Burns’ station—The horse-breaker—Colonial “Blow”—Satan the
First—Mat “collars” the buckjumper.
Burns listened in wonder to Mat’s narrative, and when it was
concluded, said,—
“You are the first white man who have lived amongst the blacks of
the northern coast, and come again into civilization. I remember my
brother writing out by mail about you perfectly well; there were a lot
of my stores on that ship, but she never turned up. Well, wonders will
never cease; what are you thinking of doing? By-the-bye, Stephen said
that you were the most undefeated rider, for your age, in Hampshire.”
“I could ride a bit then,” replied Mat, “but I don’t know what I could
do now.”
“Oh, _you’ll_ do all right, one does not forget riding any more than
swimming, and if you like to spell here, why I shall be pleased to
have you and your mates too, and you can look about you. I’ve had no
end of new chums; but unless they can ride anything, and everything,
they are of no use to me, and I believe those men you met went off in
a huff, because I talked in the same way, and swore at them a bit for
their laziness; but then, you see, one always _has_ to swear at new
chums.”
Burns’ remarks were not altogether free from strong language; many
of his expressions were remarkable, and quite new to the brothers;
moreover they were assisted “up” by sundry nips from a bottle of
“Three Star” on the table, so that in a short time he grew maudlin and
monotonous, finally settling down in his “squatter” chair for a sleep.
“Well, what do you think of _him_?” queried Mat, as soon as Burns had
disappeared.
“Why he drinks like a fish, and is such a swearing chap, that I don’t
wonder at those men clearing out.”
“I don’t fancy him very much, myself,” agreed Mat, “but I don’t think
he’s a bad sort when he’s sober. Let us stay on a bit here; he’s got a
chap coming to break in colts, and I want to see him at work.”
So they stayed on until the breaker arrived—a long limbed, actively
built Victorian native (i.e. a white man born in Victoria).
Mat had heard that this station of Burns’ carried some notorious
buckjumpers amongst the mob of horses which pastured on it, so after a
few general remarks, he asked the man whether he could sit out a real
_bad_ one.
“Buckjumper!” answered the breaker, “me sit a buckjumper? There ain’t
a horse in the whole country I can’t ride, and smoke my pipe on ’im,
and without a ‘kid,’ too.”
“What’s that?” asked Mat.
“Why, it’s plain, _you’re_ a new chum, not to know as a ‘kid’s,’ what
boobies use, a stick strapped in front to keep ’em on. _I_ never uses
it, as Burns will tell you.”
“All right,” cried Burns, who now came up and joined in the
conversation, “We shall have the mob up to-morrow, and see how you
shape on Satan the First.”
This sudden challenge somewhat sobered the bragging tone of the
trainer, to whom it was addressed; for after examining Burns for some
seconds with a bleary eye, he remarked,—
“You’re in such a blooming hurry, I must prepare a bit first.”
“Which means,” said Burns aside to Mat, “that with a few more nobblers
he will get some Dutch courage into him. I can see that he has heard
about the horse from the change in his tone.”
The next morning, however, our rough-rider was as full of “spirits”
and bounce as ever; yet he looked “full of riding” as he turned out
in jack-boots, clean white moleskin breeches, blue shirt, a silk
handkerchief of the same colour round his throat and a serviceable
old “cabbage-tree” hat on his head; it was evident, though, that his
nerves were not very fit, when the horse was at length saddled.
“Too shaky about the hands,” whispered Burns.
And sure enough at the third “buck,” “Satan” proved the victor by
sending his rider into a bunch at one corner of the stockyard.
“I never knew a horse shape like that of all I’ve crossed,” swore the
discomfited rider, as soon as he could get his wind.
“Never mind,” laughed Burns, “when he’s fresh to-morrow, I’ll mount my
friend on him, and we’ll all go and see the fun.”
“What! that bloke with the black beard, what had never heard tell on a
‘kid’—he ride! I’ll bet you five notes he don’t sit him as long as I
did.”
“Done with you,” cried Burns, who had long since seen that the man
ranked amongst the common class of “blowers,” or “braggarts,” peculiar
to his profession in the colony.
The next day Mat was up early, and meeting Burns, told him that as
there was a bet on his riding, he must take a “stretch” with another
horse first, or he could not answer for keeping his seat.
So a hot-looking chestnut was saddled, Mat straightway mounted and
disappeared into the Bush.
When he returned a couple of hours later, he said to Tim, as he threw
himself out of the saddle, “The greatest treat I’ve had for years;
felt like a man again on that horse, but he’s a hot ’un, and no
mistake.”
An hour’s rest, a gentle run, and then Mat changed his shirt, and told
Burns he was ready.
“What! going to ride with bare legs and feet?”
“Yes, I seem to feel more supple, and my feet are as hard as leather.”
These remarks were followed by a jeer from the breaker, who hiccoughed
between his cups, “Ring up, the show’s a-going to commence.” “Hullo!”
he added, “what’s the nigger up to?” for Dromoora approached at this
moment, armed with spears and club, and calling Mat aside, whispered,—
“Take the ‘thunder-stick,’ that thing will kill you.”
Mat laughed, and was proceeding to explain the matter to his
companion, when they saw that the horse had at last been yarded.
The last bit of advice came from the breaker. “Take a drink, mate;
it’s the last you’ll ever taste.”
“No thanks,” laughed Mat, as he walked towards the stockyard, which
by this time was surrounded by every man, woman, and child about the
station.
It was a long time before the stock-riders could induce the horse to
put his head into the “bail,” as he rushed open-mouthed at every one
who approached, causing a general stampede to the rails.
