I met the graziers, working with National Park wardens under the scrutiny of an archaeologist, as a mass grave was dug deep to bury a pile of about twenty of the ponies. Flesh retreating from jaws of teeth set in a fixed grin and a stench of rotten flesh. Most pitiful the sight of a small leg protruding from a mare which had struggled to give birth or abort before death overcame her.
On the hillside a group of ponies was grazing away, they must have been stronger and fitter. The only possible consolation of this disaster, a stronger gene pool for the future herd of ponies.