Lost in the Game [Open!]

[Rivre]

The day was hot, hotter than it had been previously, the sun beating down in torrid waves, relentless and fiery, burning the skin of the pale wranglers back as she wove on through the bush. It had been three days since she'd set out for the Cascades, and yet the striking black paint stallion strode with fresh hooves, clearly happy to be out and about again, trailing with his human. Unruly brown curls framed the young girls features, pale blue/green gaze unfocused, tired. The high country was more of a home to her than any place, and yet traveling for this length of time made her sick to the core. The pale snowgum shade was a welcome quiet after the sticky silence of the open heather glades, and Rachel lent forwards slowly, one hand taking hold of the reigns, to pat the sweated neck of her companion, murmuring to him softly; "Almost there now boy," she crooned, fingers straying to black mane and pulling slowly through the tangled mess, "Seems you've had it rough too."

The sudden crack of a branch had her flung back up in the saddle, eyes scanning the bush as her grip on the paint's mouth tightened. After a moment, recognition clouded her guarded gaze, and a gentle whistle escaped her taut lips, "Common' !" The bush quivered again, and a young mottled heeler came charging out into the open, expression content to lope along, red tinted features questioning. "You scared Black here," she scolded, slapping the fretting stallions neck once more, before a resounding kick sent him on again at a steady trot. Her accent wasn't what was to be expected of the local wrangler, in fact it was entirely the opposite of expected - having originated from Montana, USA - and it tended to confuse the people she met around here, no matter how great a length she would go to, to act normal.

The track widened a little, and the pale trunks wavered into open space, the homely shackled hut peeping into view between the branches of a whippy gum. At last! Panda - who had scooted to a halt- let out an excited yelp before pelting towards the decrepit shack, tail wagging wildly. The bit jingled in Black's mouth as he side-stepped after the hyper cattle dog, packs falling slowly to one side as Rachel grabbed at them wildly, "Steady boy," she whispered, hand slipping to grip some of his mane as she swung her leg over his rump to dismount. The shock of the impact made her knees buckle momentarily, and she had to prop herself up against Black Pearls moving torso before she could balance sufficiently. Gripping the reigns firmly she threw them over the stock horse's head and stretched her legs a little, pacing quickly towards the promise of rest and the stock yard pen.

Panda raced towards her landed form, so eager to greet her, ears back and chin nudging at swinging hand, "No Pan! Sit and wait." The heelers ears pricked, and slowly but surely he lowered himself into position, watching intently as she carried on towards the tie-post. The hut looked pretty much the same, maybe a little older since winter had ached into the sores of last year, breaking some of the splintering panels for uncanny ease. She guessed no-one was here yet, at least, no one was here now, but that was ok with her, she'd much rather be alone anyway. Quickly she set about removing the packs from Black's weight-bearing back, throwing them here and there on the soft grass, uncaring as to what might break or be damaged, it would only happen naturally anyway. The saddle was the next thing to come off, horn bearing rope halter and lasso, that she snagged smoothly, ducking under black and pearl grey shoulder to push the bit from his mouth and remove the sweaty bridle, instead slipping on the loose-fit rope collar with satisfactory ease.

A pail of water stood beside the picket fence, and for a moment Rachel wondered as to who might have filled it, but only a moment before she took the handle and sponge, tossing the cooling wet across sweat-cloaked paint hide, wetting her own top in the process, but reveling in the coolness. It wasn't like anyone was here to see white bra through almost see-through top anyway, but now it was wet the whole thing seemed a little bit stupider. Sighing quietly, she took the sponge in hand and began to swipe the excess water off sleek-thin coat, smiling slightly at the happy snort that caused Black's head the raise.

Once she was done, she patted glossy neck, running bristle brush once more through mane and tail, hooves neatly picked and scrubbed, lips wobbling as eyes closed in sleep. Giving her horse one last affectionate glance, she stooped to prop against the same picket post, aware of the looming stallion but certain of her safety. At least with the spring, she could hope to catch some young brumbies and their mothers, now that they were slow and with foal at foot. That was one thing she was certain of at least, and as Panda settled rebelliously beside her, Blake couldn't help but laugh at her good-fortune.

[Corowa]

The stockman slumped in the saddle, letting his horse pick its own way down the steep bush track. It had been a long hard ride from Jindabyne. The cattle had been spooky as heck, and Tom reckoned he’d lost a couple of good head in the bush up near Bullock’s Hut. Lawson’s mob was half-wild, and one of the old scrub bulls had turned on him, busting up a couple of ribs and nearly trampling him before the stockman could get his stockwhip loose.

The hut stood empty. Tom glimpsed one slab and shingle side through a clump of snowgums, the high stockyard fences, and iron roof. They rounded a bend in the track, and then the snowgums thinned and the hut came into view. Just at that moment, Tom noticed the stockhorse tied to a fence post, the packs lying scattered in the snowgrass. There was something over by the fence behind the horse, and reaching for his shotgun, the stockman rode slowly forwards, hoping some poor bugger hadn’t been murdered out here.