When at last his head was between the two beams, and these had been
locked, he gave a heave with his neck to test the timbers, and then
remained quiet for a moment.
“Now bridle and saddle,” called out Burns. The bridle difficulty
was soon arranged; but getting on the saddle took more time, as the
animal’s hind legs were at liberty.
This being at length accomplished, a “greenhide” crupper was slipped
under the tail, when from the top rails two men quickly spliced the
hair partially into it.
When all was ready, Burns sang out, “Let go.” The bail was opened, and
the horse was free, and making for the first man which caught his eye.
However, all hands were prepared for this rush, and quickly gained
the top rail of the stockyard fence—all save Mat, who at first
coolly dodged the brute; but at length followed the example of his
companions, as “Satan” was evidently determined to kill him, and he
could see no present chance of getting on his back.
Finding now that he had the yard to himself, the horse gave a moderate
buck or two; but realizing that the saddle could not be shifted,
contented himself with walking round and round, and glaring sullenly
at the spectators.
Not a sound could now be heard. All eyes were fixed on Mat, who,
watching his opportunity, sprang lightly down, and seizing the bridle
by both reins close to the bit, was preparing to mount. Taken for
the moment unawares—so quickly and silently had Mat accomplished
this—the horse gave an angry snort, and the next moment was careering
round, swinging Mat off his feet; but our forester’s grasp was
powerful, and could not be shaken off.
[Illustration: Mat collars the buckjumper.]
Finding that he could not free himself, the horse was preparing to put
in practice some of his old tricks, when Mat vaulted, or swung himself
as quick as thought into the saddle; yet before he could get either
foot into the stirrups, up went “Satan” into the air, with head and
tail down.
Three, four, six, ten, and more bucks, till the rider appeared as if
permanently balanced on a pivot.
Finding this process of no avail, and that Mat did not feel to him
like coming off just yet, the beast next tried to bite his legs,
gnashing his teeth in his furious but futile efforts, as Mat cast each
threatened limb backwards, and thus baulked him. Then he struck at
his legs with his hind feet; but here again no result. The man’s leg
seemed simply to alight on the horse’s neck at each threatened stroke.
The next “round” was of a very different nature. Satan threw himself
down, and _rolled_ with his rider.
To those who were witnessing this mighty struggle of man _versus_
brute, it appeared as if this last act was a decisive one, and as if
Mat had “gone down,” never to come up again. Both had disappeared
amidst a mountain of dust; but a lusty cheer rang out as the rider
again showed himself, and still sitting in his saddle, when the horse
rose, though so covered was his face and beard with blood and black
dust, that his features were barely recognizable.
The spectators could now no longer control themselves, but crowded
into that portion of the yard farthest from the contest. The horse
took no notice of them whatever, finding he had that on his back the
like of which he had never had before.
And now, not giving his rider time even to grasp a wet towel which was
thrown to him, “Satan” tried his last and hitherto never-failing trick.
Gathering himself together with a snort of triumph, he made a wild and
terrific sidelong plunge against the massive timbers of the stockyard
fence.
The sensation of “bucking,” as this horse had bucked, had been new to
Mat; he had never been rolled with before, in the peculiar manner with
which this horse had tried to crush him; but of the last “round” he
had had many former experiences in his old forest days; whilst riding
young colts in the beech-woods, and as he afterwards remarked to Tim,—
“It seemed quite ‘homely.’”
So when the horse made his plunge on the off side, our forester slung
his right leg behind him, and “Satan” came with his ribs crashing
against the heavy fencing, with a shock that knocked the remaining
wind out of him, and which at the same time nearly dismounted his
rider.
One of the old stockmen in the yard now begged Mat to get off during
this lull; but before he could answer, a black form rushed through
the throng, and with spear poised in the air, screamed in Waigonda,—
“Look out! whilst I spear the man-eater through the throat.”
Mat stretched out to catch the poised weapon—seized it—at the same
moment the horse made another plunge for the fence. Mat again saved
his leg but was overbalanced trying to do two things at once, and he
fell off. Never, however, quitting his hold of the reins, he gave
Satan a sound slap with his open hand as he regained the saddle,
prepared for further hostilities.
But the fight was over.
The horse stood there, never caring even for the jostling of men who
were round him; two jets of steam spouting from his nostrils, his wet
flanks heaving with spasmodic jerks, and accompanied by a noise of
choking sobs.
Mat appeared ready to faint, so, without more ado, Tim and his friends
dragged him from the saddle, bore him away on their shoulders out of
the yard, and deposited him on a mattress, which had been placed under
a shady tree by Terebare’s forethought.
Burns, during the time that this “man-horse” struggle had lasted, had
been in a perfect ecstasy of delight, hopping round the crowd with
a bottle of his favourite “three star” in his hand, out of which he
constantly “pledged our hero,” or proffered it to the bystanders for
the same purpose. When he saw Mat at length carried out of the yard,
he hurried up to him with,—
“By Jove! old man, finest thing I’ve ever seen; if it hadn’t been for
the two feet of dust, though, he’d have killed you outright when he
rolled. By gad, you’re the best man I’ve seen in over twenty years of
bush-life. I’d offer you a hundred a year, and more, if you’d stop;
but anyhow, take a ‘ball’ now, you look as though you wanted it.”
But Mat, though he was glad of the brandy, and took a deep pull at the
bottle, had no voice left in him.
So they left him to the care of the faithful Terebare, who, taking his
head on her lap and bathing his face, sung him a soothing native chant
until he fell asleep from exhaustion.