CHAPTER XXII

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*HOW YELLOW BILLY BROKE THE WARRIGAL*

"The snorting of his horses is heard from Dan: at the sound of the neighing of his strong ones the whole land trembleth."--JEREMIAH.

The tragic ending of the last rush held all breaths for some brief moments. Such a contretemps had never happened before. It beat all previous experiences. The vanishing horse and rider seemed a wild fantasy of the brain, that passes like the breaking of a soap-bubble. There, before their very eyes, lay the slain; the victims of the mad charge.

Several of the men dash after the desperate horse and his acrobatic rider. Simultaneously, a small group of men--among the foremost is Mr. Gill--rush to the fallen men and beasts.

Dick Gill, his son, who lies across his horse, was known as a fearless and somewhat reckless rider. At the critical moment, with the lust of the chase upon him, the lad made a mad dash for the racing steed. To swerve him he instinctively felt would be a vain attempt. "I'll ride the beggar down!" With naught of tremor, but with a disdainful scorn of consequence, hawk-like he swooped upon his quarry.

But, as we have seen, the outlaw had his own resolves. These, alas! more than defeat the object of the horseman. The warrigal's last hope trembled in the balance. A narrow gap of open space, and--liberty! This way then, with slap-dash speed!

We have already related the countervailing efforts to stay that rush: how that hidden horsemen flash from their ambush; how that one, a little in advance, moved to the strike with tornado-like velocity. Then Greek met Greek. Comes the inevitable, the sickening thud; and then--oblivion! Come running men who lift young Dick with all the gentleness of women, and bear him to the shade trees.

Yellow Billy's horse lies stone dead with broken neck. Dick's, with broken back, vainly strives to rise. Its great brown eyes look round with painful entreaty that sends Harry silently to the camp for a rifle, and then the handsome filly joins her companion in the happy hunting grounds.

Meanwhile, under the shade trees, Dick Gill lies, the image of death. An examination reveals a fractured forearm; while a blue-black bruise on the right temple, as big as a crown-piece, attests the violence of the blow. The general verdict is that Dick, the life and soul of his company, will never more crack joke, sing song, or join in the merry chase; and so the conclusion is, dead, or as good as dead--a distinction with a slight difference.

There were two, however, who clung to some shreds of hope; the father of the boy and the Colonel: the latter with obstinacy and emphasis.

"I've seen 'em on the frontier far worse than your boy, Gill, and get better. The lad's stunned with that dickens of a blow; but he'll rally directly and be as spry as ever."

"Poor Dick is alive yet; of that I feel sure, even though I cannot detect any pulsation. What the issue may be, Dumaresque, neither you nor----"

"Tut, tut, man! he's young, and as tough as leather. Neck's all right. Keep up heart, old man. I'll trot down to the yards and see what they're doing to the brumbies."

With that the old officer, whose words were braver than his heart, strode to the yard, where all the others had congregated, save Joe and Sandy, who were in the rear-guard when the accident happened; and who, chilled at heart and filled with apprehension--all zest in sport gone--remain by the side of their companion.

When the warrigal broke, the others of the mob were in full gallop, being rushed by the men. They are subjected to a battery of flogging whips, and swept into the trap-yard; down the converging sides of this they hustle, only to find an impasse. There they huddle, a compact mass of sweating, shivering, and cowed brutes.

The horsemen form a line across the way of retreat, until half a dozen wires are stretched. The rest is a matter of detail which expert bushmen make small bones about. When all is secure the men inside cut out selected horses under the direction of Mr. M'Intyre, who, with those not actively employed in the arena, occupies a place on the rails. The brumbies designed for use are thrown and branded, etc., then haltered and made fast to the rails. The station runaways were secured early in the proceedings, which, from first to last, consume a couple of hours. The final act is one of horse massacre; all the discarded stock are shot down. It is cold-blooded but necessary work, for brumbies are rightly regarded as a pest on a run.

By this time the sun is well down in the west, and having finished their work at the yards, the men repair to the camp for a bite and a drink.

To their great surprise and delight they find Dick Gill "nather dead nor spachless," as Denny Kineavy put it.

While his father and the boys anxiously watched him, hoping against hope for signs of life, the unconscious lad suddenly stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, as one just awaking from a sound sleep.

The as-good-as-dead youth sat up in wonderment, falling back in pain and weakness the next moment. A wave of joy surged through Gill's heart at this manifestation of life. "God be thanked for His mercies!" he exclaimed. Putting an arm under the sick boy's shoulders, and carefully raising his head, he held the Colonel's brandy flask to his lips. "You've had a spill, that's' all. A bit of a knock-out. Your left arm is broken, and there's a nasty bruise on your forehead. Sip a little of this spirit; it'll brace you up."

A pull at the flask revived the youth, and he pillowed his head on his father's arm, who laved the bruised head with cold water. This greatly helped in the work of restoration. By the time the men had finished, Dick was able to sit up, and expressed a desire to have a look at the brumbies. Beyond acute pain in head and arm the lad seemed but little affected. He enjoyed a feed with the men, and especially was he grateful for a pannikin of tea. Good billy tea is better for the tired feeling than all the grog ever invented.

