“Now the fun begins,” said Steve, as he and Scottie rose the crest of the Black Hill and dived down into the winding path that dropped in long loops beneath them. The hill was soft earth, and the earth had turned to greasy, slippery mud, and the horses slipped, and floundered, and sprawled, and recovered and slipped again. Darby was the first to go down, but he flung himself cleverly clear of the falling horse, and in an instant was up and helping the struggling brute to its feet.
“Come up, Blunderbuss,” he shouted. “Wot the blazes d’yer want to lay down there for?”
He climbed hastily to the saddle, and slid off downhill after the others. They had shouted rough chaff as they passed, but they had not stopped—there was no time for stopping that night, and if a man went down it was understood he must pick himself up, unless he was too badly hurt to do so.
There were more falls before the foot of the hill was reached, but it was soft falling, and no one was hurt.
“All here?” shouted Steve, glancing back.
“All here,” came the response, and Steve turned and drove into the path that twisted through the thick bush. The path was a foot under water and slippery as glass, the twigs and branches whipped and slashed at their faces and bent heads, but they went through at a hard gallop, and swung out on to The Pillow—the long hill where the track curved up over the swelling roundness like a string of beads over a woman’s breast. It was soft earth again, and a slip over the edge of the track meant a sliding shoot down to the foot, with nothing to save or break the fall.
“Can we ride it?” said Scottie. “Safer to walk, maybe.”
“But quicker to ride,” said Steve, and spurred up at a trot. They reached the top with the horses panting and blowing, but they made no halt, and raised a gallop across the top of the hill. When the rain came down in a sudden and blinding torrent again, so that they could see nothing of the track before them, the men simply slacked the reins and left the horses to pick a way amongst the pitfalls of paddy-melon holes.
They bucketed downhill again in single file on the drop that led to the Clay Pit and the swamp water beyond, and Darby shot sliding almost on top of Jack Ever.
“Look where yer bargin’ to, you lop-eared ellerfant,” yelled Jack.