The waning of September, with its sunny days, cold nights, and morning mists, made little difference to the ponies’ daily routine. Apparently they were as free to go where they listed as any wild Western herd. But their owners kept an eye on them, and left them there or had them “caught in,” as they pleased.

Later in the year strings of ponies would wend their way to the Brockenhurst sales, but it chanced that the owner of the bay leader of the herd in which Skewbald ran, decided to have him in before he got busy catching other people’s ponies, which was always the case towards the end of the year, as he was an adept at the game.

The shadows of a golden afternoon were lengthening, and the herd, scattered over a mile of valley bottom, was getting to work after the midday siesta, when a horseman appeared on the skyline at the head of the valley. It was the colt-hunter seeking his property. A moment later another rider came down one of the slopes, and a third emerged from the woods bordering the ridge on the other side of the valley. This last was Mollie, a girl of fifteen, and the other a lad of thirteen, her brother Tom. They had come to help their father to capture the pony. This was not the first time they had taken part in the chase.

The mares heard the thud of hoofs, threw up their heads, and whinnied to their foals and yearlings. Then a call came from their leader a good way down the valley, and at once the ponies made off towards the summons, increasing their pace as the boy and girl riders came down upon them, shouting and waving, in the hope of driving them back, so that the stallion could be dealt with alone. But the girl had to check, as she came to a boggy patch, and they swept on to join their leader. “Get along, Tom,” called the father, following behind. “Up the hill, Mollie, and head them off.” Tom, on a rough pony, and riding like a centaur, raced after the fugitives, which with one accord stretched into a gallop, stringing out along the valley, according to their ability; the stallion at the head, and putting his best foot forward, as if he knew that out of all the lot he was the one wanted. The ground resounded with the thud of hoofs, manes and tails waved in the air, and mares called to their foals, the youngsters responding gallantly.

The stallion was making for a wood, and to reach this the ponies had to skirt a swamp. As the leader rounded the wet land, and made for the upland shelter, Mollie came directly towards him, screeching and waving. It was too much for the pony’s nerves; he turned and fled up the valley, making for the higher ground, and followed by the herd, somewhat confused and bunched together by the check. Some of the foals began to tire, and, with their mothers, slackened and fell out. Among them was the chestnut mare, who retired with her foal to the shelter of a clump of hollies, whence, with twitching ears and distended nostrils, they watched the pursuit. The stallion, with some faithful companions, now encountered Tom, who turned him again, and then the man took up the running. Their aim was to tire out the stallion, “to run him off his legs,” for in this waste was no friendly farmyard or paddock into which he could be driven. Grass and heather fed, as he was, he was not likely to have the staying power of stable-fed ponies. On the other hand, he had no weight to carry, and, if allowed to get into the woods, might elude his pursuers until nightfall made it impossible to continue the chase.

The mares, yearlings, and two-year-olds dropped out one by one. In little groups they watched the chase, pursued and pursuers rapidly dwindling in size as they raced down the valley, then thundering back along the ridge, black against the evening sky. The bay had no rest, and was turned time after time. Now and then one rider slowed down, but the others kept inexorably on the heels of their prey.

The chase was not without its dangers, for the hillsides were dry and slippery. Once the stallion fell, and rolled clean over, but was up and away in a moment. The girl’s pony slipped twice, but she stuck to him like a burr. The ridden ponies had been on the business before, and were as keen as their riders. They were quick to see the signs of deflection on the part of their quarry, and would of their own accord cut off corners to where the stallion was heading. More than once the boy’s pony, going straight for his objective, went under a gnarled holly, and the rider had to flatten himself, with his head buried in the pony’s mane, or he would have been swept off by the lower branches, and hung aloft. But it was all in the day’s work. Perhaps the man took it the most quietly. He was there to secure his pony—his children were out for a good run.

The end came when the bay visibly tired, and could no longer keep ahead. He was alone, for all his companions had deserted him. The man forged alongside, and the two ran almost touching, when suddenly the rider, a halter in his hand, jumped from his mount, and flung himself on the stallion’s neck, bearing him to the ground. In a trice the halter was slipped on, and the man was up and on his pony, before the shaken bay knew what had happened. It was a feat of strength and agility of which few of the forest men were capable.

The others rode up exulting in their father’s prowess. “Keep clear of his heels, Tom,” was the caution. As the stallion turned to make off, the man’s mount leaned against the rope, bracing herself against the coming jerk, which brought the would-be fugitive up short, pulling him off his feet. He was up in a twinkling, and lashed out with his heels, but all were prepared, and stinging whips warned him against these tactics. When he hung back the two behind chivied him on. Once he lay down and was dragged along the turf a few paces, but the whips again drove him up. Then, with ears depressed, the red of his eyes showing, and bared teeth, he tried biting, but a slash across the face intimated that such an assault would not pay.

Finally, the stallion, dead tired as he was, lost heart, dropped his ears dejectedly, and trudged along, while his captors, almost as weary, went homewards across the moors, now and then breaking into speech, as they recalled the more exciting moments of the hunt.

Of the stallion’s life in the coal-pits there is not much to tell. This was a good mine, and the ponies were well looked after. Their stalls were lit with electricity, and they were properly fed and groomed. When at work they wore leather hats, so that in the low places a bump would not injure them.

Once at least the stallion, who gained the good-will of the drivers by his willingness and activity, had a good rest, beside his weekly one, for when the great strike was decreed and the pony-men were called out, the ponies had to be brought to the surface. The bay was among the first batch, no longer bright of coat, and his eyes dazzled by the light of day. But when he reached the field of dingy grass, so unlike the clean heather of his native soil, he lay down, and rolled to his heart’s content, then got up and whinnied long and loud, as if calling across the great open spaces of the forest.