Thowra went quite a long way up the Limestone, seeking for the body of a horse — or two bodies — hoping he would find nothing, and yet knowing that, until be saw Baringa alive, galloping, he would be unable to be sure.
He also kept a wary eye out for the black stallion.
Yarolala’s description of the place where the two stallions fought had been most confused. All that Thowra knew for certain was that it was on or near the track and below huge rocks. He passed through one huge pile of slabs and tors, and went down on to the little tree-encircled flat below. The flat was quite empty.
Thowra, feeling a lightness, nosed about, but had there been any signs of a fight, the light snow that had fallen after it, and the rain that was pouring down now, would have removed them. He must go further, though, still searching, in case this was not the place Yarolala meant.
All of a sudden he saw one clear hoof mark, filling with water, and was certain that the spoor was fresh — also that it was Yarolala’s, It was not going towards the track, but towards the river.
Thowra wondered whether to try to find her, if it were Yarolala, or whether to go on up the river, and decided that he must make sure there was no place further up where the bodies of Baringa and Bolder might be lying. So he followed the track again, on and on, and the further he went without finding any more heaped up rocks, the lighter he felt, and the stronger his certainty became that Baringa must be alive. He also began to wonder more when he was going to find the black stallion, never dreaming that the reason why the black had not arrived at Quathbat Flat, days ago, was that the black, too, had been searching for Baringa, and was only just returning to his bimble, a little further up the Limestone.
The black had spent days on the other side of the river, had come back on that side, and had not yet crossed over. It was not he, whom Thowm saw first, but the round, white mare.
Now, Thowra’s gaiety had been rising and rising with every moment in which he failed to find the body of Baringa, and the sight, through the trees that lined the banks of the river, of that round little mare, suddenly seemed to make his rising spirits explode.
Never for one moment did he think she was Dawn. He simply thought that whoever owned her, she would make another mare for Baringa. Baringa would have such a home-coming!
Then he saw the black stallions coat, then a flickering movement through the thick trees, and saw his legs, his crested neck, his quarters — and he only thought: What fun! Somehow I shall take the mare for Baringa!
Thowra stayed quietly in dense teatree and watched the black lead the white mare across the stream. Then he followed them a little further upstream, watched them get in under a large candlebark as if that were a usual sheltering place. It appeared to Thowra as if they had come home. He wondered where they had been. The black was obviously in a rather bad temper, but the little fat mare did not seem to let anything worry her.
A little further down the river, Yarolala stood hidden in the same dense patch of teatree in which she had hidden after watching Baringa and Bolder fight. She had already found no sign of a dead horse on that tiny flat, and hope had suddenly sprung up within her. Now she had seen the black stallion and mare go up the river and remembered that other time when she stayed hidden in the same teatree and had heard the black go downstream. Suddenly she remembered, too, how she had lain down and, half-sleeping, had seen a vision of a bloodstained silver horse go past. How stupid she was! That blood-stained horse had been no vision, but Baringa himself, going down the stream too. What had happened to him since? Had the black found him and fought him while he was weak and exhausted from fighting Bolder? Where was he now? And where should she go now?
Yarolala did not know where to go. She wanted so deeply to find Baringa and had no idea how to start. She stood wondering if she should try going down the river, if, in fact, she had the courage to do so. Also she had a sneaking feeling that Baringa did not live down the river, but somewhere closer to the Tin Mine Creek. She wished the rain would stop.
Thowra, for the moment, was thankful for the rain. It would continue to wash away tracks. He watched the black stallion and his round mare, Every time the mare moved at all, the stallion snapped at her peevishly and she took no notice at all except to stand a little further away and nibble some grass.
It was just then that some movements in the trees, a little distance away, on the splayed-out ridge, attracted the blacks attention. Thowra had already seen them, and while unbothered as to who made the movements, he was almost certain that he had seen the sway of emu feathers, the outlines of neck and head.
The black was jumpy. He kept looking in the direction of those movements, and it. was easy to see that very soon he would be unable any longer to stand peacefully beneath the trees, but be forced by his nervous curiosity to see what was up there.
Presently the black stallion turned to give the mare a little nip to tell her to follow, and was so wondering what was up the ridge that he did not notice that she was standing further off than usual, nor did he notice that she had got tired of following and that she simply remained under their tree.
The little white mare watched him go, thinking that he had become unbearable since his beloved roans had gone. She had just spent days and days following him, while he followed the idea of a silver horse whom she did not think he had ever really seen. Somehow the black had heard a rumour that a silver horse had been in his country during the heavy snow, and he had been thinking of silver horses ever since. The little mare thought the whole story was nonsense, and was sure that the black stallion had only dreamt, too, about the blood-stained silver horse for whom they had searched for days on the far side of the river.
She stood there, rather huddled in the rain, grumbling to herself, and soon did not even watch the black trotting across the hollow and up the ridge.
