Heart of the Dreaming (10 page)

TR slipped out of his coat, pushed up a sleeve and inserted his arm into the vaginal opening, slowly turning the small body around. As he adjusted the foal in the birth canal, the mare heaved and with TR gently easing it out, the bloodied foal flopped onto the straw.

Queenie and TR exchanged a worried look. For a second it lay there, then calmly the mare turned and began licking away the birth covering. The tiny horse lifted its head and stared with dark brown eyes at its new world.

Queenie felt tears spring to her eyes as she looked at TR who was watching the mare and her foal with a happy grin. ‘How wonderful! Good on you, TR. I was worried the poor thing was going to suffocate.'

‘She might have managed okay on her own, but it was probably a good thing we were here. Pretty little thing, isn't he?' said TR.

They sat there watching for a while longer, as the mare cleaned up her foal which was already attempting to unfold its wobbly long legs.

Queenie glanced at TR in the dim light shed by the lantern hanging from the rafter. She had never seen this tender side of him before and realised she knew very little about him despite the fact they were often in daily contact. She had only ever discussed day-to-day
issues, reluctant to get too familiar with him. She had never forgotten the powerful emotions he'd aroused in her at her birthday party, and because the memory disturbed her, she had kept him at arm's length.

TR stood up and stretched. ‘I think they'll be fine. I've got some coffee brewing at my quarters, do you want some?'

Queenie hesitated, she hadn't been inside the shearers' quarters since TR had moved in to share with Ernie, the sixteen-year-old Aboriginal jackaroo and rouse about. ‘All right, thanks.'

Ernie was asleep in his bunk, screened by a small partition. Through the doorway to TR's section Queenie could see a neatly made bed and a shelf of books. Between the two sleeping sections was a table and two chairs set before an old wood-burning pot belly. TR lifted the coffee pot from the stove and poured strong black coffee. Opening the stove door, he threw in a few more pieces of wood.

Queenie curled her hands around the steaming mug. ‘So what are you going to call the foal?'

‘I reckon that's your job, Queenie. It's your Dad's horse,' replied TR.

The smile faded from Queenie's face. ‘Yes, but he seems to be taking so little interest in anything these days …' Her voice trailed off and she took a sip of the coffee.

TR pulled up the other chair and leaned back in it, sticking his booted feet on the box of wood by the stove. ‘Yeah, I've noticed. I've
been trying to interest him in building up the horse stock. There's a big herd of brumbies roaming Blue Hills and the scrub country. If we could cull any good ones, and crossbreed them with the thoroughbreds and existing stockhorses, I think you could start building up a good line. There's still money in horses — despite Henry Ford.'

‘How many brumbies are out there?' asked Queenie with interest.

‘Apparently the Flying Doc spotted them the other day and radioed back that there were several dozen.'

‘If you picked the best of them for breeding and broke some of the others — if they were any good — you could sell them for a quick profit,' said Queenie thoughtfully.

TR grinned at her. ‘And who's going to do the breaking?'

Queenie blushed slightly and couldn't help smiling back. ‘Okay, I'm happy to admit you're good with horses. You're the breaker.'

‘We could do it together if you can persuade your father it's a good idea for Tingulla.'

Queenie stared at him. ‘I'd want to be there to muster them as well as break and sell them,' she said firmly.

‘Oh, I figured you would,' said TR, his mouth twitching in a half-smile.

Queenie handed him her mug. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I'll have a word to Dad.'

As she rose she nodded towards his bookshelf. ‘You like books? What are you reading?'

‘Oh, everything. Technical stuff on horses at the moment and a bit of escapism. My Dad
was a hopeless Irish romantic so I inherited his love of the blarney. Though I'm fond of the Welsh neighbours — Dylan Thomas …' he stopped, looking sheepish. 'I read Henry Lawson too, y'know.'

