Читать книгу Collected Prose - Paterson Andrew Barton - Страница 8

Table of Contents

In the latest volume of the Badminton Library of Sports there is a description of the way in which wild horses are yarded in Australia. According to this usually excellent authority on field sports, the stockmen simply take a promenade up the nearest big plain and "circle round" the various wild mobs, and gather them and drive them into the yard. Now, wild horse hunting, or, as it is called in the bush, "running bush horses", is the grandest sport known in Australia; and to have it maligned in this way by the leading English authority is rather hard. But it must be remembered that very few Australians know how it is done, and a short account of it may be interesting.

The wild horses are not indigenous but are descendants of animals that escaped from the early settlers. They form into mobs, which always keep together, and each mob attaches itself to a special piece of country. When startled they race away to the fastnesses of some favourite range. If they fail to shake off their pursuers they carry on across country to some other haunt, always making instinctively for the rockiest and scrubbiest places. The stockmen try to cut them off from these refuges, and to wheel them into more open country, or else rush them into a trap yard. These are strongly built yards, with long V-shaped wings running out for a mile or more into the bush; but the horses soon get to know where they are, and steer clear of them. Sometimes a lot of quiet horses, called "tailers", are left in a likely place, and the wild ones are driven into them. If the wild mob have had a severe gruelling they will stay with the quiet horses, and the whole lot can be yarded together; but generally they rush out as soon as they get their wind, and charge under the stockwhips and away to the mountains again.

The wild horses are a great nuisance to stock owners, because valuable animals constantly stray away and join them, and nothing but desperate riding and great good fortune will get them back. Very often the owner sells his right, title, and interest in an escaped animal for a few pounds, and the buyer will probably break down three or four good horses trying to yard his purchase. Sometimes a reward is offered, and then all the young colonials in the district will be after the mob, in season and out of season, riding their horses' heads off, their only tactics being to "go at them from the jump", and try and run them down. This is very good fun while it lasts; but the usual result is that, after a desperately run ten miles or so across rough country, the pursuer's horse knocks up, and he has to walk home and carry his saddle. Sometimes, by a dashing bit of riding, he may "cut out" the horse he wants from the mob, or fate may kindly enable him to wheel the whole lot into the jaws of a trap yard, in which case he fills the whole district with his brag for months to come. But to "run horses" properly four or five splendidly mounted men are required; they must know the country well, and must know in what direction the mob will run, and when to let them go and when to wheel them. An outsider can see the sport to perfection if he is a good bush rider; but he must not flatter himself that he is any use unless he knows the country. It is the grandest sport one can imagine flying along through the open bush after a mob of wild horses. For the first twenty minutes or so the race is apt to be very merry, and the novice has to come along, because there is no chance of a check, and anyone losing sight of the mob is out of it for the day. After the first mad rush they drop to a steady swinging gallop. Soon one of the stockmen may be seen flitting through the trees, riding for dear life, and going parallel with the mob. He is the man who is deputed to take the first turn out of them. After a while his whip rings out sharply a few times, and the mob swerves a little from their course--not much, apparently, but it means that they have been headed off from one refuge and must now make for another. They settle down again and run in a straight line, perhaps for miles, over all sorts of country, the stockmen saving their horses as much as possible. Then it is time for the next wheel, and another man moves forward and sounds his whip. Sometimes the mob make a determined effort to race past him, and then there is a gallant set-to, the stockman driving his horse along with the spurs over the most awful places, for he must at all hazards keep pace with them, and has no time to choose his ground.

If he can hold his own, the mob wheel away reluctantly, and strike off again, very likely making back to their original point. After a few miles the weaker horses in the wild mob, the mares and foals, and so on, begin to drop out. These strike off by themselves, cantering or trotting slowly while the main body sweeps on. As the pace begins to tell, more and more drop out, some quite exhausted; these stand still and come in for a savage cut or two of the whip as the pursuers come by. The others keep going, the gallop at length dropping to a swaying canter and then to a trot. By this time the stock horses are in a pitiable condition, bloody with spurring, and hardly able to raise a canter; some will have been crippled by the rough country, and others will have knocked up altogether and dropped out of the running. Then comes the final charge of the mob, when they raise a staggering canter to make for some particular point, and the stockmen plying whip and spur manage to head them off, and the mob, beaten and downcast, jogs sullenly along, and is guided towards where the "tailers" have been placed. The man in charge of the "tailers", hearing the whips in the distance, comes out and takes the mob in hand, and once among the quiet horses they are glad enough to stay there. A short respite is given, while the stockmen straggle up, some leading their horses, others carrying their saddles. The man who has got through the run from end to end is a hero, or rather his horse is. Then a start is made for home, and the mob are safely yarded and left for the night. The wild horses are never much use. They buck like demons, they are straight-shouldered and badly-ribbed up, and they never have any courage in captivity. Now and again a good one turns up, usually the descendant of some animal not long escaped. In the Yass district many years ago a gentleman had a stud of Timor ponies, beautiful little animals, and when the diggings broke out in Victoria he took the whole lot over and sold them to the diggers at big prices. The diggers used them for racing, but great numbers of them got away and made their way home again to their native district, where they ran wild. These ponies and their descendants were well worth yarding, but they had such speed and endur-ance that any man who could yard them thoroughly earned his reward. It will readily be understood that although stock owners are very glad to see the wild mobs yarded, still they have an intense dislike to risking their own valuable horses after them. The stock horses love the sport, and become absolutely frantic with excitement when they hear the rush and rattle of feet of a wild mob; but it is terribly severe work on them. The desperate pace, the rough country, and the severe gruellings they get soon tell on all but those of a cast-iron constitution. Some old warriors there are who have come safe and sound through numberless runs, and if a man can get one of these, a few good mates, and a flying mob to go after, he has all the ingredients of as fine a day's sport as anyone could wish to take part in.

Written c. 1890