dread of staying still in one place. They were still steadily losing height and both the ground and the air must have been warmer than it was in the Cascades because the snow was wetter and not as thick on the ground.

They came, at last, to flatter ground in what seemed to be a basin into which flowed quite a number of streams. Yarraman went several miles downstream and then he started fossicking around for shrubs to eat and the odd patch of grass that might be sticking out of the snow underneath a tree.

“It looks as if this is where we’re going to stop,” Mirri said to Bel Bel. Bel Bel was staring at the bank of the stream: snow lay right to the water’s edge, but just where there was a crossing there were still the shapes of hoof- marks half-filled with snow.

“Hmn!” she said, peering more closely and then crossing over and looking at the other side. “Hmn! Quite a few horses have crossed fairly recently I think.” She scratched away some snow from the bank and found muddied, tracked snow underneath.

“Well, what of it?” asked Mirri. “We’ve got to eat, and we may eat better here than higher up.”

“Looks as if it will be a quarrelsome winter,” Bel Bel said, and she turned her head towards Yarraman. A hard winter would not worry a horse approaching his prime, like The Brolga, but Yarraman would feel it. The Brolga would not have attained full strength yet, but he must be getting very near it. “Anyway,” she went on, “nothing is likely to happen during such a blizzard. Everyone will be too taken up with finding food.”

The blizzard continued for days. Sometimes, down in the low valley, the snow turned to rain, then it would snow again. The horses managed to find bushes which they could eat, and, though they were hungry, they were not desperate.

Now that they were no longer travelling, but wandering around trying to find food, Thowra thought he would be able to have some fun, particularly annoying Arrow, since he himself would be almost invisible in the flying snow, but he found it so difficult to see his own mother that he never liked to get far away from her in case he lost her in the blizzard and in the unknown country.

Once, Bel Bel left him with Mirri while she went off scouting further down the stream, and, by the importance of her behaviour, Thowra felt sure Yarraman had asked her to go and see what she could see. In that time, he sneaked away from Mirri, crept up on Arrow and gave him a playful nip, but he could not help feeling afraid of the rough weather and the constantly falling snow, and he was glad when his mother came home, even though she had absolutely nothing interesting to tell them.

At last there came a day when the snow stopped falling, and the following night, close on midnight, the wind dropped. Thowra woke because of the sudden silence when there was no longer the howl of the wind, and in that silence he heard, far away but echoing, the shrill trumpeting neigh of a stallion.

He scrambled to his feet and was just going to neigh in tremulous answer when Bel Bel gave him a swift nip.

“Why, oh why, have I got such an excitable son?” she said, half in anger, half in pride. “It is not your place to answer that call,” and just then Yarraman’s wild cry rang out.

There was an instant’s electric silence; not one of the herd moved or let go a breath. Then, faraway again, but shrill with anger, came the stallion cry.

“Tomorrow will start the fights for the grass that we haven’t found yet,” said Mirri acidly.

“And the youngest, lightest horse will have an advantage in this snow,” Bel Bel added.

The foals dropped off to sleep again, but there was a restless lack of ease among the mares and young colts and fillies.

Not long after the grey dawn, The Brolga and some of his mares appeared out of the mist and clouds.

Yarraman pranced forward out from his herd, stepping high, head up imperiously, tail held high and free.

Along came The Brolga, rearing and screaming.

A shock of excitement ran through the herd. The Brolga was growing into a noble horse; yet their own Yarraman was superb – like a sun god against the grey clouds and white snow.

Thowra shivered. The Brolga, like his mother and himself, had that queer quality of merging with snow and cloud. In a real fight that might prove an advantage over the bright chestnut.

He could smell the two stallions’ anger and excitement as they went to meet each other; there was a roar from both horses as they reached within striking distance. Then the snow was flying from their hooves as they circled each other, striking, biting, screaming. Thowra saw blood staining the snow, and the mud and the snow and the blood churned underfoot.

Yarraman had The Brolga in a terrific grip with his teeth, but suddenly the older horse’s hooves slipped in the snow and he was forced to let go. Round and round they circled again. The nimbler, lighter Brolga could certainly keep his feet better and when Yarraman slipped again, he managed to get a cruel hold just above the chestnut’s wither. Screaming with rage and pain, Yarraman lashed out and missed him, and then with a tremendous effort shook himself free and planted both heels in The Brolga’s chest, almost winding him.

The Brolga had a gash above one eye, too, where Yarraman had struck. It half-blinded him, but he could still move more lightly and surely than the heavier horse. Now, each was trying for the deadly grip on the wither. Yarraman succeeded, but now he was so breathless that the watching herd could see that, even if he defeated the younger horse this

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.