by Karen Wood
‘Let’s pull the yards apart! That’ll stop them,’ said Grace.
‘No, they’ll just put them back together again,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘We need to do more than that. Start pulling out the pins and put them in your pockets. We’ll take them with us.’
Jess and Grace began work on the yards, pulling the pins from top and bottom and letting each panel fall to the ground with a clang.
When all the panels lay in a heap, Mrs Arnold climbed inside the runners’ car. ‘Let’s see if the old girl goes,’ she said, fumbling with the wires and giving it a kick in the guts. It spluttered and gave a few false starts, then coughed to life with a billow of black smoke behind it.
‘Get out of the way!’ she yelled, as the last few panels fell to the ground. She crunched the car into gear and pointed it straight at them.
Jess and Grace leapt out of the way and then cheered with delight as Mrs Arnold ploughed over the pile of steel, then roared the ute back and forth, grinding the gears and revving the engine. The panels buckled and bent under the weight of the car until they lay in a mangled heap. After a final defiant roar and blurt of smoke, Mrs Arnold killed the engine and stepped out with a satisfied gleam in her eye.
‘Woo hoo! Madam Demolition strikes again,’ whooped Grace, punching the air.
Jess was doubled over with laughter. She looked over her shoulder. ‘I hope those runners don’t come checking their traps any time soon.’
‘Wasn’t us,’ said Mrs Arnold, slamming the car door shut and climbing down off the mountain of tangled steel. ‘We just found it like this, didn’t we, girls?’
‘Yep,’ said Jess, still chuckling.
‘We better skedaddle, just in case,’ Mrs Arnold grinned. ‘One more thing.’ She opened the bonnet of the car, reached in, fumbled about and resurfaced with two small pieces of wire in her hand. ‘Let’s take these too,’ she said, handing them to Grace. She set off into the forest, leaving the car with its bonnet gaping open.
‘Wonder how Luke went with the dogs,’ said Jess, skipping behind her.
They headed back to the LandCruiser full of triumph and satisfaction, their pockets heavy with metal pins.
‘That was about five grand’s worth of yard panels,’ said Grace, bouncing over a log. ‘I know, ’cause Dad just bought some at the start of the year, and that’s how much they cost.’
‘Another reason I want all the pins,’ said Mrs Arnold slyly. ‘I’m going back for the gates, too. Reckon I could get them on my roof racks?’ She looked sideways at Jess. ‘My demolition fee.’
‘You slippery old woman,’ chuckled Grace.
Jess hurried to the ridge-top, keen to see Luke and the dogs again. From the top, through the whirling snow and the gusts of wind, she could see Luke crouching, his shoulders slumped. Something wasn’t right.
12
LUKE WAS SITTING in a patch of grass and ferns nursing Filth’s big head, sobbing unashamedly. Fang sat silent beside him.
‘Oh, Luke,’ she whispered.
‘Oh God, Jess, he’s dead. He’s dead.’ Tears were pouring down his face. ‘Wake up, fella,’ he cried, stroking Filth’s ears and running his hand over the dog’s shaggy chest. ‘Come on, boy, wake up!’
Jess turned and motioned for the others to stop.
‘Oh crap,’ she heard Mrs Arnold say.
‘He saved me,’ sobbed Luke. ‘He doesn’t deserve to die.’ He looked at Jess with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Why does everyone have to die? I can’t handle it!’
‘Luke . . .’ Jess didn’t know what to say. She was so shocked. ‘One of the brumbies must have kicked him.’
‘Are you sure he’s dead?’ asked Mrs Arnold, stepping closer.
Something warm and rancid seeped through the air, and Jess could have sworn she saw Filth’s tail lift slightly.
‘He sure smells like it,’ mumbled Grace quietly.
Jess looked daggers at her. Grace shrugged, covered her nose with one hand and took a few steps back.
‘He just whined,’ said Mrs Arnold, stepping closer to the dog and crouching down. She ran her hand over Filth’s head. ‘Stop your bloody wailing, Luke,’ she said. ‘I can’t hear him.’
Luke stopped sobbing. Between his sniffs Jess could hear, faint but unmistakable, a low whine.
‘Oh God, he’s still alive.’ Luke began sobbing even louder. ‘He’s not dead. He’s alive. What do I do?’ He seemed in a panic. Fang got up and began nuzzling him around the face.
‘Shut the hell up, for a start. Crikey, what’s wrong with you?’ snapped Mrs Arnold. ‘Let me look at him.’ She ran her hands carefully over the yellow dog’s body, pressing and poking here and there.
‘I think he’s been kicked in the neck,’ she finally said. ‘Or the head. Maybe both.’
‘He needs a vet,’ said Grace. ‘We have to get him back down the mountain somehow.’
‘How will we get him to the car?’ said Jess. She reckoned Filth must weigh more than she did, and with his injuries it wasn’t going to be easy to move him.
‘There’s an old bedspread in the back of the fourbie,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘Run and grab it, Gracie. We’ll use it as a stretcher. Between the four of us, we should be able to carry him.’
‘A bedspread?’ said Grace. ‘Why do you have a bedspread in your car?’
‘Just go and get it, Grace!’ said an exasperated Mrs Arnold.
While Grace did as she was told, Luke gently eased himself out from under Filth and knelt by the dog’s head. ‘Hang in there, Filthy,’ he said softly to him. ‘We’ll get you back home, just hang in there, don’t go dying on me.’ He pulled his jacket off and draped it over Filth’s chest.
