CHAPTER X.

Burns’ station—The horse-breaker—Colonial “Blow”—Satan the First—Mat “collars” the buckjumper.

Burns listened in wonder to Mat’s narrative, and when it was concluded, said,—

“You are the first white man who have lived amongst the blacks of the northern coast, and come again into civilization. I remember my brother writing out by mail about you perfectly well; there were a lot of my stores on that ship, but she never turned up. Well, wonders will never cease; what are you thinking of doing? By-the-bye, Stephen said that you were the most undefeated rider, for your age, in Hampshire.”

“I could ride a bit then,” replied Mat, “but I don’t know what I could do now.”

“Oh, _you’ll_ do all right, one does not forget riding any more than swimming, and if you like to spell here, why I shall be pleased to have you and your mates too, and you can look about you. I’ve had no end of new chums; but unless they can ride anything, and everything, they are of no use to me, and I believe those men you met went off in a huff, because I talked in the same way, and swore at them a bit for their laziness; but then, you see, one always _has_ to swear at new chums.”

Burns’ remarks were not altogether free from strong language; many of his expressions were remarkable, and quite new to the brothers; moreover they were assisted “up” by sundry nips from a bottle of “Three Star” on the table, so that in a short time he grew maudlin and monotonous, finally settling down in his “squatter” chair for a sleep.

“Well, what do you think of _him_?” queried Mat, as soon as Burns had disappeared.

“Why he drinks like a fish, and is such a swearing chap, that I don’t wonder at those men clearing out.”

“I don’t fancy him very much, myself,” agreed Mat, “but I don’t think he’s a bad sort when he’s sober. Let us stay on a bit here; he’s got a chap coming to break in colts, and I want to see him at work.”

So they stayed on until the breaker arrived—a long limbed, actively built Victorian native (i.e. a white man born in Victoria).

Mat had heard that this station of Burns’ carried some notorious buckjumpers amongst the mob of horses which pastured on it, so after a few general remarks, he asked the man whether he could sit out a real _bad_ one.

“Buckjumper!” answered the breaker, “me sit a buckjumper? There ain’t a horse in the whole country I can’t ride, and smoke my pipe on ’im, and without a ‘kid,’ too.”

“What’s that?” asked Mat.

“Why, it’s plain, _you’re_ a new chum, not to know as a ‘kid’s,’ what boobies use, a stick strapped in front to keep ’em on. _I_ never uses it, as Burns will tell you.”

“All right,” cried Burns, who now came up and joined in the conversation, “We shall have the mob up to-morrow, and see how you shape on Satan the First.”

This sudden challenge somewhat sobered the bragging tone of the trainer, to whom it was addressed; for after examining Burns for some seconds with a bleary eye, he remarked,—

“You’re in such a blooming hurry, I must prepare a bit first.”

“Which means,” said Burns aside to Mat, “that with a few more nobblers he will get some Dutch courage into him. I can see that he has heard about the horse from the change in his tone.”

The next morning, however, our rough-rider was as full of “spirits” and bounce as ever; yet he looked “full of riding” as he turned out in jack-boots, clean white moleskin breeches, blue shirt, a silk handkerchief of the same colour round his throat and a serviceable old “cabbage-tree” hat on his head; it was evident, though, that his nerves were not very fit, when the horse was at length saddled.

“Too shaky about the hands,” whispered Burns.

And sure enough at the third “buck,” “Satan” proved the victor by sending his rider into a bunch at one corner of the stockyard.

“I never knew a horse shape like that of all I’ve crossed,” swore the discomfited rider, as soon as he could get his wind.

“Never mind,” laughed Burns, “when he’s fresh to-morrow, I’ll mount my friend on him, and we’ll all go and see the fun.”

“What! that bloke with the black beard, what had never heard tell on a ‘kid’—he ride! I’ll bet you five notes he don’t sit him as long as I did.”

“Done with you,” cried Burns, who had long since seen that the man ranked amongst the common class of “blowers,” or “braggarts,” peculiar to his profession in the colony.

The next day Mat was up early, and meeting Burns, told him that as there was a bet on his riding, he must take a “stretch” with another horse first, or he could not answer for keeping his seat.

So a hot-looking chestnut was saddled, Mat straightway mounted and disappeared into the Bush.

When he returned a couple of hours later, he said to Tim, as he threw himself out of the saddle, “The greatest treat I’ve had for years; felt like a man again on that horse, but he’s a hot ’un, and no mistake.”

An hour’s rest, a gentle run, and then Mat changed his shirt, and told Burns he was ready.

“What! going to ride with bare legs and feet?”

“Yes, I seem to feel more supple, and my feet are as hard as leather.”

These remarks were followed by a jeer from the breaker, who hiccoughed between his cups, “Ring up, the show’s a-going to commence.” “Hullo!” he added, “what’s the nigger up to?” for Dromoora approached at this moment, armed with spears and club, and calling Mat aside, whispered,—

“Take the ‘thunder-stick,’ that thing will kill you.”

Mat laughed, and was proceeding to explain the matter to his companion, when they saw that the horse had at last been yarded.

The last bit of advice came from the breaker. “Take a drink, mate; it’s the last you’ll ever taste.”

“No thanks,” laughed Mat, as he walked towards the stockyard, which by this time was surrounded by every man, woman, and child about the station.

