The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger (5 page)

The horse auctions were in the paddocks on the edge of Bathurst, a good day’s ride from the farm. Drays and buggies and sulkies crowded one paddock. Horses were tied to fences, nosing for a bite of grass—horses that had been ridden here, not the horses that were for sale today; they were tethered well away from the noise and bustle.

‘What will you give me for him? Remember he’s unbroken. A bit spirited, that’s all. Fresh from the bush! Do I have a bid here, gentlemen?’

Billy stared at the horse rearing and twisting beyond the paddock railings. ‘He’s grand.’

This was the first horse auction he’d ever been to. At first he’d wanted to own every horse in the holding yards, then slowly he’d come to look at them more rationally, to look at their good points as the seller led them round the ring. But he’d never seen a horse like this.

Beside him Roman John shook his head. The horse was finally quietening, but still showed the whites of its eyes. ‘That horse can’t be tamed.’

‘How do you know?’ He’d been working the horses with the older man for six months now; long enough to realise the depths of Roman John’s knowledge.

‘Look at the scars on him. This is no stallion fresh from the bush. There’ve been many that have tried to tame this one, and failed.’

‘Maybe they didn’t do it right then.’

Roman John shrugged. ‘Makes no matter. If he wasn’t wild before, they’ve made him wild now. Someone has taught that horse to hate men. You can see it in his eyes, the way he holds his head.’

The auctioneer’s voice was wheedling now. ‘Come on, gentlemen, make a bid.’

‘A guinea!’ called someone from across the field.

‘A guinea for a grand stallion like this? Do I hear ten? Twenty?’

‘Sixpence,’ said Roman John. ‘That’s what he’s worth. Sixpence for boiling down for glue.’

‘Do I hear two guineas?’ called the auctioneer. ‘Three?’

‘But look at him! Wouldn’t he be worth buying just to put with the mares?’

Roman John shook his head. ‘We breed sheep, not horses. Keep your eye out for a nice quiet saddle horse to ride.’

‘Huh,’ said Billy. He knew the ‘nice quiet’ bit was a joke. He might not have ridden much before he came to the colony, but already he could stay on any horse at the farm. It was like he’d been waiting all his life for the other half of himself. Him and a horse,
galloping after the sheep, jumping over logs, leaping across the creek, both of them stronger and steadier together than they’d be apart. His hands, the horse’s strength.

It just felt right.

‘Two pounds!’ The man wore a top hat, and carried a gold-topped cane. Roman John snorted. ‘Flash fool. He’ll break his leg first time he tries to ride him, and sell the poor beast to the glue factory.’

‘Two pounds? Do I hear three? Two guineas? Two pounds then, to the gentleman with the cane. Going once. Going twice…’

The horse reared again, tearing its head back and forth as it tried to get free of its tether.

I felt like that, thought Billy. As though there was too much to understand. But I was lucky. I got a second chance…

‘Two guineas!’ He hadn’t known he was going to make the bid till the words left his mouth.

‘Are you mad?’ hissed Roman John.

‘Three pounds!’ The man raised his gold-topped cane.

‘Guineas!’

It was almost all he had, everything he had earnt since he’d been working the horses with Roman John. The coins were stuffed down his boots.

He was crazy. He knew it, even as he held his breath, hoping there wouldn’t be another bid. What was he doing trying to buy a horse like this?

He waited for the man with the cane to bid again. Billy couldn’t top it, not unless Roman John loaned him the money, and he knew he wouldn’t do that.

The man raised his cane. The horse reared once
again. The man leading him ducked just in time to escape the flashing hoofs.

The man put down his cane.

The auctioneer looked resigned. ‘Sold for three guineas to the young man over there! Going once! Going twice! Going three times. Sold!’

It seemed he had a horse.

There was a boxing match now in the ring where the horses had been auctioned, ten pounds to any man who could knock down the champion. Already three men had been carried out, their faces bloody, their bodies limp or contorted. Behind them cheers and boos rang out, and men called odds for bets. Billy and Roman John hardly noticed them.

‘You haven’t even checked its teeth, boy! How do you think you’re going to get it home?’

‘I’ll lead him.’

‘It must have taken three men, maybe more, just to get it here. And you think you can lead a savage horse by yourself.’

Billy gazed at the horse. It was tethered to the fence—the man who’d been leading the stallion had refused to try to take him further. The horse gazed at him out of the edges of his eyes, and stamped his feet. He was a clear grey, almost pure white. He was the biggest horse Billy had ever seen.

That horse could crush him. Tear him apart.

