The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger (6 page)

Billy waited three months before he even put a saddle on Conservative.

For the first week he let the big horse run free with the others in the horse paddock. There were no other stallions there. Roman John put the one horse that was likely to challenge the newcomer in the sheep paddock.

Every morning, before his other work began, Billy brought Conservative apples, or a slice of damper, or dumplings taken from the stew. The stallion grew used to him. At last he even trotted up when he saw him coming, butting him with his head to get the treat.

He let him eat, patting his neck. After a week he attached a lead rope to the head collar he always left on. He simply led the horse at first, back and forth across the paddock, then out the gate and around the farm, through the sheep, past the men digging up potatoes or harvesting the corn, letting him get used to strange animals and people, and unfamiliar movements.

Slowly he taught the horse when to halt, and when to go, rewarding him with carrots or young turnips when he ran out of apples.

Walking, trotting, sometimes with a blanket on his back, sometimes without, teaching the horse commands with hands, with voice, the clicking of his tongue or a whistle. Just once he brought out a whip, to try to teach the horse when to go faster. But Conservative showed the whites of his eyes just at the sight of it.

No, thought Billy. Conservative had been frightened by whips too often. He would never let the horse be whipped again.

Once the horse was used to being patted on the nose he began to take the head collar off at night, putting it back on in the morning. And then he introduced a bit and bridle. Conservative resisted the bit for several days, but Billy didn’t push too hard and by the end of a week the horse was ready to open his mouth to accept it most times.

At first the other men scoffed. Why waste so much time on a horse? There were horses in plenty, especially now, with the price of wool so low. Few men could afford a good horse. Get rid of this one and buy one already broke, they told Billy.

But as the weeks went by the men too grew used to the sight of the young man and the horse, slowly learning about each other as they walked around the farm. And Roman John simply watched, his eyes content.

At last Billy knew it was time to put a saddle on Conservative’s blanket. It was time for the big horse to choose.

Would he let himself be ridden, be mastered by a human?

If he didn’t…Billy’s heart clenched. If he didn’t Billy would keep his word. He would let the big horse go.

Billy fed me two pieces of damper that morning, spread with something sweet. They were not as good as apples—nothing was as good as apples—but they were still good.

I ate them slowly, lifting my lips up as the sweetness tickled my teeth. Billy waited till I had finished, then put on my headstall and my lead rope, and led me out the gate toward the trees.

I waited for him to lead me round. Instead he stopped, and removed the rope and headstall. I stood there for a moment, uncertain. Then suddenly I realised.

I was free.

I stepped a few paces into the bush. The shadows flickered on either side. I waited for the feel of the rope, the whip…but there was nothing, though I could smell Billy behind.

I glanced back at him. He stood there, watching me. I stepped over to a tussock, bent and tore and
chewed, then went forward again to an even greener patch of grass, where the trees had been cut for fence-posts.

Behind me, Billy didn’t move.

I bent my head. I ate. There was more grass further on…I lifted my head and began to canter…

And then I heard his whistle. It was the signal he had made so many times before, asking me to come to him when I was in the paddock.

I knew that I could run. Gallop away, beyond the world of men. Find a mountain, a place with good grass and water…

But I had good grass and water here. And Billy.

He whistled again.

I stopped. I turned and cantered back. I butted him in case he had an apple in his pocket.

He didn’t, just some more damper. He patted my neck, then leant his head upon it. I stood there, feeling his heart beat against my skin.

That was the day he first climbed onto my back.

Once I would have thrown him off; stamped on him and bitten him, reared triumphant and galloped off.

Today…

Together Billy and I were more than we ever were apart. My strength, my legs, my speed. Him guiding me, deciding where we’d go. Both of us watching for obstacles and opportunities, staying safe.

Partners, that’s what we were. Equals, different from each other, but better together than apart.

The two of us, together.

We rode together every day now; rounding up sheep, stupid creatures with wool instead of hair. It was a joy to race around them, send them scurrying back toward the farm. Sometimes we rounded up the roos too, just for the fun of riding.

When we rode past other men working on the farm they stopped and stared, admiring me, admiring us.

We rode to another farm, where the man called Roman John lived. There was a tree that smelt of apples. I ate one, but it was hard and sour. I spat it out and Billy laughed.

