Broken Dreams Read Online Free Page A

quietened down enough to put my saddle on its back. Later that afternoon, the chestnut was ready for his first ride. I felt a bit uneasy as I grabbed a handful of mane and pulled myself into the saddle. I felt my foot land in the opposite stirrup iron and knew I was on. All of a sudden I felt the gelding go down into a low crouch, and it was at that moment that I knew all my Christmases had come at once. The chestnut horse leapt high into the air and took off at a horrifying pace. The old bush saying, “He’s dropped his head” was all I could think about as the horse began to buck. Just the way I’d seen it at the rodeos, I threw one hand high in the air—and guess what, I followed it and landed on my arse on the ground. I picked myself up out of the dirt and dust, wondering where the hell I’d gone wrong. After uttering a few threats and giving a shake of the head, I climbed back on and gave that chestnut a good workout, and stepped off him again without any further trouble. I’d learned my first lesson the hard way. After I’d taken my saddle and bridle off the horse and let him go with the others, my uncle and I decided to call it a day. We’d be back next morning to give the chestnut his second ride. My Uncle John was grinning like a shot fox when he saw me thrown off the chestnut—the old bugger, he thought it was a great joke.
    That night I was restless, haunted by the day’s events. I had ridden one horse and been thrown. How many more times would that happen?
    Next morning I felt a bit winky as I checked my gear. I caught the chestnut horse and threw my saddle on his back once more. He just crow-hopped around the yard, no problem. A few more rides and that big chestnut never gave any more trouble: he was well on the way to being broken in. A month later he was quiet enough to be takenhome. His owner arrived with a horse float. In a way I was sorry to see the last of him.
    The next horse I had to work down was a little grey Welsh mountain pony, a bit taller than a Shetland. I took one look at that grey pony and thought, this will be a piece of cake. A couple of rides, I told myself, and anyone should be able to ride him. I was fairly keen to get the Welsh pony going so that I’d be able to take some of the other horses for a ride. I put my saddle on loose to begin with and tightened the girth gradually, as most young horses are very touchy when you do this. I grabbed the reins up short and climbed into the saddle. As soon as I stepped on I knew the grey pony was going to buck. I could tell just by the way he was walking around the yard. He kept putting his head down. Like a sucker, I hit him on the shoulder with my reins. What happened next occurred in a split second. Once again I picked myself up out of the dust. I noticed that my saddle had worked its way too far forward; as a result I was pivoted straight over the horse’s ears into the dirt.
    I was thrown twice more off the little grey Welsh mountain pony, but eventually worked him down with a lot of time and effort. That Welsh pony left me with the feeling that he could have thrown me anyhow, anywhere, anytime.
    Everything was going well for me—I enjoyed working with the horses and being in the bush. But our food supply was getting low, and it was time to go to town to get more supplies.
    After being in town for a day I decided to ride downtown to get a dozen stubbies. On my way home I met a girl my own age and we began chatting. We were both under-age drinkers, and she said: “Go down under the bridge and I’ll come down and have a beer with you.” So she jumpedup behind me and we headed down under the bridge on my horse. If I’d had a car everything would probably have worked out all right, but as I rode my horse down the girl’s brother must have seen us and gone home to tell their mother. We drank the stubbies and I went for a ride.
    Later that afternoon I was sitting on Four-X