Up the Country: A Saga of Pioneering Days

Malcolm and Dennis felt worse when they heard Bert's news next day. The Poole dogs had barked a lot during the night but, since a possum just out of reach was enough to excite them indefinitely, no one had gone to investigate. Bert was out early in the morning, to be met by the first tragedy of his life. There comes to all young people sooner or later (and those who meet it later rather than sooner have been granted a reprieve), some grief, some mistake, some horror which seems to defeat understanding and be but a delusion of the senses. Such a shock greeted Bert Poole on that gusty morning, as the far winds from the south swept across tussock and shrub and rippled the miles of late summer flowers, putting an icy reminder of the month into the champagne sunlight that banished drowsiness from the youth's eyes. As he went to let Black Belle out of the stable, he saw nailed to the stable door certain objects that had not been there in the white moonlight streaming upon its hard oak surface the night before.

The exhibits included a pair of ears, a horse's tail and copious blood stains. The ears were black and soft as velvet, the tail black and curly. With a ghastly sensation of unreality, Bert tore open the door that was fastened by a hasp over a staple and a horseshoe. There was a gap at the back, which also had not been there the night before. Two broad slabs had been removed, and the beast had been led out the back of the mangerless stall by someone who did not want to risk being seen in the moonlight.