‘If I can’t lead him I’ll let him go.’ He hadn’t known he was going to say that either. The words surged up inside him, like a bucket rising from a well. ‘You can’t keep a horse like that prisoner. If he doesn’t want to work with you, then he should be allowed to go.’

‘And be caught again by the first lot of passing trappers.’

Billy shook his head. ‘That horse won’t be caught again.’ He turned to Roman John. ‘Lend me sixpence. Please.’

‘What for?’

‘To buy an apple.’

‘You think you’ll win him with an apple?’

‘No. But an apple will show him I want to please him.’

Roman John sighed. ‘I’ll buy you a bag of apples, boy. I’ll even haul you to the surgeon when the horse tries to kick you to death. I’ll have him check your brain while he’s at it. Maybe you lost it along the track.’

He vanished into the crowd toward the pedlar carts with their rum and pies and fruit.

Billy stood by the horse, carefully out of range of his teeth and hoofs, trying to keep his voice as calm and soothing as he could. ‘You’re all right now, boy. You’re a fine one, ain’t you? You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you now. Me and you, we’ve both had second chances, and this is yours, see?’

The horse stared at him, rolling his eyes, then glanced away, shifting restlessly at the noise of the crowds.

‘They beat me too, back at the workhouse. Got scars all down me back. It’ll be a fine life we have
together.’ Billy paused, a memory seeping back. A short man with dark hair, holding the reins of a coach. His father? Had his father been a groom then, or a coach driver? Had he too loved and lived with horses?

‘Here you are.’ Roman John held out a small sack of apples. ‘Bruised. I got them cheap.’

‘I don’t suppose he’ll notice.’

‘You’re going to get your fingers bitten off. Or yourself crippled when he kicks your knees.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You think? Well, aren’t you going to give him an apple?’

Billy shook his head. ‘Not till things are quieter. He can’t concentrate on me yet.’

Roman John stared at him, then at the horse. Finally he sighed. ‘I’ll set up camp for us again. Looks like we won’t be leaving here tonight.’

Billy nodded. ‘Could you bring me a bucket of water, first?’ The horse whinnied, and stamped his feet. The tether held him to the rail.

One by one the carts left, along with the men on horseback. A few fires blazed by tents beyond the paddock—men who, like them, had decided to stay another night. Most were drunk, lifting their stone jars and singing. Two were wrestling, rolling on the ground, while a small mob of onlookers cheered them on. A lone man sang to himself in a high, wordless voice—one of the freed lags so often seen, their minds and bodies rotted away by years of imprisonment, pain, bad food and loneliness.

Roman John would be by one of the fires, guarding their cart. Beside Billy the horse blew through his mouth, gazing at the bucket of water. He seemed steadier now without the noise and confusion.

‘Are you getting used to me, boy?’ He’d been talking like this all afternoon. He’d never talked as much before. Most times he knew the horse was too scared to hear his voice.

‘You want water, boy?’ He lifted the bucket up to the horse.

The horse stilled. Then as Billy drew closer his teeth flashed down at Billy’s arm.

‘No you don’t.’ He kept his voice even. ‘No biting. You don’t bite me and I won’t bite you. Here.’ He bent down, and grabbed a fallen branch beyond the rails, then used it to poke the bucket toward the horse. ‘Go on, boy. Have your drink.’

The horse rolled his eyes again, then bent down to the bucket.

The water tasted of wood and man, but I was thirsty. This new man hadn’t come close enough to bite yet, or kick.

I waited for my chance.

The shadows grew into darkness around us. I could smell smoke. The small man beside me didn’t move. He kept on making noises. They were good noises, for a man. Sensible and soothing ones, not yells and fuss. He smelt good too, a sweet smell that I had never come across before, but which made my mouth water just the same.

He had another smell as well. A smell of horse.

The night grew thicker. Another man came, bringing more water, and a blanket. ‘Billy,’ he said. ‘Billy.’ The small man who talked to me answered.

Billy. His name was Billy.

The second man went away. The small man Billy wrapped himself in the blanket, and lay down just
beyond my reach. I drank again. The night grew cold around us.

I dozed, and watched the night. The stars shivered in the great black fur of night. Before it was dawn the Billy man was up again, talking to me.

This time he held out his hand.

I almost bit it. But the night had calmed me down. I was hungry too, and something he was holding smelt good.

I took what was in his hand and crunched it between my teeth, then leant forward, sniffing for more. It tasted sweet and good and I was hungry.

He held out another to me, and then one more.

Slowly, very slowly, he untied the rope. ‘Come on, boy,’ he said. ‘Let’s find some grass. There’s good grass over there, and a creek too. Come on, boy.’