Why was one wet, rainy moment different from the moment before? But she felt sure she had heard the faintest call. She raised her head slightly and listened, ears flickering. There it was again, almost beyond hearing, but a call to set the blood racing.
She turned round carefully. There just seemed to be a wall of trees. Then something moved, and — was she dreaming? — there was the head, the crested neck, the shoulders of a silver horse.
The horse’s nose trembled again with that thrilling, half-heard call his eyes were gazing straight at her.
The little round mare gave one quick look back at the black who was still trotting up the ridge, and then, on her toes, went towards the silver horse.
Thowra greeted her softly, and led her away through the thick bush, keeping off all tracks.
After a while the rain slackened: any hoof print made now would show. Thowra tried to persuade the little mare to place her feet carefully, but she thought it was all far too funny, and anyway, if the black came, Thowra would fight for her and beat him easily, so there was no cause for worry.
Thowra made her walk in the water for a little while, when they crossed at the junction, so that her hoof marks would not show on the mud. He thought he would take her up on to the High Plateau by way of the steep, rocky ridges from the river, and then down into Dale’s Creek and around and about, so that he twisted her sense of direction — if she had one — before taking her into the Canyon.
They crossed at the junction only a short time after Yarolala had crossed and gone up onto Quambat Ridge.
Thowra and the mare had not gone far before he realised that it might not be a very fast journey, because the round mare was undoubtedly lazy and inclined to regard everything as a joke. This irritated him rather, because he did not want to waste time. He wanted to put her safely in the Canyon and then go off and find Baringa, so he urged her along with a mixture of cajoling and teasing, beginning to wonder how stupid he was being, to bother about her . . . but in fact she was rather delightful. He was glad, however, that Storm could not see them.
The black stallion had almost reached the place where he had seen the movement in the trees, instead of
a young stallion — or even a silver stallion — stepping out of the snow-gums, the great bunches of feathers which were the emus, came swaying and bounding into the open.
At first the black stallion was annoyed because he had been expecting a horse, hoping for some clue to the whereabouts of his mares. Then he wondered if these birds might tell him something — not that he trusted them over much.
At first the birds looked at him in fierce and icy silence.
The black stallion did not possess very courtly manners. He asked most abruptly if they knew where his five roan mares had gone.
The emus, who loved to know everything and loved everybody to know they knew everything, drew themselves up very haughtily.
“Your roan mares?” they said. “We know plenty of roan mares, but yours . . . ?”
“Yes mine. I have heard they were stolen as the snow melted, by a silver horse.”
“Those ones! You could have stolen them back a few days ago! Where have you been?”
“I was following a silver horse down the river, but I didn’t find him again, or find any mares.”
“Oh,” said the emus, learning something. “Which silver horse did you follow?”
“I don’t know. How many are there? This horse had had a terrific fight and was all blood-stained. He went down the west bank of the river, but he simply vanished.”
“A-a-h,” said the emus, learning even more, and determined to tease him. “Have you lost all your mares, every one?”
The black stallion felt a wave of uneasiness go over him. He turned his head quickly. There was no sign of the white mare either behind him or under the tree. He swung round and called, but there was no answer.
With a roar of rage, he started down the hill.
The emus fluffed out their feathers, for he had no manners.
It took only a second or so for the black stallion to reach his shelter tree. He looked carefully below it and he searched the bush. There was the scent of a stallion: there were some hoof marks made by his mare, hoof marks that led into dense timber.
He tried to follow, but soon lost the tracks, and then just went on downstream, searching wildly.
It was by great good luck that the black found one mark of his little round mare’s off forefoot, on the other side of the Quambat stream, just at the junction, one hoof mark pointing down the river — this time on the eastern bank.
Further on there were more, where she had loitered and teased Thowra on a muddy patch. He could smell her scent and the scent of the stallion, but never a track of the stallion did he see.
Off he went as hard as he could go, hooves slithering and squelching, picking up her track here and there, and knowing he was going faster than they were.
Eleven
It was a good thing that Thowra decided to cut up towards the Quambat Ridge a little earlier than he had first intended. He and the white mare were not far up a rocky spur, and only partly hidden in scrub, when the black stallion went pounding past, below.
Thowra watched with interest, so did the white mare.
As soon as the horse had gone well past, Thowra urged the little mare to climb faster and more quietly.
“Why don’t you fight him?” she asked.
“It would be better not to — yet,” was Thowra’s puzzling reply. “And perhaps one of the others will want to.”
This puzzled her still more. She tossed her head and did not move any faster at all. Thowra felt exasperated, but there was no doubt that she was rather fun, and he was so glad that Baringa was alive and he wanted to give him this pert mare.
There was a thudding of hooves again, the black was coming back.
While he rushed back along the river, trying to pick up their tracks, Thowra led his rather maddening companion through some thick trees, across a gully, and on to the next ridge. They had only just reached the ridge when they heard him below again, but he was not coming up yet, just grumbling around, trying to track them.