Tom shaded his eyes and gave a short laugh when he saw what it was lying propped up against the fence. “Bloody hell, what’s a sheila like you doing up here?” he asked, surprised. “Though it’s ‘bout time we got some decent tucker round here. Why don’t ya chuck the billy on and rustle us up some tea. Should tie that dog up too, I don’t wanta have to shoot him ‘cause he was stupid enough to go get bit by one of them big browns.”

With a shake of his head, Tom jumped down from his horse. He winced at the flash of pain that shot through him and he gripped the saddle to keep himself from falling. His face set into grim lines, Tom led the two horses over to the stockyards. He gave Jack a nosebag of chaff, and left the stockhorse standing tethered by the stockyard fence.

Bill stood patiently cropping at the snowgrass. Tom gave that big bay rump a whack, and there was the jangle of hobble chains and tin pannikins as the pack horse stepped over smartly. He loosened up the stiff leather straps, sliding the loaded packs slowly off. By the time he’d finished his face was grey and he could hardly stand. “Bloody Lawson and his bloody cattle,” he muttered savagely. “Should’ve shot the lot and told him some bushie rustled them.”

[Rivre]

As she sat there, Rachel found it increasingly hard to keep oceanic eyes open, lids drooping every-so-often, one hand laying on Pan's flank, the sunlight warming the skin of her face and arms, warming the thoughts which idled through her mind with gorggy ease. The snowgrass smelt of mint, or maybe it was the snowgum thicket with such a prominant scent, but all the same it was calming to feel the presence of the ancient barks only meters away, the promise of protection. If a brumby had wandered past, as silent as the whispering gums, she doubted she would have heard it, or for that matter the approach of another stockman on horseback.

“Bloody hell, what’s a sheila like you doing up here?” the gruff tones pulled her sharply from her doze, and fiery gaze splintered up to pierce the rough-looking aussie, jumping up with the picket for support. Black's head threw up beside her, disturbed by her jerky movements and the smell of the two new horses, wary hand going to pat his hot black neck, glaring intently at the new arrival. So, others were up here then. Shame really, she much prefered the silence.
"The name's Rachel," she replied dan-pan, cocking a brow at his little speech, what the hell was a sheila? "And I don't make tea, black is what I make - black coffee." She supposed he'd meant food, but she really didn't care - the way some men refered to women as the house-workers really peed her off, and some men had to learn the hard way.

For a moment they stood staring at each other, and then he swaggered off to un-load the stocky bay, "Should tie that dog up too, I don’t wanta have to shoot him ‘cause he was stupid enough to go get bit by one of them big browns.” Time froze again, tipping gaze to the mottled heeler, hand tightening on his scruff as he let loose a caterwall at being held back from greeting the stranger. "Shoot my dog, and I'll shoot you cow-boy. Now where's that billy yous was talking 'bout?"

[Corowa]

Tom looked up at the woman. “You ever seen a dog get bit by an Eastern brown?” he asked in a low voice and a nod towards the barking heeler. “Reckon a dog like yours, got a coupla minutes. It ain’t something a woman like yerself should have to see. Buried one poor bastard somewhere up near the Brindabellas, he was a goner soon as he put his bloody boot down.”

He took off his hat and scratched his forehead. “Make a man a poor bloody missus that’s for sure,” he exclaimed impatiently. Wiping his hands on his moleskins, Tom picked up a tin can from out of his swag and chucked it. It hit the fence post with a dull clang and the two horses pulled their tethers tight in panic, stamping and snorting until they finally settled. With no more than a glance in the woman’s direction, Tom headed for the hut, his hat pulled down to cover his face, and his arms held rigidly by his sides.

The hut was stifling with the sun baking down on the tin roof. The door banged open, and Tom squinted at the darkened shadows of the room. The tiny room smelt stale, everything was covered in dust, and there were droppings on the floor and table. The stockman sunk down onto one bunk. He clenched his fists until the knuckles turned white, the pain in his ribs so bad it was enough to make a hard man sob.

“Jesus,” he muttered as he looked down at the blood-soaked bandage, the smell of dried blood rancid in the heat. He’d have to ask that woman to dress it. It probably needed suturing, but Tom didn’t think she’d be strong enough to do it proper. He gripped the sides of the bunk and stiffly rose, then hobbled over to the door. “Where’s my bloody tea woman!” he hollered. “Man could cark it before ya got it to him.”

[Rivre]

No way in hell was she making that man anything. Sure, Panda could get bitten, but did he really have to be such an arse about it? Patting the dog almost patronizingly, Rachel sauntered on after the stockman, his cap pulled down over his dark features, the jangle of spurs the only sound except that of the pair walking. "Make your own bloody tea, I'm not your maid, or are you not one of those sit at home and bake types? Cause you sure look it." Batting her eyelids, she grabbed the frame of the shackle door, kicking up a chair with a resounding screech. She wasn't really one for subtlety, and he ought to know it.

Swinging a leg over the seat, she thumped down onto the welcome perch, arms hugging the back of her chair in a manner that was quite manly, all the while glaring. "Now how we gunna do this? I know!" she hummed, sarcasm dripping off the few words she'd already managed to mutter, "You leave me bloody well alone and I'll let you skulk some more. Deal? Good." Pushing up again, she grabbed the metal billy on the table, running the stingy water of the tiny pump tap into it's waiting belly, "If you ask nicely, maybe I'll make you some... Black I mean."