Slaughter at Stringybark Creek
Prequel
(c) Cederwyn Whitefurr
29th November, 2012
All Rights Reserved.

 Kookaburra's. with their laughing call pealing forth, joining in the chorus of the other birds, and in the distance, come the warbling cry of the Lyrebird calling out to his mate, before the distant thunder of the approaching stagecoach team could be heard, the jingle of the harness and tack, their hooves striking the rutted ground in a cacophony of thudding hoof beats. As the stage drew closer, the spotted  gums lining the road, the team whinnied in alarm, their muzzles foaming and sweat glistening on their dark brown flanks – the lead horses dug their hooves in, gravel spumming from their sliding hooves as they instinctively locked their legs, the trailing horses taking a moment to realise the lead horses had stopped, their own hooves skittering and sliding, as the confused men sitting on the rough bench seat swore and fought to keep control of the skittish horses.

 From behind an ancient ironbark, stepped the creature all members of the stagecoach crew had heard of and learned to fear.  His golden fur gleaming in the early afternoon sunlight, thick mane and tail of a dull grey, dressed head to groin in thick leather and over this, was worn an intimidating dark iron mail. As the iron clad stallion stepped from the shrubs beside the rutted path, the thick leather  that covered much of his body from the chafing armour, creaking as he moved. He heard the thundering gallop of the approaching stage and its team of horses, before he raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger; the deafening crack causing the birds in the trees to shriek in fear and surprise'  before the stage driver heaved on the reins - barely stopping the coach before it ran this enigmatic stallion down, who merely grinned and levelled his rifle at the driver

 "Well met," Grunted the stallion. "I'd be thankful - if you didn't do anything - rash - "

 Flicking the rifle towards the guard, the stallion's ears swept back.

 "Nice and steady mate - throw that rifle off to the side...there doesn't need to be any - unnecessary unpleasantness..."

 Freezing in place, the man, wearing a dust streaked overcoat, slowly pulled the rifle from the battered leather holster beside his seat; holding it by the iron-wood stock and then throwing it to the right, the discarded rifle thumping down into the thick underbrush.

 "Good - " Snorted the stallion, his dark eyes narrowing behind the narrow slit in his iron helm, the gun twitching to cover the driver. "Now you mate, I know your kind carry a pistol, nice and slowly now, I don't want anyone hurt here!"

 “What – do you want?” Snarled the now-disarmed driver of the Coach.

 “What – do I want?” Mimicked the stallion, as he smirked, his pale lips twitching.  “I know you're carrying the pay roll of Stringybark – so hand it over mate, there’s no need for unpleasantness.”

 Guard and Driver exchanged glances, knowing they were at a disadvantage as the stallions gaze never once flickered or wavered.

 “You will not get away with this - “ Snarled the intimidated guard, as he and the driver dismounted and headed to the back of the coach.

 “I already have - “ Come the gruff laugh from the iron-clad stallion. “Now, nothing fancy gentlemen – please...”

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