She was a Troubadour, it seems; there never was a Troubadour yet that wouldn't buck and bolt, and smash himself and his rider, if he got a fright, or his temper was roused.Men and women, horses and dogs, are very much alike.I know which can talk best.As to the rest, I don't know whether there's so much for us to be proud of.
It seems that this cranky wretch of a mare had been sideling and fidgeting when Mr.Falkland and his daughter started for their ride;but had gone pretty fairly -- Miss Falkland, like my sister Aileen, could ride anything in reason -- when suddenly a dead limb dropped off a tree close to the side of the road.
I believe she made one wild plunge, and set to; she propped and reared, but Miss Falkland sat her splendidly and got her head up.
When she saw she could do nothing that way, she stretched out her head and went off as hard as she could lay legs to the ground.
She had one of those mouths that are not so bad when horses are going easy, but get quite callous when they are over-eager and excited.
Anyhow, it was like trying to stop a mail-coach going down Mount Victoria with the brake off.
So what we saw was the wretch of a mare coming along as if the devil was after her, and heading straight across the plain at its narrowest part;it wasn't more than half-a-mile wide there, in fact, it was more like a flat than a plain.The people about Boree didn't see much open country, so they made a lot out of what they had.
The mare, like some women when they get their monkey up, was clean out of her senses, and I don't believe anything could have held her under a hide rope with a turn round a stockyard post.
This was what she wanted, and if it had broken her infernal neck so much the better.
Miss Falkland was sitting straight and square, with her hands down, leaning a bit back, and doing her level best to stop the brute.
Her hat was off and her hair had fallen down and hung down her back --plenty of it there was, too.The mare's neck was stretched straight out;her mouth was like a deal board, I expect, by that time.
We didn't sit staring at her all the time, you bet.We could see the boy ever so far off.We gathered up our reins and went after her, not in a hurry, but just collecting ourselves a bit to see what would be the best way to wheel the brute and stop her.
Jim's horse was far and away the fastest, and he let out to head the mare off from a creek that was just in front and at the end of the plain.
`By George!' said one of the men -- a young fellow who lived near the place --`the mare's turning off her course, and she's heading straight for the Trooper's Downfall, where the policeman was killed.
If she goes over that, they'll be smashed up like a matchbox, horse and rider.'
`What's that?' I said, closing up alongside of him.We were all doing our best, and were just in the line to back up Jim, who looked as if he was overhauling the mare fast.
`Why, it's a bluff a hundred feet deep -- a straight drop --and rocks at the bottom.She's making as straight as a bee-line for it now, blast her!'
`And Jim don't know it,' I said; `he's closing up to her, but he doesn't calculate to do it for a quarter of a mile more;he's letting her take it out of herself.'
`He'll never catch her in time,' said the young chap.`My God!
it's an awful thing, isn't it? and a fine young lady like her --so kind to us chaps as she was.'
`I'll see if I can make Jim hear,' I said, for though I looked cool I was as nearly mad as I could be to think of such a girl being lost before our eyes.`No, I can't do that, but I'll TELEGRAPH.'