It was a long time before the stock-riders could induce the horse to put his head into the “bail,” as he rushed open-mouthed at every one who approached, causing a general stampede to the rails.

When at last his head was between the two beams, and these had been locked, he gave a heave with his neck to test the timbers, and then remained quiet for a moment.

“Now bridle and saddle,” called out Burns. The bridle difficulty was soon arranged; but getting on the saddle took more time, as the animal’s hind legs were at liberty.

This being at length accomplished, a “greenhide” crupper was slipped under the tail, when from the top rails two men quickly spliced the hair partially into it.

When all was ready, Burns sang out, “Let go.” The bail was opened, and the horse was free, and making for the first man which caught his eye.

However, all hands were prepared for this rush, and quickly gained the top rail of the stockyard fence—all save Mat, who at first coolly dodged the brute; but at length followed the example of his companions, as “Satan” was evidently determined to kill him, and he could see no present chance of getting on his back.

Finding now that he had the yard to himself, the horse gave a moderate buck or two; but realizing that the saddle could not be shifted, contented himself with walking round and round, and glaring sullenly at the spectators.

Not a sound could now be heard. All eyes were fixed on Mat, who, watching his opportunity, sprang lightly down, and seizing the bridle by both reins close to the bit, was preparing to mount. Taken for the moment unawares—so quickly and silently had Mat accomplished this—the horse gave an angry snort, and the next moment was careering round, swinging Mat off his feet; but our forester’s grasp was powerful, and could not be shaken off.

Finding that he could not free himself, the horse was preparing to put in practice some of his old tricks, when Mat vaulted, or swung himself as quick as thought into the saddle; yet before he could get either foot into the stirrups, up went “Satan” into the air, with head and tail down.

Three, four, six, ten, and more bucks, till the rider appeared as if permanently balanced on a pivot.

Finding this process of no avail, and that Mat did not feel to him like coming off just yet, the beast next tried to bite his legs, gnashing his teeth in his furious but futile efforts, as Mat cast each threatened limb backwards, and thus baulked him. Then he struck at his legs with his hind feet; but here again no result. The man’s leg seemed simply to alight on the horse’s neck at each threatened stroke. The next “round” was of a very different nature. Satan threw himself down, and _rolled_ with his rider.

To those who were witnessing this mighty struggle of man _versus_ brute, it appeared as if this last act was a decisive one, and as if Mat had “gone down,” never to come up again. Both had disappeared amidst a mountain of dust; but a lusty cheer rang out as the rider again showed himself, and still sitting in his saddle, when the horse rose, though so covered was his face and beard with blood and black dust, that his features were barely recognizable.

The spectators could now no longer control themselves, but crowded into that portion of the yard farthest from the contest. The horse took no notice of them whatever, finding he had that on his back the like of which he had never had before.

And now, not giving his rider time even to grasp a wet towel which was thrown to him, “Satan” tried his last and hitherto never-failing trick.

Gathering himself together with a snort of triumph, he made a wild and terrific sidelong plunge against the massive timbers of the stockyard fence.

The sensation of “bucking,” as this horse had bucked, had been new to Mat; he had never been rolled with before, in the peculiar manner with which this horse had tried to crush him; but of the last “round” he had had many former experiences in his old forest days; whilst riding young colts in the beech-woods, and as he afterwards remarked to Tim,—

“It seemed quite ‘homely.’”

So when the horse made his plunge on the off side, our forester slung his right leg behind him, and “Satan” came with his ribs crashing against the heavy fencing, with a shock that knocked the remaining wind out of him, and which at the same time nearly dismounted his rider.

One of the old stockmen in the yard now begged Mat to get off during this lull; but before he could answer, a black form rushed through the throng, and with spear poised in the air, screamed in Waigonda,—

“Look out! whilst I spear the man-eater through the throat.”

Mat stretched out to catch the poised weapon—seized it—at the same moment the horse made another plunge for the fence. Mat again saved his leg but was overbalanced trying to do two things at once, and he fell off. Never, however, quitting his hold of the reins, he gave Satan a sound slap with his open hand as he regained the saddle, prepared for further hostilities.

But the fight was over.

The horse stood there, never caring even for the jostling of men who were round him; two jets of steam spouting from his nostrils, his wet flanks heaving with spasmodic jerks, and accompanied by a noise of choking sobs.

Mat appeared ready to faint, so, without more ado, Tim and his friends dragged him from the saddle, bore him away on their shoulders out of the yard, and deposited him on a mattress, which had been placed under a shady tree by Terebare’s forethought.

Burns, during the time that this “man-horse” struggle had lasted, had been in a perfect ecstasy of delight, hopping round the crowd with a bottle of his favourite “three star” in his hand, out of which he constantly “pledged our hero,” or proffered it to the bystanders for the same purpose. When he saw Mat at length carried out of the yard, he hurried up to him with,—

“By Jove! old man, finest thing I’ve ever seen; if it hadn’t been for the two feet of dust, though, he’d have killed you outright when he rolled. By gad, you’re the best man I’ve seen in over twenty years of bush-life. I’d offer you a hundred a year, and more, if you’d stop; but anyhow, take a ‘ball’ now, you look as though you wanted it.”

But Mat, though he was glad of the brandy, and took a deep pull at the bottle, had no voice left in him.

So they left him to the care of the faithful Terebare, who, taking his head on her lap and bathing his face, sung him a soothing native chant until he fell asleep from exhaustion.