The King of the Valley was a violent, speedy half-bred. His owner was anxious to know whether he was clever enough over rails, to have a chance for the coming steeplechase. An unusual turn of speed he undoubtedly possessed, and, if steadied, the superstition was that the King could jump anything. But the question was—so hot-blooded and reckless was he when he saw his fence—could he be controlled so as to come safely through a course of three miles and a half of post and rail fencing, new, stiff and uncompromising?
To the cool request, then, that he would give him a schooling jump over Dean’s fence, which some men might have thought unreasonable, Bob Clarke, with a smile of amusement, instantly acceded, and making over his hackney to a friend, mounted the impatient King, shortened his stirrups, and then and there proceeded to indulge him with the big fence.
Then had occurred the sudden halt and general attitude of expectation which Miss Rockley had noted, and with which she had so promptly sympathised. Bob Clarke was a slight, graceful youngster, with regular features, dark hair and eyes, and a mild expression, much at variance with the dare-devilry which was his leading characteristic. Passionately fond of field sports, he had ridden more steeplechases, perhaps, than any man in Australia of his age. He had been carried away ‘for dead’ more than once; had broken an arm, several ribs, and a collar-bone—this last more than once. These injuries had taken place after the horse had fallen, for of an involuntary departure from the saddle no one had ever accused him.
As he gathered up his reins and quietly took the resolute animal a short distance back from the fence, unbroken silence succeeded to the flow of mirthful talk. The fence looked higher than usual; the close-grained timber of the obstinate eucalyptus was uninviting. The heavy posts and solid rails, ragged-edged and sharply defined, promised no chance of yielding. As the pair had reached the moderate distance considered to be sufficient for the purpose, Bob turned and set the eager brute going at the big dangerous leap. With a wild plunge the headstrong animal made as though to race at the obstacle with his usual impetuosity. Now was seen the science of a finished rider; with lowered hand and closely fitting seat, making him for a time a part of the fierce animal he rode, Bob Clarke threw the weight of his body and the strength of his sinewy frame into such a pull as forced the powerful brute to moderate his pace. Such, however, was his temper when roused, that the King still came at his fence much too fast, ‘reefing’ with lowered head and struggling stride—an unfavourable state of matters for measuring his distance. As he came within the last few yards of the fence more than one lady spectator turned pale, while a masculine one, sotto voce, growled out, ‘D——n the brute! he’ll smash himself and Bob too.’
As the last half-dozen strides were reached, however, the rusé hero of many a hard fought fray ‘over the sticks,’ suddenly slackening his grasp of the reins, struck the King sharply over the head with his whip, thus causing him to throw up his muzzle and take a view of his task. In the next moment the horse rose from rather a close approach, and with a magnificent effort just cleared the fence. A cheer from every man present showed the general relief.
‘Oh, how beautifully he rides!’ said the fair Christabel, whose cheek had perhaps lost a shade of its wild-rose tint. ‘No one looks so well on horseback as Mr. Clarke. Don’t you think he’s very handsome?’
‘Not a bad-looking young fellow at all, and certainly rides well,’ said Argyll, without enthusiasm. ‘I daresay he has done little else all his lifetime, like your friends the Arabs. Watch him as he comes back again.’
The margin by which he had escaped a fall had been estimated by the experienced Bob, who, taking advantage of a field heavy from early ploughing, gave King of the Valley a deserved breather before he brought him back.
By the time they were within a reasonable distance of the fence, the excited animal had discovered that he had a rider on his back. As he came on at a stretching gallop, he was seen to be perfectly in hand. Nearing the jump, it surprised no experienced spectator to see him shorten stride and, ‘taking off’ at the proper distance, sail over the stiff top rail, ‘with (as his gratified owner said) a foot to spare, and Bob Clarke sitting on him, with his whip up, as easy as if he was in a blooming arm-chair.’
‘There, Champion,’ said the victor as he resumed his hackney. ‘He can jump anything you like. But if you don’t have a man up who can hold him, he’ll come to grief some day.’