With that the old officer, whose words were braver than his heart, strode to the yard, where all the others had congregated, save Joe and Sandy, who were in the rear-guard when the accident happened; and who, chilled at heart and filled with apprehension—all zest in sport gone—remain by the side of their companion.
When the warrigal broke, the others of the mob were in full gallop, being rushed by the men. They are subjected to a battery of flogging whips, and swept into the trap-yard; down the converging sides of this they hustle, only to find an impasse. There they huddle, a compact mass of sweating, shivering, and cowed brutes.
The horsemen form a line across the way of retreat, until half a dozen wires are stretched. The rest is a matter of detail which expert bushmen make small bones about. When all is secure the men inside cut out selected horses under the direction of Mr. M'Intyre, who, with those not actively employed in the arena, occupies a place on the rails. The brumbies designed for use are thrown and branded, etc., then haltered and made fast to the rails. The station runaways were secured early in the proceedings, which, from first to last, consume a couple of hours. The final act is one of horse massacre; all the discarded stock are shot down. It is cold-blooded but necessary work, for brumbies are rightly regarded as a pest on a run.
By this time the sun is well down in the west, and having finished their work at the yards, the men repair to the camp for a bite and a drink.
To their great surprise and delight they find Dick Gill "nather dead nor spachless," as Denny Kineavy put it.
While his father and the boys anxiously watched him, hoping against hope for signs of life, the unconscious lad suddenly stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, as one just awaking from a sound sleep.
The as-good-as-dead youth sat up in wonderment, falling back in pain and weakness the next moment. A wave of joy surged through Gill's heart at this manifestation of life. "God be thanked for His mercies!" he exclaimed. Putting an arm under the sick boy's shoulders, and carefully raising his head, he held the Colonel's brandy flask to his lips. "You've had a spill, that's' all. A bit of a knock-out. Your left arm is broken, and there's a nasty bruise on your forehead. Sip a little of this spirit; it'll brace you up."
A pull at the flask revived the youth, and he pillowed his head on his father's arm, who laved the bruised head with cold water. This greatly helped in the work of restoration. By the time the men had finished, Dick was able to sit up, and expressed a desire to have a look at the brumbies. Beyond acute pain in head and arm the lad seemed but little affected. He enjoyed a feed with the men, and especially was he grateful for a pannikin of tea. Good billy tea is better for the tired feeling than all the grog ever invented.
After a short consultation it was decided that Dick and his father, with Sandy, should proceed to a selector's house about three miles distant. They would be sure to get the loan of Mrs. Mulvaney's spring-cart, and by that means reach Bullaroi. This was carried out despite Dick's protests that he was fit to start on another brumby drive.
What of Yellow Billy and the bolting warrigal! Have they been forgotten? Not by long chalks!