THE RUATANIWHA RAFFLE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3757, 16 March 1926, Page 85

THE RUATANIWHA RAFFLE.

By Alice F. Webb. (Copyright—For the Witness.) Henare Taihoa was not feeling at all well. He rose from his blankets on the floor of th wliare, and, pushing his feet into his new tail shoes, stepped out into the morning sunlight. His head ached, and he had a horrible taste in his mouth, and an empty feeling elsewliefe, which made it evident to him that he must have had too much to drink at the country “.pub,” in which he had passed most of the previous evening. He remembered now that he had not spent the Right there, but had ridden on to the pa, because he had no money left to pay for his bed. He felt in the pockets of his blue serge trousers now, but found nothing in them save his pipe and a few matches. This was not a serious matter, as he could easily obtain tobacco, and perhaps borrow enough money for the remainder of his journey from* the other Maoris in the pa, the immediate need being breakfast. He slouched across to the fire, round which the wahines were sitting peeling potatoes, and dropping them into the pots which hung over it, and, squatting on liis heels, he signified by surly grunts that lie was up now and ready to eat. After a fairly substantial meal, he felt a little better, and able to continue his journey to the station, a few miles further up the coast, at which he was somewhat overdue to arrive, having been turned aside on his way to the shearing shed by a small country race meeting, at which he had lost a considerable sum of money only yesterday. How to recoup himself was the subject which occupied his thoughts later on, as, having borrowed a couple of pounds from his nephew, Rupeni M'Greggor, he rode slowly along the beach in the hot sun, To do so at the expense of others, and with the least possible amount of trouble to himself, was the aim of the old rascal, but his usually fertile brain failed just now to supply him with any suitable scheme.

As he rode listlessly along he recalled the horses he had backed the day before.

“That Firebrand—he a good horse,” he said to himself. “And the brown mare, the one that fell at the brush jump in the steeplechase—she a good mare. Kapail But the manuka was too high,

and that Timi Hareuiai, who rode her, took her at it too quick—oh, much too quick. Me, I give her her head if 1 jump her. What the name that bay horse that win so i lany race latoJy ? Rotorua? No; he a good horse too, but he black. The feller that I back all the time at the Gisborne race? RuaLine? No, Ruataniwha—him the good horse to ‘ put your shirt on.’ If he run as Tatapouri yesterday, 1 a rich man today. Back him every time; but he only run at the big race, not in the pa.” His mind dw’elt upon the beauty or the famous racer, which he had often seen, and would surely know again ity whatever part of the country lie saw him. Curiously marked the animal was. having both forelegs w’ ite to the knees, but a round bay patch on the fetlock ot the near leg; and he heard that someone on the coast had lately bought the animal.

He roused from his abstraction as his thoughts reached this point, his attention being attracteu by a litle group of men standing in the paddock lie was passing gazing sadly at a prostrate horse. Always ready to share in the affairs of his fellow-men, Henare pulled up liis horse, and, dismounting, w’alked across to see what was happening, and thereto his astonishment beheld the very animal on which his thoughts had been busy—dead on the ground. The arrival of a newcomer roused the young Englishman from the bitter contemplation or ruined hopes with which he had been regarding his recent purchase. “Nothing left to do, but bury him,” he said, turning away towards the homestead.

“Hard luck for him to break his neck just playing in the paddock,” said the shepherd to the two rabbiters, who had also come to see and sympathise. “Specially as the boss had entered him for all the big races at Auckland next week. Silly to let him loose in the paddock like this; but lie’s never had a ’chaser before, or any really good horse.” “Hard luck all right,” replied the rabbiters, turning away. But a great idea was stirring in the futile brain of Henare Taihoa. Fumbling in liis pocket, he extracted one of the greasy pound notes lie had borrowed from Rupeni, and proffered it to “the boss,” who returned with a couple of shovels to help the shepherd bury the d* ad.

“I give you a quid for him, he said.

“But he’s dead! He’s no good to you,” replied the lad, for he was little more than a bov.

“He Ruataniwha. I give you a quid f< r him,” urged Henare.

“Perhaps lie’s going to skin it,” suggested the shepherd. “ Oh, well, it will save burying him if we sell him! ” and the bargain was made, and Henare resumed his interrupted journey with only the details of a plan to regain his gaming losses to be worked out. That the onus of removing the body now rested upon him troubled him not one iota.

After an hour’s jogging along the road the sound of sheep being driven warned him that he was approaching his destination. Pocketing his pipe, lie drove the spurs into his unhappy steed, and reached the station gate in a cloud of dust, with every visible token of extreme excitement.

“ What te matter ? ” “ What you been doing?’ The Maori shearers gathered round him, while the tw T o white men yarded the sheep and went over to the stable to unsaddle their tired, dusty horses. A couple of fat Maori women waddled to the door of the cookhouse, but returned to the preparation of the evening meal when they saw who the new arrival was. “It Henare Taihoa—he drunk! ” was the information given to the half-dozen girls busy with the cooking. Henare meanwhile was giving the new T s.

“ I got a racer, you feller! I buy Ruataniwha; him my new racer. He win heap of race for me.” He giggled ippreciatively at his own w r ords, and the shearers received it as the evidence of his extreme satisfaction at his purchase. . “ What you pay for him ? ” “ How much you give te boss ? ” “ Why the boss sell him ? ”

Showers of questions were poured upon Henare, who continued his mirth, merely replying: “ I buy him alright; he my horse now\”

“ What you going to do with him ? ” asked one of the elder men. “ You sell all your land—got no place to keep him.”

“ I give all you feller a chance—l raffle him! ”

The great idea was proclaimed at last, and met with all the success for which i i promoter hoped. Half a crown a ticket was the price fixed for the raffle. Henare, with a subtle humour that almost overcame him, announced that nought would be the winning number. Papers, on which numbers equal to the number of half crowns in the billy were written, and were put in a hat and hastily shuffled. It was decided to ask the boss to do the drawing. “ He a J.P., so it all fair then,” Henare said blandly. The drawing resulted in a win for Wirenni Te Ropata, who rushed away on a pony to the paddock where his racer was to be found. During his absence Henare counted up the half crowns, which amounted to many pounds. Just after the supper, while the wahines were

washing the plates and throwing tho scraps to the numerous dogs which lay about the fire, YViremu returned, very dejected. “ My racer he dead when I got there,” ho said. “Neck broke where lie slipped in the paddock.”

“Dead! ” exclaimed Henare with wellfeigned pity. “Ruataniwha he dead! I so sorry for you, Wiremu! Look here, 1 give you a pound because I so sorry for you lose your good racehorse.” He pressed the other note borrowed from Rupeni on the disconsolate young man.

“ Now you got a pound for your half crown,” he said kindly, “ and these other feller, they didn’t draw the winner, so they got nothing to kick at.” Two days later the shearing was finished, and the party moved on to another shed, but Henare Taihoa did not go with them. At daybreak he set off in another direction, for he deemed it unwise to be longer in the neighbourhood of the unburied dead.

“ Queer, changeable beggars these Maoris are,” said the young Englishman to his shepherd as they walked home from the belated funeral. “ Fancy giving a pound for a dead horse because you wanted to skin it, and then forgetting all about it.”

“ Yes, they’re a queer lot,” replied tho shepherd winking at one of his dogs. For the shepherd had heard of the Ruataniwha raffle, but deemed it kinder not to tell the boss.