Queenie tried not to look as surprised as she felt. ‘Well, if you ever want to borrow a book from Tingulla's library, you're welcome.' She smiled at him. ‘Good night, TR. And thanks.'

‘Good night to you, Queenie. I'm glad you were there.'

Several days later TR was watching the foal frolicking by its mother when Sarah pulled up at the home paddock gate in her father's car.

‘Hello, TR! And goodbye!' she called, hanging out the window.

‘Where are you off to, Sarah?' TR climbed over the gate and strolled to the car.

‘England, the Continent, the world! I sail in a couple of days but I'm going down to Sydney tomorrow. I just came to say goodbye to Queenie.'

‘I guess you'll be gone some time?' TR took off his hat and leaned against the car.

Sarah thought again what an incredibly good-looking man he was. ‘Well, at least a year. Not worth going if you don't see everything. I still wish Queenie were coming with me, it would have been such fun. Her Dad thought it would be good for her, too,' added Sarah, her bubbly enthusiasm stilled for a moment.

‘I think she's happier here, working things out in her own way. She feels secure at Tingulla.'

‘I guess that's true. But before she settles down she should see a bit of the world. Maybe she might come over in a few months and join me in my search for Mr Right,' smiled Sarah.

TR grinned at her. ‘Mr Right?'

‘Oh yes, ever since we were little Queenie and I decided we'd both marry tall dark handsome men with slight accents who we'd meet in the Alps or on a rocky island in the Mediterranean!'

‘Dreamers!' TR held out his hand to Sarah. ‘Good luck and take care, Sarah. If you don't find Mr Right remember you've got some good-hearted blokes hanging around here you might consider.' He winked at her as he squeezed her hand.

‘Right, TR, I'll keep that in mind. But seriously, do keep an eye on Queenie. Colin is away, and so selfish anyway, and it seems Queenie is looking after her Dad more than the other way around these days.'

‘I will, Sarah.'

She revved the car and waved. ‘Goodbye … and good luck with the horses!'

Queenie and TR confronted Patrick in his study. They'd been talking about horse breeding for months. Now they wanted a decision.

‘Look, Dad, it's a good opportunity. Those brumbies are going to move on soon. There could well be some excellent horses amongst
the hacks. They're wild and inbred but some might have come from good stock.'

‘And to survive out there means they're tough and that's the quality we want to breed into our strain,' added TR.

Patrick leaned back, looking at the two earnest faces appealing to him. Queenie's deep green eyes and TR's vivid blue eyes stared solidly at him.

‘It could be dangerous.'

‘I wouldn't allow Queenie to take any risks,' said TR firmly. Queenie flashed him a defiant look, but she bit her tongue.

‘I can't spare any of the boys. I don't like the idea of the two of you alone out there. If it was anyone else, TR, I'd say no … but —' Before Patrick could finish Queenie rushed to hug him. ‘Thanks, Dad. You won't regret it. We'll come back with some good horses, I just know it! After all, you've got the two best horse people in the district on the job.'

‘That's the only reason I'm allowing this mad venture.' Patrick knew his daughter was more than capable of handling herself and wild horses in the bush. He was also happy to see her bursting with enthusiasm and high spirits. This was his Queenie of old. How could he refuse her? He had to admit it could be a profitable exercise.

Queenie excused herself to break the news to Millie.

TR stood as Patrick studied him. ‘I don't have to tell you of the responsibility I'm handing to you,' said Patrick quietly. ‘I am trusting you with my daughter, TR.'

‘She'll always be safe when I'm around. I promise you that.'

Patrick nodded and as he shook the younger man's hand he clasped it briefly in both his hands before turning away.

TR and Queenie squatted on their haunches in the sparse shadow of a gum tree and studied the group of wild horses grazing calmly in the valley below them. Flinty ironstone cliffs glinted in the sun on either side, sheltering this narrow and protected gorge.