Thowra gave the mare a little nudge, to start her climbing, but she was watching the black through the trees, watching with far too much amusement to want to move.
Thowra nudged her again, and breathed fiercely down his nose.
All she did was nip him.
So he gave her a gentle bite, but still she would not climb. He began to understand that she thought it would be fine to have him fight for her.
The danger in the whole thing would be if, through her playfulness, they led the black too near to the Canyon.
Thowra suddenly knew what to do.
“I don’t think you are worth the trouble,” he said, and started to climb up the ridge on his own, but not too fast.
The mare took no notice and he went on alone. If she did not come, then, he supposed, it was better to leave her, make down on to the river again, and search for Baringa. He tried not to look back . . . she was rather sweet, there was no doubt of that.
After a while he heard her following, and she was making enough noise to fetch a stallion from miles away. Luckily the black was not right below: he had gone charging on downstream again.
Thowra slowed up a little, to give her the encouragement of getting closer, then he went on.
He reached a rocky place from which be could look out. There was still no sign of the black. This time he waited for the mare.
This time she knew he was not joking.
“If you come,” he said. “You must follow more carefully Don’t leave tracks and don’t make a noise,” and he led her across two gullies, this time, so that if the black did find her tracks, he would be puzzled again.
The mare obeyed.
Thowra increased his pace a little, and though she was blowing, the mare kept up. They heard the crashing of a boulder. Apparently the black had started upwards and dislodged a rock. Thowra decided to cross over on to even another ridge, each time working back towards the south rather than nearer to the High Plateau.
He waited and listened for a while. The black was still coming.
Then Thowra changed his plans. He began to make down again.
When the mare asked him what he was doing, he simply said:
“Wait and see. It will give you a chance to stop puffing. You may need your breath later.”
He led her right out into the open, by the river bank, and there he stood, letting out neigh after neigh. Wild, triumphant, challenging, the cry of the Silver Brumby rang out.
From high up there came a roar of anger, and presently the sound of failing rocks.
Thowra turned towards the Limestone, then, near the junction, hid himself and the mare, to watch what happened.
What happened was quite unexpected, because he had forgotten the emus.
The emus and the black stallion arrived at the junction almost at the same moment. The black was breathless, so the emus had plenty of time to make him uncomfortable with their piercing stare.
The black regained his breath, but, Thowra thought, he probably never did have any manners to regain. Manners or not, he was only intent on finding out if the emus had seen the silver horse and his white mare.
The emus looked astonished.
“White mare this time! Forgotten the roans already. No manners, no memory . . .”
Then . . . and Thowra was sure they took a horrible pleasure in upsetting everyone and everything . . . one emu, totally ignoring the black, said to the other:
“It’s amazing that he has never thought to go to Quambat Flat.”
The black seemed to stop in mid-air as he advanced, rather threateningly, towards them. He stood out-staring the fierce-eyed birds.
Thowra knew, by this, that the black had been too occupied following Baringa, to go to Quambat, but he could see that he also had not thought of going there.
Now he was not going to think much: he was going straight there. Thowra watched him heading along the track, and wondered whether to try to catch his attention before he got far, but reflected that, after all, Lightning had asked for it, and if he could
not defend himself and his mares now, he should be able to. Also Lightning had had such a bad fright that it was likely he had his mares hidden somewhere.
Thowra determined to get his lazy little companion to the Canyon as fast as she could go.
He led her up Quambat Ridge, and thence to Dale’s Creek, having made sure that the emus did not see them go. On the way he learnt, from hoof marks and scent, that Yarolala had gone ahead of them up the ridge. This made him wonder, but the first necessity was to get the white mare into the Canyon. Then he would have to find Baringa, then see what had happened to Lightning. He felt fairly sure that Yarolala would not find the Canyon, though it was likely that she had discovered that Baringa was not dead, and was now looking for him.
Thowra hurried on, and whenever the mare stayed too far behind, he went on alone, and she managed to go faster.
Dale’s Creek, as evening drew in, was as eerie as it always was. Thowra felt its strange silence the more deeply, knowing that the dun lay dead near the entry to the Canyon. As darkness fell, he made a big circle up on to the side of the High Plateau and then another on to the flank of the Pilot, then smaller circles through teatree and splashing through the stream.
The little mare kept closer now. In the darkness she was lost and, even with her fun-loving nature, had become afraid. At last he led her down the cliff into the Canyon.
Thowra was on his way again with the first grey light. This time he went down the cliffs into the Tin Mine Creek and then down the cliffs of that creek, and along it till he reached the river. There, at last, he found a place where he could swim across the river, and he began searching upstream, on the western bank.
Already the country had become far more springlike. He brushed through the golden and brown of the bitter pea flowers that were just coming into bloom. Many of the wattles were in full flower, and some of their golden, fluffy balls were blowing off in the light breeze, or showering down on his mane, his shoulders and back.