Page:In bad company and other stories.djvu/192

 dashing his brains out by reason of a low-lying branch, which knocks off his hat, and might easily—he reflects—have performed the same office for the head which it covered. He realises the disability under which he labours by reason of not being able to calculate his distance from the unyielding timber in front, beside, around; at the same time to distinguish the route of the fast-vanishing 'mob' (Anglice, drove), while all his skill and strength are required to control a stock-horse, if such a mount has been provided for him, which clambers along hill-sides and tears down the same with the sure-footedness of a mule, while he leaves the full responsibility of directing his headlong career to his rider. When at the end of several miles the visitor pulls up, he is entirely out of the hunt. Neither men, horses, dogs, nor cattle are within sight and hearing. He is not accustomed to tracking, nor perhaps is the ground favourable to such practice. Nothing is left for him but to follow on as nearly as may be in the direction of the riders, fortunate if, some hours after, he is hunted up by a man sent in search of him, or, more fortunate still, has left all path-finding to his horse, and joyfully recognises the homestead, which comes into sight much sooner than he expected.

In contrast to this exploit, behold the sons of the waste under the same circumstances. Riding along with apparent carelessness, several pairs of sharp eyes are piercing the forest glades in every part of the foreground. One man has descried the outline of a group of slowly-moving forms, or it may be but a single beast, high up a hill-side in the gorge of a mountain-range, the depths of a narrow brook, traversed ravine—it matters not. It is the herd they are seeking, or a section of it. The quick-eyed scout gives a low whistle, perhaps holds up his hand; the signal is understood. Bridle-reins are gathered up. No word is spoken, but each man has his horse in hand as they move slowly towards the grazing or stationary outliers. A few minutes bring them nearer, within perhaps good wheeling distance, when a sentinel gets view or winds them, and the whole troop is off like a shot. Each horse, but a minute since stumbling along at a 'stockman's jog' or a go-as-you-please walk, starts into top speed as if for a mile heat. The men, taking a 'bee-line,' ride straight for the fast-vanishing cattle, as if there was not a tree or a rock within miles. How they do it is a never-ending marvel to the