Later, he brought me something he called plum pudding, a piece for me and a piece for him. We ate together then he led me down to the creek to drink. It was dry that year; the creek had shrunk to pools, thick with tadpoles, smelling of ducks.

It was a good time, learning what we both could do.

Once we rode for days to yet another farm. There was a mare there who interested me. Billy left me in
the paddock with her. A few days later when he came to get me he was throwing bright coins in the air. ‘Look at this, boy! Two guineas and all due to you.’

I nosed at his back to see what he’d brought me. ‘Jam tart,’ said Billy. ‘They gives you good grub here.’ He shook his head. ‘I should say, they feed you well at this establishment.’ He laughed, and stroked my nose. ‘We’ll have our farm yet, old boy, especially if this foal is as good as I reckon it’ll be.’

It had been grand being in the paddock with the mare. There had been other horses too, but none had challenged me. It was almost like being King again.

Almost, but not quite. The horses back at the farm didn’t challenge me either. But they obeyed the men. They didn’t belong to me.

It was good to be cantering along a track with Billy again. Suddenly I flared my nostrils. I could smell horse…and man as well. And then they were on us.

The new horse was smaller than me: a bay, with strong short legs. The man was bigger than Billy. He had cloth tied across his face. He pointed something at us, something I thought I’d seen before.

‘Yer money or yer life,’ he said.

Billy pulled at my reins. He almost seemed to be laughing. ‘This is a turn-up for the books.’

The other man frowned above his handkerchief. ‘What d’yer mean?’

‘My friend and I…we were going to be like you. Bushrangers.’

‘An you think that makes us friends too? Half the lags in the colony aim for to be bushrangers, but they ain’t got the stomach. Get off that horse. Take yer shoes off too, and empty yer pockets.’

I could feel Billy sitting still above me. Slowly he slid off my back, and patted my side. ‘You think you can ride him? Be my guest.’

There was triumph in the bushranger’s voice. ‘I kin ride anything. He’s my horse now.’

The bushranger dismounted. He threw the reins of his own horse over a broken tree branch, then reached for me.

The bushranger knew enough not to get within reach of my hind hoofs. But as soon as he reached for my reins I turned my head and nipped him on the arm. I felt his bones beneath my teeth.

The bushranger screamed. He stepped back, blood welling from his skin. The stick wavered. He used his good arm to reach over to his horse, and grab a whip.

A whip! I was about to turn to kick him when Billy caught the man a blow on his arm.

The bushranger dropped the whip. His other hand stayed steady, pointing the long thing at Billy.

‘Move an inch an you gets it,’ he growled.

‘Go on then. Fire,’ said Billy. He raised his hands in the air. ‘I’ve got four guineas three shillings and a silver threepence down my boots. But you’ll have to shoot me to get them.’

‘I will and all!’ The bushranger’s hand tightened.

There was a bang. Billy dropped to the ground. No, I thought, rearing in shock at the noise. Wait. Billy had dropped to the ground and
then
I’d heard the noise.

Billy rolled over on the ground, toward me. He stood up and laughed. ‘I had teachers better than you. Master Higgins made us practise time and time again what to do if some cove pulled a pistol on us.
You got one shot in that thing. Now you got to reload. We’ll be long gone by then.’

The bushranger fumbled angrily at his pouch. ‘I can reload in the time it takes to sing a chorus of “Jack Doolan”. I’ll catch you—’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Billy confidently. ‘There ain’t no horse in this colony that can catch us. An’ if you have any sense you won’t try.’ He opened his coat. ‘See? Two pistols—and both are loaded. Now I know your voice, and I know your horse. You ride as far from here as you can make it. Otherwise it won’t be you finding me again. It’ll be me finding you. And this time, I’ll bring my friends.’

The bushranger was still pulling stuff out of his pouch.

Billy swung himself up on me and pressed me with his knees. I broke into a gallop through the trees, not following the road, though I knew where it was and I was sure that Billy did as well. On and on we raced, jumping over logs, Billy ducking under branches. There was no sound of anyone following us, but we kept up the pace anyway. We were young, and it was fun.

We raced often after that—not against other horses: there was no other horse at the farm that could catch us. We raced the wind, leaving the dust and blown sticks behind us.

We raced the moon, reaching the pools further down the creek before the moon’s reflection could appear in their darkness.

