We of the Never-Never

by Jeannie Gunn

Twice the rearing, terrified creature circled round him and then the rope began to shorten to a more workable length. There was no haste, no flurry. Surely and steadily the rope shortened (but the horse went to the man not the man to the horse; that was to come later). With the shortening of the rope the compelling power of the man’s will forced itself into the brute mind, and, bending to that will, the wild leaps and plungings took on a vague suggestion of obedience—a going with the rope, not against it; that was all. An erratic going, perhaps, but enough to tell that the horse had acknowledged a master. That was all Jack asked for at first, and, satisfied, he relaxed his muscles, and as the rope slackened the horse turned and faced him; and the marvel was how quickly it was all over.

But something was to follow, that once seen could never be forgotten the—advance of the man to the horse.

With barely perceptible movement, the man’s hands stole along the rope at a snail’s pace. Never hurrying never stopping, they slid on, the colt watching them as though mesmerised. When within reach of the dilated nostrils, they paused and waited, and slowly the sensitive head came forward snuffing, more in bewilderment than fear at this new wonder, and as the dark twitching muzzle brushed the hands, the head drew sharply back, only to return again in a moment with greater confidence.

Three or four times the quivering nostrils came back to the hands before they stirred, then one lifted slowly and lay on the muzzle, warm and strong and comforting, while the other, creeping up the rope, slipped on to the glossy neck, and the catching was over.

For a little while there was some gentle patting and fondling, to a murmuring accompaniment of words; the horse standing still with twitching ears the while. Then came the test of the victory—the test of the man’s power and the creature’s intelligence. The horse was to go to the man, at the man’s bidding alone, without force or coercion. “The better they are the sooner you learn ’em that,” was one of Jack’s pet theories, while his proudest boast—his only boast—perhaps was that he’d “never been beaten on that yet.”

“They have to come sooner or later if you stick at ’em,” he had said, when I marvelled at first to see the great creatures come obediently to the click of his tongue or fingers. So far in all his wide experience the latest had been the third day. That, however, was rare; more frequently it was a matter of hours, sometimes barely an hour, while now and then—incredulous as it may seem to the layman—only minutes.

Ten minutes before Jack put the brown colt to the test it had been a wild, terrified, plunging creature, and yet, as he stepped back to try its intelligence and submission, his face was confident and expectant.

Moving slowly backwards, he held out one hand—the hand that had proved all kindness and comfort—and, snapping a finger and thumb, clicked his tongue in a murmur of invitation.

The brown ears shot forward to attention at the sound, and as the head reached out to investigate, the snapping fingers repeated the invitation, and without hesitation the magnificent creature went forward obediently until the hand was once more resting on the dark muzzle.

The trusting beauty of the surrender seemed to break some spell that had held us silent since the beginning of the catching. “Oh, Jack! Isn’t he a beauty?” I cried unconsciously putting my admiration into a question.