THE WHITE KING.

Otago Witness, Issue 3879, 17 July 1928, Page 81

THE WHITE KING.

By

Hori Makaire.

( Copyright.—For the Otago Witness. ) “ By jove, what a stunner!” From his vantage point on one of the foothills of Ruapehu, Oglivie commanded a wide view of the Kaingaroa Plains below him. At the moment his powerful field glasses were concentrated on a band of wild horses, the well-known white stallion at their head. Upwards of 20 mares and yearlings grazed near at hand. But the stallion was suspicious. Like a sentinel he stood, his head turned towards the mountain, his ears pricked forward, his whole attitude suggestive of the anxiety for the safety of his muchhunted band that only a wild horse king could display. In the clear air of early morning he was a picture to delight the eye of any lover of horses.

A short week in the district had enabled Oglivie to learn a great deal of the white stallion’s history. He was said to be a pure Arab, imported at great expense by a -wealthy Hawke’s Bay squatter. There had been a gate carelessly left open, and through this the horse had escaped to the bush. Weeks later he had appeared on the plains at the head of a picked band of mares. Since then there had been countless attempts to capture him, but his pace, combined with an extraordinary cunning, had invariably saved him from the best prepared traps. To get a rope on him was the ambition of every wild horse hunter within a radius of many miles. On this occasion, Oglivie had joined a large party of hunters, who were now camped at the edge of the bush nearby. They were determined to make a final effort to run the stallion down. Their leader proposed to use entirely new methods which had proved a great success in the “ brumby ” country of Northern Queensland. As Oglivie continued to admire the stallion he was joined by two of the hunters.

“Great sight, isn’t he?” said one. “If all goes well and Bronson’s newfangled notions work out O.K. we’ll have a halter on that white brute to-night.” “ What’s the idea ? ” asked Oglivie. “ Well, it’s this way. Bronson’s figured out it’s a waste of time trying to ride him down. Why, he can turn his head and walk away from any horse in the country. But he always makes for the old racecourse waterhole away to your right there. Along the path he’s sure to come, we’ve dug shallow holes. Round the top of each of these there’s a lassoo coiled, and this is well staked out at the side of the track. The -horses always make for the water at a gallop. Bronson reckons the king’s bound to get hung up in one of the ropes when he leads the mob through. We’ll be handy, and then he’s ours. He might break a leg, bjit we’ll have to risk it.” In some way Oglivie felt that he would like the scheme to fail. It seemed unfair to his hosts, but the whole proceeding savoured too much of a form of coldbloodedness he did not like. To him it seemed a crime that any attempt should be made to reduce to servility the spirit of the splendid animal before him. He was of the type that spends'many years in killing for sport, and that. suddenly experiences a complete change of ideas on the subject. His chief hobby nowadays was the preservation of the wild life that.he had so consistently harried with dog and gun; and with its development liad come the desire that all that Nature had destined for unrestrained freedom should remain free and undisturbed. Quite naturally his attitude in this respect had made him few 1 friends, but his ideal had remained unshaken.

The midday meal was eaten. The one topic of conversation was the wild horse. Oglivie had little to say. He felt that he was eating with these men under false pretences. He had been told what the capture of the stallion would mean to the party—the division of a sum approaching four figures. He was not wealthy, but he felt that he would willingly pay over twice that amount to ensure the king’s continued liberty. As the afternoon drew on there was the inevitable air of excitement about the camp. The saddle horses were got ready. Two of the better-mounted hunters rode away. It was their duty to hide in a patch of scrub a few hundred yards from the waterhole. .Were the stallion snared, as Bronson so confidently expected, three revolver shots were to be fired as a signal for help from the camp. An hour passed, two. One of the men went to a nearby spring for a tin of water. Just as he re-entered the whare there came the sound of' a shot, and then three more in quick succession. The water was sent in all directions as the hunters dashed through the door, mounted their horses, and recklessly galloped in a body down the steep hill path. A minute later a burst of cheering came to Oglivie’s ears. “ So they got him after all ? ” he inquired of the first hunter to reappear.

“You bet!” was the reply. “He was caught in three of the nooses, and we’ve got him roped good and hard. And .what are you going to do with him new ? ”

“ Stick him in the high corral there to-night. We’ll let him roam round a bit so he’ll show some pep when Bronson starts to break him to-morrow. We caught one of the mares, too, but she broke a fetlock, and we hail to cut her throat.” The speaker laughed. “Is the stallion hurt much?”

“ Not very. Bit of skin and hair missing. He’s bleeding some from the head, but that’ll get all right. He canuJ an awful cropper. Look, there he is now.” Oglivie looked at the approaching hunters. In their midst was the white horse, securely held by four ropes. But, where the proud spirit of the King of the Plains? His head hung dejectedly as though all the fight had been knocked out of him. He was slightlv lame. Deep scratches, from which the blood still oozed, marred the beauty of his co£it. He breathed with a queer little snuffling sound, and froth stained with crimson showed at his distended nostrils. .Truly, a beaten, dispirited horse! '

“ Had to whale him solid with this,” explained Bronson* displaying a heavy stockwhip to Oglivie. “ The devil nearly tore my shirt off. Into the coral with him, boys.”

The gate was open, the ropes released, and the stallion forced through the opening.

Supper that night, enlivened with the contents of a large demijohn that Bron-' son produced was an agonising business to Oglivie. Try as he might he could not join in the general merriment which prevailed. Always in his mind were two pictures—of a great white horse as he had seen him that morning, a worthy monarch of the plains, and as he had last regarded the king, bleeding, and broken in spirit, as a preface to the tragic bondage that was sure to follow. All retired at an early hour, for the breaking of the stallion on the following morning promised a full day’s hard work in which all would be engaged. Oglivie could not sleep. After a vain endeavour to interest himself in a month-old magazine he dressed and went outside. A bright moonlight etched the landscape in black and silver. He paused to consider what artist could do justice to the majestic glimmering whiteness of Ruapehu as its snowcapped dome now appeared. He was recalled to the present by the sound of the measured tramp, tramp, tramp from the direction of the corral, where, in the manner of the trapped animal, the white stallion paced ceaselessly up and down, vainly seeking an opening. Oglivie was naturally of an impulsive nature, but the sudden thought that came to him gave him' food for deep thought. . . . Cautiously’, he approached the high fence. The captured horse snorted suspiciously at him, but made no attempt to run. The man - spoke softly to the king. One overhearing would have labelled the man “ strange.” A fond young mother might have recognised a new form’ of comforting “ baby talk ” in the low-voiced, onesided conversation that ensued for some minutes. Oglivie was trying to tell the horse just how sorry he felt about it all, and how truly ashamed he felt of his own kind. He almost sensed that the animal understood part of it. The horse resumed its tramping. Now he was at the far end of the corral.

“ Neddy, old chap,” called Oglivie softly. “ I’m going to do something that—well ” he hesitated. But.. . .

there was still the thought of the morrow’s torture. With quiet deliberation he walked to the entrance, lifted the heavy latch, and flung the gate wide open.

“That’s done it, anyhow,” he muttered in evident relief. * He waited.

There was a wild scurry within the enclosure. A white streak dashed past him, there was a frightened snort, and then a rattle of stones from beyond the nearby bank as the white king raced in frenzied flight over the edge and back to his wild domain.

No sound came from the sleeping camp. Oglivie laughed—with some bitterness.

“ There will be h—l to play tomorrow,” he soliloquised, as he waved an exaggerated farewell to the moon, the only 7 witness of his adventure. There was!

There is no moral to this story. I don’t condone what Bill Oglivie did. But, you see, I knew Bill, and he really couldn’t help it.