I almost pulled away. But he was leading me where I wanted to go most, where there was a smell of water that hadn’t been carried in a bucket, where there was grass the other horses hadn’t trampled. And so I followed him. He tethered me again, but this time with a longer rope, so I could wander about and eat.

He sat down, his back against a tree, and watched me, still talking.

‘Well?’ Roman John chewed on a grass stem. ‘Think you can tether him to the back of the cart?’

Billy shook his head. ‘I’ll have to lead him.’

‘What?! It’s a three-day walk back to the farm. More.’

‘He’ll be used to me when we get home then.’

Roman John sighed. ‘You’re worse than a boy in love. Very well. I’ll see you back there.’

Billy looked up. ‘You trust me?’

Roman John’s voice went gentler than he’d ever heard it. ‘Yes, boy. I trust you.’

Something hard seemed to shatter inside him. He felt like crying, without really knowing why. ‘Thank you. He’s a good horse,’ he added quickly. ‘He’s just been treated badly. Give him time and he’ll be the best horse in the colony. He just needs a chance.’

‘Yes,’ said Roman John. ‘He just needs a chance. I’ll see you in three days then, or four.’ He lifted up the reins, then hesitated. ‘You know, if I had ever had a son, I wouldn’t mind if he was just like you.’

The cart rattled off before Billy could reply.

The other stragglers were leaving the camp-ground too. Billy decided to wait till they had gone before he tried leading the horse down the road. One of the men changed course and rode up to him. ‘He’s a grand-lookin’ animal. Good luck with him, boy.’

‘Thanks.’

The man laughed, showing worn stumps of teeth. ‘I’da liked to buy him for me ownsome, but old Dargue wouldn’t be having it. Don’t get no time fer horse-breaking when ye works fer him.’ He clicked his tongue. His horse began to step away.

Billy kept one hand reassuringly on his own horse’s side. He’d already realised that men frightened the big animal. ‘Please,’ he called. ‘Do you know Jem Knightly? He was taken to work at Dargue’s place. We was—we
were
on the same boat out here.’

The man turned. ‘Jem Knightly? Aye, lad. I knew him. He’s gone now, but.’

‘Gone where?’ Had Jem turned bushranger, like they’d planned?

‘Gone to his maker.’ The man laughed again, as though life and death were just a joke. ‘Tried to take off with one o’ the master’s horses first week he were there. Master shot him. It were right good shooting…one shot to his chest were all it took.’

Billy let the words flow over him. Jem was dead. His only friend.

No, that wasn’t true. He had Roman John. He even had a horse. He had a future too. He felt guilt, as well as pain. He had so much now, while his mate had only six feet of dirt.

What if Jem had managed to escape? What if Jem had ridden up today, looking for him? What would he have done?

Billy knew without thinking. He’d chosen his life six months before. A solid life, not a bushranger’s, with a farm, a wife one day, if he was lucky, with children sitting by the fire. A conservative life, not the adventures of a bushranger, roaming the mountains till he died…

Conservative.

The horse pulled slightly as a passing cart startled him. Billy gentled him automatically. ‘That’s all right, boy. You’re a fine big lad. Nothing to scare you here.’ He stroked the horse’s nose. The horse blinked and snorted slightly, but allowed it.

‘That’s what I’ll call you, boy. Conservative. No more adventuring for either of us. You’re settling down with me.’

Conservative whuffled through his nose, then bumped his head against the sack, looking for more apples.

It was soothing being led along the track.

At first we saw other men and horses, but we left the road until they’d passed us by. At last there was just us, and the animals and bush.

There were no more sweet things in the sack. But I found I had come to like the sound of his voice, the way his hands patted my neck.

I had been lonely. Now I wasn’t alone.

He was still a man, and I still hated men. But I had been frightened too. Slowly I began to feel there was no need to be frightened now. If he had left me untethered I’d have galloped away. But I no longer tried to bite him, or kick him either.

We passed a creek. He drank when I did, my tether in his hand. I could have pulled away. I didn’t. He let me drink as long as I wanted, standing by me waiting till I’d finished.

The first day or two he ate things in his sack. The last day he ate nothing. But he still let me linger on
the creek flats, eating the new grass, and when I was thirsty allowed me to lead him away from the road, to where I could smell water.

He treated me as though I were still a king.

It was growing dark when at last we came to another place of men. I could see a light between the trees. I could smell sheep and other horses, as well as men.

I snorted, nervous; felt his hand again, and heard his voice, soothing me, so when he at last called out I didn’t try to break away in fright.

‘Hoi! Any dinner left? I’m starving!’