The Barrakee Mystery. Arthur W. Upfield
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dust rose in a cloud. Again came the demoniac scream of rage, this time attracting the two women from the house. Now in the centre of the yard, the horse paused for two seconds. Again it appeared to sink, again it pivoted on its forefeet, rose again directly its hind hoofs touched the ground, came down on all fours, its legs like sticks.
Ralph was jarred by that springless drop. His knees were grazed, though he did not realize it, by the terrific unyielding pressure against the saddle-flaps. Between the rails Kate and Mrs Watts followed every movement with wide eyes and beating hearts. Kate even then wondered why Sonny held a rifle at the ready.
For the third and last time the horse screamed. Then it went mad. Rearing, it walked on its hind legs. Ralph, lying along its neck, tried to stop it, but it reared over and backwards to crush the demon, the unshakeable demon on its back.
Mrs Watts cried out. Kate’s heart stopped. Sonny swore, for horse and man were invisible in the rising dust-cloud. In its centre writhing figures moved. The watchers did not see that Ralph had leapt clear, that before the horse regained its feet he was once more in the saddle.
Horse and man came charging out of the dust. Sonny determined to shoot the mad thing at the first chance presented. Buck! The horse behaved like an old hand.
It tried to get its head round to tear at one of Ralph’s legs. It rushed the fence to roll against it and sweep its rider off. Failing, it entered into so terrific a buck that it somersaulted heels over head. Ralph flung himself sideways out of the saddle, landing lightly on his feet, the end of the reins still in his hands.
The horse was on its back. It was Sonny’s chance, but he did not shoot. His love of horses overcame his common sense. Besides, Ralph was on his feet. A wriggle, a heave, and the gelding was kneeling like a camel. A feather dropped on its back. Ralph was again in the saddle.
Lathered with sweat, the horse was caked, every inch of it, with mud. When it scrambled to its feet the wind whistled through its distended nostrils like escaping steam.
And then it stood quietly for a spell. Not beaten. This was only the end of the first round, which it had lost on points.
But the strength of the horse was greater than that of the lad. Ralph could not afford to give his mount any time to regain its wind. He snatched off his felt and slapped the gelding’s ears.
It seemed that in the first round the black fiend had gained the experience of years. There followed a succession of lightning bucks and spins, lasting second by second beyond a minute. The terrific motion told on Ralph. He began to feel the muscles of his legs grow laggard to respond to his will. A tearing, ripping pain in his side made breathing intensely difficult. He could have cried from the agony of impending defeat when he had been so sure he had the battle won.
The horse suddenly changed its tactics. It flung itself to the ground. Ralph never knew how his feet got out of the irons. But he was standing at the horse’s head whilst it rolled over and back again, in a frenzied effort to free itself from the galling saddle. The deep loose sand prevented damage to the harness.
Sonny had his second chance to end the battle, but, though he sighted the horse’s chest several times, his finger refused to press the trigger. Mrs Watts clung to the rails, her face like marble, her breathing checked. Kate, had she been able, would have screamed out idolatrous praise of the dauntless lad.
Once more the horse hunched its legs to rise. Once more Ralph leapt a full yard to the saddle. In it, he was shot up by the springing horse.
And then again came the eternal succession of whirling spins, high-flung rear-hoofs, back-rearing with fore-hoofs clawing the sky, humped arched back, gathered bunched feet, then up, up, to be suspended between earth and Heaven and down with terrific force on four stiffened legs. Buck, spin, rear; rear, spin, buck. On and on and on, without cease.
Horse and man were covered with bloody foam. Lethargy stole over the weaker. Less and less grew the pressure of knees against heaving flanks. Every bone in Ralph’s body felt as though crushed to dust.
Buck, buck, buck. Spin and spin again. Buck, rear on fore-feet, rear on hind-legs, fore-feet thrashing the dust-thickened air. Rear, spin, buck, and buck again. In and out of the dust-cloud maddened beast and puny human charged in sickening lurches, whirls, and undulating rushes.
Mrs Watts did not see the end. She slumped down against the rails in a faint. Kate clung to the great fence as though all strength had ebbed from her limbs. Nothing of her moved but her eyes. Sonny was stunned.
Horse and man were enveloped in the dust, invisible. It seemed to Kate that something awful had happened. The world ceased to be. Movement stopped. Everything—time, her heart—stood still. Slowly the dust was wafted aside by a zephyr wind. Like the picture on the developing plate there came into her vision the still, mud-caked form of a horse lying stretched out, stiffened in death, its heart broken. And standing, regarding it pitifully, Ralph Thornton, the reins yet in his hands.
She saw him raise his head slowly. She saw his handsome face disfigured by dust, and the dust on his cheeks was furrowed by great, slow-falling tears. From a far distance she heard him say, plaintively:
“Katie, Katie! Oh, Katie, I’ve killed him!”
She saw him close his eyes and fall as if shot across the body of the great horse.
Chapter Eleven
Poor Old Bony
Dugdale drove Kate Flinders and her uncle back to Barrakee the next afternoon. Ralph had been left behind, enthroned in the hearts of the overseer and his wife, and occupying the position of a god to the worshipping Sonny.
He had recovered from the faint of exhaustion to find himself in the horse-breaker’s arms, whilst that alarmed man was carrying him to the house, followed by the two women, Mrs Watts having been revived by Kate. But the next morning, though he was quite uninjured, the young man could hardly walk.
He was wearing a pair of the overseer’s trousers—his own having been frayed to ribbons—but the inner sides of his legs were red raw from the friction of the saddle, and walking was extremely painful. Kate and the squatter agreed that Mrs Thornton must not see him like that, or even know of his strenuous ride, for of late the Little Lady had complained of her heart.
“I think, Kate, we were wise to leave Ralph behind for a day or two,” the squatter remarked, after an unusually long silence. “We must tell your aunt that Watts required additional help. What have you been thinking about?”
“Ralph.”
The squatter waited, but Kate did not continue. He fell to wondering if his niece had discovered that she loved Ralph. Sincerely he hoped so, for her marriage to his and his wife’s adopted son had been their joint dream. The girl had come to them at the death of her mother ten years earlier, her father having died but one month before. She occupied a place in his heart similar to that occupied by Ralph in the heart of his wife. After an interval, she said:
“What did you say to Sonny, Uncle?”
“Quite a lot,” he replied grimly. “But, after all, he was not much to blame. He knew Ralph could ride, and like all of us who know horses, he didn’t dream that the gelding would fight like that, certainly not that the brute would go mad. No, he wasn’t much to blame, and he had the sense to get his rifle ready for use if the horse had thrown the lad and gone for him.” For a moment he hesitated. “By gum, I’d have given a thousand pounds to see that ride.”
“I would never have believed that a horse could have bucked so,” she said with shining eyes. “And never would I have believed that any man could have ridden him. Ralph was just wonderful.”
“He’s got sand all right, Kate. He’s altered a lot during his last school term. He is quieter, and I have the idea that he is thinking a great deal.”
“Worrying about something?” she asked.
“No, not worrying. Just thinking—thinking out some problem. I may be quite wrong. Do you love him, Kate?”