On the Range

On Nungar the mists of the morning hung low; The beetle-browed hills brooded silent and black, Not yet warmed to life by the sun's loving glow, As through the tall tussocks rode young Charlie Mac. What cared he for mists at the dawning of day? What cared he that over the valley stern Jack, The Monarch of Frost, held his pitiless sway? A bold mountaineer born and bred was young Mac — A galloping son of a galloping sire — Stiffest fence, roughest ground, never took him aback; With his father's cool judgment, his dash, and his fire, The pick of Monaro rode young Charlie Mac.

And the pick of the stable the mare he bestrode — Arab-grey, built to stay, lithe of limb, deep of chest; Who seemed to be happy to bear such a load As she tossed the soft forelock that curled on her crest. They crossed Nungar Creek where its span is but short; At its head, where together spring two mountain rills, When a mob of wild horses made off with a snort — "By thunder!" quoth Mac, "there's the Lord of the Hills!" Decoyed from her paddock, a Murray-bred mare Had fled to the hills with a warrigal band; A pretty bay foal had been born to her there, Whose veins held the very best blood in the land — "The Lord of the Hills," as the bold mountain men Whose courage and skill he was wont to defy Had named him: they yarded him once; but since then He held to the saying, "Once bitten, twice shy."

The scrubber, thus suddenly roused from his lair, Made straight for the timber, with fear in his heart. As Charlie rose up in his stirrups, the mare Sprang forward—no need to tell Empress to start: She lay to the chase just as soon as she felt Her rider's skilled touch, light, yet firm, on the rein.

Stride for stride, lengthened wide, for the green timber belt — The fastest half-mile ever done on the plain — They reached the low sallee before he could wheel The warrigal mob: up they dashed with a stir Of low branches and undergrowth — Charlie could feel His mare catch her breath on the side of the spur That steeply slopes up till it meets the bald cone. 'Twas here on the range that the trouble began; For a slip on the sidling, a loose rolling stone, And the chase would be done; but the bay in the van And the little grey mare were a sure-footed pair. He looked once around as she crept to his heel, And the swish that he gave his long tail in the air Seemed to say, "Here's a foeman well worthy my steel!"

They raced to within half-a-mile of the bluff That drops to the river—the squadron strung out. "I wonder," quoth Mac, "has the bay had enough!" But he wasn't left very much longer in doubt, For the Lord of the Hills struck a spur for the flat And followed it, leaving his mob, mares and all, While Empress (brave heart! she could climb like a cat) Down the stony descent raced with never a fall. Once down on the level 'twas galloping ground: For a while Charlie thought he might yard the big bay At his uncle's out-station; but no! he wheeled round And down the sharp dip to the Gulf made his way.

Betwixt the twin portals that, towering high And backwardly sloping in watchfulness, lift Their smooth grassy summits towards the far sky, The course of the clear Murrumbidgee runs swift. No time then to seek where the crossing should be: It was in at the one side and out where you could: But fear never dwelt in the hearts of those three Who emerged in the shade of the low muzzle-wood. Once more did the Lord of the Hills strike a line Up the side of the range, and once more he looked back: So close were they now he could see the sun shine In the bold grey eyes flashing of young Charlie Mac.

He saw little Empress stretched out like a hound On the trail of its quarry, the pick of the pack, With ne'er-tiring stride; and his heart gave a bound As he saw the lithe stockwhip of young Charlie Mac Showing snaky and black on the neck of the mare, In three hanging coils, with a turn round the wrist; And he heartily wished himself back in his lair 'Mid the tall tussocks beaded with chill morning mist; While he fancied the straight mountain ash trees, the gums And the wattles, all mocked him and whispered, "You lack The speed to avert cruel capture that comes To the warrigal fancied by young Charlie Mac; For he'll yard you, and rope you, and then you'll be stuck In the crush, while his saddle is girthed to your back; Then out in the open, and there you may buck Till you break your bold heart, but you'll never throw Mac!"

The Lord of the Hills at the thought felt a sweat Break over the smooth summer gloss of his hide: He spurted his utmost to leave her, but yet The Empress crept up to him, stride upon stride. No need to say Charlie was riding her now, Yet still for all that he had something in hand, With here a sharp stoop to avoid a low bough, Or quick rise and fall as a tree-trunk they spanned. In his terror the brumby struck down the rough falls Towards Yiack, with fierce disregard for his neck: Tis useless, he finds, for the mare overhauls Him slowly: no timber could keep her in check.

There's a narrow-beat pathway that winds to and fro Down the deeps of the gully, half-hid from the day; There's a turn in the track where the hop-bushes grow And hide the grey granite that crosses the way, While sharp swerves the path round the boulder's broad base: And now the last scene in the drama is played As the Lord of the Hills, with the mare in full chase, Swept towards it, and ere his long stride could be stayed, With a gathered momentum that gave not a chance Of escape, and a shuddering, sickening shock, Struck the pitiless granite that barred his advance And sobbed out his life at the foot of the rock; While Charlie pulled off with a twitch on the rein And an answering spring from his surefooted mount, One might say, unscathed, though a crimsoning stain Marked the graze of the granite; but that would ne'er count With Charlie, who speedily sprang to the earth To ease the mare's burden: his deft-fingered hand Unslackened her surcingle, loosened tight girth, And cleansed with a tussock the spurs' ruddy brand.

There he lay by the rock—drooping head, glazing eye, Strong limbs stilled for ever. No more would he fear The thud of a horseman; no more would he fly Through the hills with his harem in rapid career. The pick of the mountain mob, bays, greys, or roans, He proved in his death that the pace 'tis that kills; And a sun-shrunken hide o'er a few whitened bones Marks the last resting-place of the Lord of the Hills.