The brumbies were spread out in a mass of colours and sizes, their manes and tails long and matted, their legs muscled and strong. As the mob rested, one horse stood apart, his black head lifted alertly.

‘Don't they look proud and free. It seems a shame to break them up,' whispered Queenie to TR who was studying them through a pair of binoculars. ‘How many are there?'

‘Maybe fifty. Look at the stallion, the big black fella. I bet he's the leader.'

‘He looks as if he's a bit suspicious, but he wouldn't know we're here — we're too high, and anyway, we're downwind. Maybe he just senses something is amiss.'

TR handed her the glasses. ‘There are some nice horses in that mob. A few runts, but they look pretty fit.'

‘Wonder where they came from,' mused Queenie.

‘All over the place, some escaped from properties, some have probably been breeding out here for years. They travel for miles
and miles to find each other, and then form big mobs.'

They continued to watch in silence, sharing the binoculars and studying the horses individually. Occasionally TR would nudge Queenie and point out a particular horse.

A loose rock suddenly dislodged from the opposite cliff and crashed down the cliff face, startling the horses who dashed into a tight group behind the black stallion.

TR and Queenie grinned at each other. ‘He's the boss, all right. We get him where we want him and all the others will follow,' whispered TR close to her cheek.

‘He looks a mean sod. You can break him, TR.'

‘Thanks a lot. This isn't going to be easy with just the two of us and the dogs. It'll be hard riding, Queenie. And risky.'

‘I can see that. And I'm not nervous. I know what we're doing.'

‘Okay, don't bite my head off. Let's go work out how we're going to corral them.' TR slid back from the precipice where they were perched.

Silently they moved back to where they had hobbled their horses and, mounting them, turned back towards camp. Their quarry had been found relatively easily. Catching them would be a lot more difficult.

Queenie relit the small campfire and TR poured water into the billy from a water bag.

‘So, how do you think we should round them up?' asked Queenie.

‘If we get them down into that dry river
bed and herd them up the ravine to the dead end we can pen them and pull out the ones we want. We'll have to build a bit of fencing and a slip rail gate, but that won't take more than a few hours if we both swing an axe.'

‘I can swing an axe, TR. I'd figured we'd have to do that anyway.'

‘Just checking that I know what I'm doing, huh? I'm not worried, I have great faith in the dogs,' grinned TR.

Queenie gave him a slight push, causing him to sit hard on the ground. ‘Dogs indeed. They're sheep dogs, they'll do as I say,' she said, throwing the black tea leaves into the bubbling water, determined TR would not get the upper hand.

Queenie lifted the blackened billy of tea off the fire with a stick as TR sliced a chunk of corned beef and slapped it between two pieces of damper.

‘We'd better leave camp at daybreak and hope we get to them before they hear or smell us,' said TR, munching through the hunk of bush bread. ‘This afternoon we build the pen.'

They rode back to where the ravine began, taking the packhorses with them, and worked their way down to the floor of the valley. The river bed began at the base of the cliffs where a waterfall would plummet in the rainy season.

It took most of the afternoon to build the trap. Although the spot they'd chosen for the stockyard looked narrow, they still had to erect almost one hundred yards of fencing to stretch along both sides of the valley to the sheer cliffs formed by a glacier in some distant age.

Queenie and TR worked side by side, each knowing what needed to be done without discussion. They swung axes, hauled saplings, lashing them to trees, and used the packhorses to drag fallen trunks along the fence line.

The heat was stifling as the sun rose above them and not a breath of wind drifted down to the floor of the ravine. The birds were silent as if singing was too much effort. Down in the sandy river bed the dogs dug holes in the shade of the bank and lay there panting.

TR dropped his shirt onto the ground. The sweat made his tanned body shine like polished brass. He swung the axe with the rhythmic skill of a bushman and Queenie noticed the iron-hard muscles in his arms that powered the steel blade into the logs needed for the fence.