After a short consultation it was decided that Dick and his father, with Sandy, should proceed to a selector's house about three miles distant. They would be sure to get the loan of Mrs. Mulvaney's spring-cart, and by that means reach Bullaroi. This was carried out despite Dick's protests that he was fit to start on another brumby drive.

What of Yellow Billy and the bolting warrigal! Have they been forgotten? Not by long chalks!

As soon as Mr. M'Intyre had selected the horses that were to be saved and used, he left the other work to the Captain, and, accompanied by Jacky, started off on the tracks of the outlaw. Before long they met some of the pursuers returning. Their horses were knocked up, and they had failed to trace the runaway. "Deeficult as the country may be," mused Mr. M'Intyre, "Jacky's equal to onything in the trackin' line. It's only a maitter o' time when we'll run 'em doon."

There was much speculation at the camp over the fate of the half-caste. It did not lean to pessimism, though jeremiads were uttered by some. The pals, who knew Billy's ability better than the others, had unlimited faith in their mate. Whatever happened to the steed, the boy would turn up safe and sound. The steer rider, in their opinion, could ride bare-back the toughest outlaw that ever sniffed the wind. "You'll see," said Tom confidently to the Captain, "Billy'll more'n hold his own."

"Didn't youse tell us the other day thet at your gra-at billy-horse-ma-ale-robbery, the steer slung the yallar bhoy----"

"Oh!" retorted Tom pettishly, "that was only----"

Just then the returning men rode up. They had no good news to relate, but said that by Mr. M'Intyre's orders all were to proceed to the Glen, and if the missing boy was not brought in before dark they were to disperse. Let us now follow the fortunes, or misfortunes, of Billy.

As soon as he found himself astride the warrigal, the yellow boy held fast with knees and hands, the stock whip over his shoulder trailing in a long line behind the flying pair. To stick on the racing horse was a comparatively easy thing to Billy, unless, indeed, some fiendish trick should unseat him. But to guide the scurrying brute, unbitted, unreined, were as impossible as to turn and check a Mont Blanc avalanche.

The first instinct of the horse upon escaping from the trap-yard was to dismount his rider by violent means, but there are eager pursuers on the track--so away!

He rounds the trap fence, bolts down the grassy valley apace, twists up a gully with a swerve that almosts unseats Billy, dashes into Glen Creek, and mounts the bank to enter a defile. The first shock over, the half-caste begins to realise his position. For a moment a pang of fear seizes him, and some of the dread possibilities of the ride dawn upon him. This soon yields to a different sensation as they rush through space.

There is that in the half-wild nature of the lad which goes out in unconscious sympathy for the bestridden beast. Despite the mutual antagonism, which, after all, is not that of hate, there is in some way a sense of kinship. Wild answers to wild. Man nature comes thus into close gripping quarters with horse nature. There is no intervening saddle. Flesh mates with flesh, and spirit answers to spirit. Whose, then, shall be the victory? The strains of many generations of desert lords is in the quadruped. But what of the biped? A curious admixture of blood there! On the white side are the well salted strains, which hark away back to the old Vikings. On the other and darker, the stream points backwards to the misty past, when his ancestors, subtle and slim, moved southward from the older civilisations of the north, and swarmed the valleys of the Ganges and the Indus, fighting for a foothold.

Is not this a challenge to the latent forces in the wild blood of the human? It riots through the youth's veins, giving vim and sparkle to his courage. Who shall win the lordship? Away then, and away!--through the mountain pines till clothes are mere shreds, and breast and thighs are torn and blooded with innumerable scores; slithering down the gorges to the accompaniment of rattling stones; jumping fallen timber, and smashing through the undergrowth, till all pursuit has faded away--the infuriated steed holds his course. On, on! ever up to the inaccessible heights.

But, has the half-breed been doing nothing save holding on, meanwhile?

With incredible difficulty, owing to the mad career of the horse over the wilds, Yellow Billy has managed to pass his whip thong twice round the brute's neck. This, knotted together, forms just the sort of hold-fast the boy has been accustomed to on his steer rides. The grip gives him a great advantage.

But the horse is now scrambling up a gully, which becomes sharper and steeper as he advances, merging into a deep gorge at last, with precipitous sides and frowning, unscalable face. A cul-de-sac, indeed! Even this the indomitable warrigal essays. Again and again does he rush the battlements, and mount some distance; only to tumble back with sobbing breath but dauntless energy.

Cannot Yellow Billy now dismount in safety?

As easily, oh, reader, as one might slip off a rocking-horse.

Why not, then, fling himself off; abandon the desperado, and be thankful for life and limb?

What! Billy show the white feather? Billy throw away his chance of the honour and glory of capture thus? Not for all the wealth of Australia! This is the most ecstatic moment of his existence.

Foiled in his attempt to scale the heights, Bucephalus begins to think more seriously of the foe upon his back. Were he dislodged, what might not become possible? Here then!