Winter came. The swallows left. Summer came again. Season after season, me and Billy working
together. I grew older, stronger. Billy grew stronger too. There were other men bigger than him, but not when he rode me. I was the King of the farm, King of the district, King of every horse we met.

And then things changed.

The Reverend Hassall’s boots shone like a mirror. His horse stood obediently by the water trough as her master spoke.

It was the first time Billy had ever seen the Reverend Hassall. He stood in front of his farm workers, awkward for someone whose job was preaching, then cleared his throat. ‘Ahem. I felt it only right that I should come and tell you this in person.’ His chin twitched. Billy had been listening to the accent, not the words, so he could try to copy it. He suddenly felt uneasy. Whatever was coming wouldn’t be good.

‘As you may know, in the last few months nearly every bank in the colony has crashed. There is no market for wool, none for sheep. I—’ He stopped, and began again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply. ‘This farm will have to be sold. I can pay each man up to the end of the month, no more.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I wonder if the colony is doomed. A barren land where the rain won’t come, growing nothing the world wants
to buy. I’m sorry,’ he said again. He turned, and began to speak to Roman John.

Later, when the Reverend had ridden off—he would have to stay at a shanty overnight, but obviously didn’t want to sleep among the men he’d sacked—Billy approached the foreman.

‘What does it mean?’

‘It means me and you and all the others with tickets of leave are out of a job. The men who haven’t got theirs yet will go back to government work. Working on the road teams probably. At least they’ll be fed.’

Billy thought of the living skeletons working on the mountain road. Perhaps other government work gangs were better fed, and warmer. Somehow he doubted it. He felt a flood of relief his own ticket of leave had come through.

‘How can Reverend Hassall be broke? It don’t—doesn’t—cost him much to keep convicts working.’

‘I’m betting he borrowed to buy his farms, to buy the sheep. Now he can’t sell wool to England and so can’t repay his loans.’

‘What did he mean when he said the colony was doomed?’

Roman John stooped to pick a grass stem. ‘We’re only here because England wanted this place as a gaol, and a fort to keep the French from getting the land. Now people in England and out here too are talking about no more convicts for New South Wales. Victoria doesn’t want more convicts either. Too many men and too few jobs. Point of fact,’ he added, ‘it’s been against the law for convicts to work for anyone but the government for over a year. But
no one pays any attention. Government can’t feed them all.’

‘And now the farmers can’t afford to feed them either. Not with the drought.’ It had been six months since they’d had any decent rain. The corn crop had shrivelled, and the potato plants looked more like mushrooms that had somehow grown in dusty ground. They’d been feeding the animals hay for the past month, but that wouldn’t last forever.

Roman John chewed his stem of grass. ‘That’s about the right of it.’

I’d spend my last half-crown to make sure Conservative was fed, thought Billy. ‘What are you going to do?’

Roman John shrugged. ‘Work my farm. It won’t bring in much money, not with no one buying wool, and what else has the colony to sell? Only whale oil…’ He gave an almost grin. ‘Precious few whales in the creeks round here. Won’t be any creeks, either, if it doesn’t rain soon. The wife sells eggs and butter in town once a month. That brings in a bit, and we’ve our own meat. She’s been lugging water to the potato patch and the pumpkins, so those’ll see us right. Enough for you too,’ he added. He met Billy’s eyes. ‘I’ve another idea in mind though. How much have you saved?’

‘Ten holey dollars, three shillings and tuppence.’

Roman John stroked his grey moustache. Billy had never seen him trim it, but it always looked neat. ‘Not enough to buy a farm. But I reckon the Reverend would lease you this place, for ten pounds a year.’

‘Why should I bother? If he can’t make a go of it, I haven’t got a chance.’

‘You know what sheep were selling for, last market?’

‘Sixpence each,’ said Billy. ‘Which is why the Reverend’s broke.’

‘The Reverend farms like a gentleman. Breeds his sheep, sells the wool. If we buy sheep for sixpence and boil them down for tallow I reckon we could make six shillings a head. Tallow for candles and soap…there’s still a big market for that in England. Tallow travels as good as wool.’

‘And hides,’ said Billy slowly. ‘If we tan the hides we might make another shilling per beast.’

‘I couldn’t do tallow work by myself. Not at my age. It’s hard work. And mucky. We’d need more land than I have too. So, are you in with me?’

‘I’m in,’ said Billy.