Leta, walking with Gail along the path bordering the shrubbery, gave a loud laugh, then complained pettishly when the jackos failed to join in. ‘Why don’t they laugh?’ ‘They will, when they’re ready.’ Gail, enchanted by the marbled effect of light and shade brought about by the ever lowering angle of the sun’s rays, had no ear for the murmurings of a fractious child, even though it was her job to look after her. ‘Why aren’t they ready now?’ ‘They seem to laugh more in the mornings.’ Her eyes wandered to the long line of mountains, the MacDonnall Ranges, rising above the more gentle landscape, their peaks crimson on the sky line. And as she watched there appeared the dark silhouette of a brumby, a magnificent creature with mane flowing as it raced across her line of vision. Nearer to, and with considerably less movement, could be seen two Aborigine stockriders, appearing to glide about among the mob of cattle roaming the plain.
