THE waning of September, with its sunny days, cold nights, and morning
mists, made little difference to the ponies’ daily routine. Apparently
they were as free to go where they listed as any wild Western herd. But
their owners kept an eye on them, and left them there or had them
“caught in,” as they pleased.
Later in the year strings of ponies would wend their way to the
Brockenhurst sales, but it chanced that the owner of the bay leader of
the herd in which Skewbald ran, decided to have him in before he got
busy catching other people’s ponies, which was always the case towards
the end of the year, as he was an adept at the game.
The shadows of a golden afternoon were lengthening, and the herd,
scattered over a mile of valley bottom, was getting to work after the
midday siesta, when a horseman appeared on the skyline at the head of
the valley. It was the colt-hunter seeking his property. A moment later
another rider came down one of the slopes, and a third emerged from the
woods bordering the ridge on the other side of the valley. This last was
Mollie, a girl of fifteen, and the other a lad of thirteen, her brother
Tom. They had come to help their father to capture the pony. This was
not the first time they had taken part in the chase.
The mares heard the thud of hoofs, threw up their heads, and whinnied to
their foals and yearlings. Then a call came from their leader a good way
down the valley, and at once the ponies made off towards the summons,
increasing their pace as the boy and girl riders came down upon them,
shouting and waving, in the hope of driving them back, so that the
stallion could be dealt with alone. But the girl had to check, as she
came to a boggy patch, and they swept on to join their leader. “Get
along, Tom,” called the father, following behind. “Up the hill, Mollie,
and head them off.” Tom, on a rough pony, and riding like a centaur,
raced after the fugitives, which with one accord stretched into a
gallop, stringing out along the valley, according to their ability; the
stallion at the head, and putting his best foot forward, as if he knew
that out of all the lot he was the one wanted. The ground resounded with
the thud of hoofs, manes and tails waved in the air, and mares called to
their foals, the youngsters responding gallantly.
The stallion was making for a wood, and to reach this the ponies had to
skirt a swamp. As the leader rounded the wet land, and made for the
upland shelter, Mollie came directly towards him, screeching and waving.
It was too much for the pony’s nerves; he turned and fled up the valley,
making for the higher ground, and followed by the herd, somewhat
confused and bunched together by the check. Some of the foals began to
tire, and, with their mothers, slackened and fell out. Among them was
the chestnut mare, who retired with her foal to the shelter of a clump
of hollies, whence, with twitching ears and distended nostrils, they
watched the pursuit. The stallion, with some faithful companions, now
encountered Tom, who turned him again, and then the man took up the
running. Their aim was to tire out the stallion, “to run him off his
legs,” for in this waste was no friendly farmyard or paddock into which
he could be driven. Grass and heather fed, as he was, he was not likely
to have the staying power of stable-fed ponies. On the other hand, he
had no weight to carry, and, if allowed to get into the woods, might
elude his pursuers until nightfall made it impossible to continue the
chase.
The mares, yearlings, and two-year-olds dropped out one by one. In
little groups they watched the chase, pursued and pursuers rapidly
dwindling in size as they raced down the valley, then thundering back
along the ridge, black against the evening sky. The bay had no rest, and
was turned time after time. Now and then one rider slowed down, but the
others kept inexorably on the heels of their prey.
The chase was not without its dangers, for the hillsides were dry and
slippery. Once the stallion fell, and rolled clean over, but was up and
away in a moment. The girl’s pony slipped twice, but she stuck to him
like a burr. The ridden ponies had been on the business before, and were
as keen as their riders. They were quick to see the signs of deflection
on the part of their quarry, and would of their own accord cut off
corners to where the stallion was heading. More than once the boy’s
pony, going straight for his objective, went under a gnarled holly, and
the rider had to flatten himself, with his head buried in the pony’s
mane, or he would have been swept off by the lower branches, and hung
aloft. But it was all in the day’s work. Perhaps the man took it the
most quietly. He was there to secure his pony—his children were out for
a good run.
The end came when the bay visibly tired, and could no longer keep ahead.
He was alone, for all his companions had deserted him. The man forged
alongside, and the two ran almost touching, when suddenly the rider, a
halter in his hand, jumped from his mount, and flung himself on the
stallion’s neck, bearing him to the ground. In a trice the halter was
slipped on, and the man was up and on his pony, before the shaken bay
knew what had happened. It was a feat of strength and agility of which
few of the forest men were capable.
The others rode up exulting in their father’s prowess. “Keep clear of
his heels, Tom,” was the caution. As the stallion turned to make off,
the man’s mount leaned against the rope, bracing herself against the
coming jerk, which brought the would-be fugitive up short, pulling him
off his feet. He was up in a twinkling, and lashed out with his heels,
but all were prepared, and stinging whips warned him against these
tactics. When he hung back the two behind chivied him on. Once he lay
down and was dragged along the turf a few paces, but the whips again
drove him up. Then, with ears depressed, the red of his eyes showing,
and bared teeth, he tried biting, but a slash across the face intimated
that such an assault would not pay.
Finally, the stallion, dead tired as he was, lost heart, dropped his
ears dejectedly, and trudged along, while his captors, almost as weary,
went homewards across the moors, now and then breaking into speech, as
they recalled the more exciting moments of the hunt.
Of the stallion’s life in the coal-pits there is not much to tell. This
was a good mine, and the ponies were well looked after. Their stalls
were lit with electricity, and they were properly fed and groomed. When
at work they wore leather hats, so that in the low places a bump would
not injure them.
Once at least the stallion, who gained the good-will of the drivers by
his willingness and activity, had a good rest, beside his weekly one,
for when the great strike was decreed and the pony-men were called out,
the ponies had to be brought to the surface. The bay was among the first
batch, no longer bright of coat, and his eyes dazzled by the light of
day. But when he reached the field of dingy grass, so unlike the clean
heather of his native soil, he lay down, and rolled to his heart’s
content, then got up and whinnied long and loud, as if calling across
the great open spaces of the forest.
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[Illustration]