So began the battle royal between these well-mated antagonists, to be fought to a finish, there, on that small patch of earth in the rocky fastness; with none in the arena to interfere or to applaud. None, indeed, to witness, save the rock wallaby perched high on a beetling crag, who may have moralised on the unwonted spectacle of the whirling grey-and-brown mass of flesh and blood below. Higher still, wheeling in mid-air, is an eagle hawk, who keenly watches the solitary duel down there, with unwinking eyes of insatiable greed; caring not a doit which wins the mastership, so that the issue may provide a fit object for tearing talons and lacerating beak.

But below there!

The warrigal, with bloodshot eyes flaming in rage and malice, ears set back, head and neck well down between the forelegs, back arched like a bent bow, bucks and squeals, kicks and twists. Forward, backward, sideward; round and round; up and down; now in the middle of the patch; now trying to rub the boy against the rough sides of the rocky canon, but all in vain. Not even the young Mazeppa, lashed to the wild horse, was more securely bound than was Billy to his steed.

There he is; Yellow Billy! Behold him!

Grasping with both hands the encircling stock whip, head and shoulders inclined backwards, his knees grip the horse's sides like a vice. The horse's hoarse neighs are answered with shrill shouts. And so, amid battle-cries, dust and flying pebbles, sweat and foam, with evolutions to which those of the circus ring were flat and monotonous, the tug of war for supremacy between man and beast goes on.

Presently, however, the bucking desperado moderates. There is a lull. He shifts from side to side, making at the same time a slow gyral movement. Is this premonitory of collapse? He is blowing like the proverbial grampus, and ejecting steam from quivering nostrils like an exhaust pipe. The sweat flows from neck, belly, and flanks to the ground in streams. Spasmodic sobs like those of a broken-hearted child send shudder after shudder through his whole frame. See! his head is hanging upon his breast; the symbol of despair. Yes! he is done, conquered! He is broken. Well done, Billy! But the most dangerous moment of Billy's existence is at hand.

Suddenly rushing backwards, the demon rears and throws himself to the ground, almost turning a complete somersault in the act. Crash! down come body and hoofs and--Billy. The boy is taken unawares, and can do little to avert the consequences of this trick. Still, the little saves him. When, in the fraction of a second, he sees the inevitable, a spasmodic jerk flings him just beyond the horse's legs, which are working like the arms of a windmill. Scarce has the animal regained his feet ere, with panther-like spring, the half-caste is reseated. Again the horse is down, but now he is weakening--is rapidly nearing the limit of endurance. All the reserves have been called up.

Again, behold! a rapid change of tactics. The outlaw whips round his head with open mouth and snaps at the rider's leg. Again and again, on both sides, and it is only by the utmost dexterity that the lad escapes. This, more than anything else, begets fear; for Billy, like the horse, is fast tiring. With despair in his eyes the boy looks round him for help, and catches sight of the whip handle, which is hanging, with some two feet or more of thong, from where it is tied to the neck. In a trice his knife is out and the thong is severed near the knot. This end, coiled round his hand, becomes a weapon of offence. A loaded stock-whip handle is as formidable as an Irishman's shillelah. And now every snap is met with a cruel smack, and this not for long can even the warrigal stand. Yellow Billy does more, he rains blows upon the steed's shoulders and head with such severity as almost to paralyse the brute. The end is coming fast now. Worn, blown, trembling with weakness, dazed, the battle has indeed turned.

There is a point in horse-nature up to which no man may call himself master. In some animals it lies low down. In others, the warrigal, to wit, it is placed at the apex of his mettlesome temper. Let that point in mastery be taken by the adversary and all is yielded. That citadel stormed, there is naught left but the white flag. The independence once surrendered is never regained. In other words, once the complete master, always the master.

See now the lord of the wilderness! the equine conjurer of tricks! There he stands with shrunken form, drooping head, lack-lustrous eyes, motionless and clinging tail, subservience incarnate: fit statue of unconditional surrender! The struggle has been gallant, heroic, prolonged; the capitulation is complete. A well planted blow, now, between the ears, and that noble creature; that thing of bone and muscle, of arching neck and glossy coat; that creature of will and courage, which made him emperor among his kind by right of merit--with a stride worthy the envy of Lucifer! Just one blow in the right spot--he staggers, trembles, and falls.

Yellow Billy is standing at the horse's head. 'Twas a glorious ride, a royal fight, a grand victory. Nothing is left now but--pity! And so, with soft and cheery word, rubbing the nostrils, wiping the drying sweat, massaging the trembling limbs, the boy is mercifully engaged when footsteps are heard, and in a moment the squatter, Jacky, and a couple of men ride on to the battle-field.

Darkness is mantling the earth, and the men at the Glen camp have all gone, save a few, including the boys and Neville, who are still anxiously waiting. The striking of iron on the flints of the creek-bed breaks the dismal silence, as a group of horsemen steal out of the surrounding gloom, and stand half-revealed in the light of the camp fire. Yellow Billy is perched on the croup behind one of the men, while, with a stock whip converted into a halter, Jacky leads the bone and soul sore warrigal, who, in this abject spectacle, drinks the cup of humiliation to its bitterest dregs.

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