Queenie worked just as hard. She too, used an axe, mainly on the saplings for the rails. She had a good eye and made a clean cut, though her muscles and back screamed and the perspiration ran in streams down her body and soaked through her shirt. Blisters began to form on her hands, but she didn't complain or pause. Strangely, she found it bearable and realised she was enjoying the silent companionship that came from working alongside TR.

The sun was setting as they finished the slip rails that would make the gate and cleared away the scrub at the entrance of the trap so the horses would have a clear run in.

They saddled up to ride back to camp. ‘Well, what do you think?' said Queenie, critically eyeing their work.

‘Some of your bits look a bit dodgy, but I reckon it'll do the job,' said TR with a slight grin.

‘Thanks. You do dinner then,' said Queenie turning her horse so he wouldn't see her smile. She knew he had paid her a compliment in the backhanded way of bushmen. If any part of that fence was weak, they'd still be working on it.

Queenie sat by the campfire nursing her cracked and blistered hands. She stared thoughtfully into the darkening sky.

‘The sky seems a different colour and there is a strange smell in the air. Surely we couldn't be getting rain after all these months,' she said.

TR glanced up. ‘Chance'd be a fine thing. But I see what you mean. This drought has gone on long enough. Let's hope rain is on the way.'

He handed her a mug of tea, noticing her sore hands — but he knew Queenie better now, so said nothing.

At piccaninny light, the pearly grey light before the dawn, TR rolled out of his sleeping bag and poked the fire. It flared and he put a billy of water on to boil then checked the hobbled horses grazing nearby. Ten minutes later, holding a mug of steaming tea, he nudged Queenie in her swag with the toe of his boot. ‘Time to move, Queenie.'

Sleepily, Queenie took the tea and sipped it. TR pointed to the sky. ‘Take a look. Your premonition could be right.'

Smudges of black cloud hung above the first streaks of the sunrise.

‘We've had a few false alarms. The clouds
could disappear by midday. It happens a lot,' said Queenie.

They had worked out their plan of attack, the signals to each other and the possible loopholes and dangers. They knew their key player was the black stallion — where he went the others would follow.

In the dawn light, as the edges of the sky began to run with lilac pink and gold, they started their slow circuit. Moving in quietly behind the brumbies, they followed slowly as the mob began to graze their way along the ravine.

Timing of their charge was crucial. They had to position themselves behind the group so they would head up the ravine into the narrow mouth where there was no exit and their trap waited.

The tail-enders among the brumbies knew there were two strange horses behind them but took little notice as the horses moved softly and held back. The dogs were out of sight awaiting their call.

The stallion was becoming edgy. He shook his head and whinnied. Picking up his feet he trotted forward, stopped and turned, facing the rear of the mob. Queenie and TR stilled their walking horses. They wouldn't be able to hold the brumbies back if the stallion turned them and charged at Queenie and TR.

The stallion-hesitated, deciding whether to charge towards the strangers or retreat. In that split second TR lifted his stock whip, snaking it through the air with a shrieking crack that bounced off the cliff walls like a ricocheting bullet. At the same instant he kicked his horse into a gallop shouting, ‘Now!'

On the left flank, Nareedah broke into a gallop as Queenie let out a piercing whistle to the dogs who bounded forward and raced up the ravine.

The sudden noise and movement galvanised the wild horses. The stallion reared and snorted, thudding his hooves on the dry earth of the river bed. He charged into the mouth of the ravine with the rest of the horses strung out behind him as they blindly followed.

In seconds a cloud of dust enveloped them, but sitting firmly and easily, Queenie and TR raced their horses forward, their stock whips cracking and snapping, the dogs barking and circling the brumbies at the rear.

It was a mad headlong dash into the unknown, and Queenie's excitement mounted as Nareedah sidestepped ruts and holes, leapt boulders, and swerved to avoid overhanging branches that threatened to slap Queenie cruelly across the face, possibly ripping out an eye, or dislodging her from the saddle.