Grace returned moments later with a bundle of purple chenille under her arm. ‘Liked the decor just a bit too much, did we, Mum?’ The bedspread was from the bunkhouse.
Mrs Arnold shot her a defensive frown. ‘In case we got cold. I was gonna give it back.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Grace, handing the felonious item to her mother and helping her spread it out.
Filth weighed a tonne and he didn’t seem able to move much, apart from the occasional shuffle of his legs, which brought whimpers and whines of pain. They stuffed the bedspread under him and dragged him onto it, then took a corner each and began hauling him across the wooded hillside. It was hard, awkward work, especially with Luke complaining about his arm. Fang trotted anxiously around them, sniffing and whining.
Lying down, the big yellow dog barely fitted in the back of the fourbie, and they had to move all manner of junk to the front seat, then leave the tailgate open with his back paws hanging out. Luke sat at his head. Jess and Grace dangled their legs from the back tailgate as Mrs Arnold drove slowly over the rutted tracks through the forest. They emptied their pockets of the heavy metal pins and tossed them in the back.
Fang followed the LandCruiser, sniffing at wombat poo and bolting after the occasional wallaby. They’d been going for less than half an hour when he suddenly rushed to the front of the car and began barking aggressively.
‘Oh crap,’ said Mrs Arnold, for the second time that day.
Another vehicle was approaching, a big blue F250 truck, groaning and revving as it pitched and rolled over the ruts in the track. On the back, inside a large cage, two enormous caramel-coloured dogs barked and snarled, slobber dripping from their jowls.
‘Girls, get in the back seat, now!’ ordered Mrs Arnold. ‘Luke! Get that dog under control before he gets himself in a fight.’
Grace and Jess immediately scrambled over the seat and into the back. Luke got out and roared at Fang, who reluctantly trotted back to the fourbie, still growling and threatening over his shoulder. Luke reached down, slung a rope around his neck and used his one good hand to tie him somewhat awkwardly to the towbar.
The other car pulled up beside them and the driver rolled down his window. He was a middle-aged man, wearing a beanie and a checked jacket with a fur-lined collar. In the passenger’s seat, another man slugged on a can
of beer, then crushed the empty and tossed it out the window.
Mrs Arnold nodded a greeting. ‘Boys.’
The driver nodded back without smiling. ‘Nice day for it.’ He ran scrutinising eyes over the fourbie.
‘Yeah, not bad.’
‘See any horses?’
‘Yeah, a few,’ said Mrs Arnold, not giving much away. ‘They were pretty restless though, dunno why.’
‘Yeah?’ The man turned to his mate in the front. ‘Sounds like it’s gonna be a good weekend, Johnno.’ They sniggered.
Mrs Arnold changed the subject. ‘Good-lookin’ dogs you got on the back there. Bull Arabs, are they?’ The dogs were nearly as big as Luke’s, but short-haired, with huge blocky heads and large limbs. They looked as though they were bred to bring down a horse, rather than just chase it. They held their noses high and whined into the wind.
‘Yeah,’ drawled the man, sounding pleased that she recognised them. ‘They’re on a scent now. There are horses close, I reckon.’ He turned his head and scanned the countryside. ‘Sight any yet?’ asked Mrs Arnold.
‘Dogs picked up a scent back further. We found tracks but the horses were shod. Must be weekenders riding up here.’ Again he ran his eyes over Mrs Arnold, the fourbie, Fang tied to the towbar as Luke held him steady with one hand, the other strapped to his chest.
The guy in the passenger seat let forth some profanities about do-goodie tourists and cracked another can.
‘Painful, aren’t they,’ agreed Mrs Arnold.
Jess listened to her lying through her teeth, passing herself off as another brumby-runner. She shuddered as she thought of those dogs chasing Dodger. If only Mrs Arnold would stop fraternising with these freaks and take them back to the house so they could check that the horses were safe.
Mrs Arnold must have heard her thoughts. ‘Yeah, well, we better be off,’ she said. ‘Bastard stallion kicked one of our dogs in the neck, gotta get it to the vet.’
This comment drew their interest. ‘What did it look like?’ asked the driver.
‘White,’ Mrs Arnold lied. ‘With two blue eyes. Looked like a ghost horse or something. I wish we hadda caught it.’
‘Never seen a white one up here,’ said the driver, with a doubtful snort. ‘A few creamies, but never a white.’ He looked at his mate. ‘You ever see a white horse up here, Jonesy?’
The other man shook his head. ‘Nup. Caught a pale creamy one a few weeks back, and a couple of his mares. Wouldn’t mind catching a white one, though. Where’d you see it?’
‘On another trail,’ said Mrs Arnold.
‘And which trail would that be?’ asked the driver with a challenging stare.
‘Down by . . . ’ Jess caught her desperately searching for a name on the map that lay folded on the dash, ‘. . . Creeping Gully.’
‘That’s miles from here,’ he answered, sounding suspicious. ‘Yeah, well, we can’t give too much away, can we?’ said Mrs Arnold in a cool voice. She gave him a wink. ‘We might wanna run that one ourselves.’
The man sneered. His passenger got out of his car and to Jess’s horror began walking to the back of the fourbie. ‘Give us a look at your dog.’
Fang let out a low growl and bared his teeth. The hair down his back stood on end. Luke struggled to hold him with his one good hand.
‘Good dog,’ said the man, shifting his gaze to Fang and then to Luke. Then he looked past both of them, trying to see Filth in the back of the fourbie.
‘Oh no, the yard pins,’ Grace hissed at Jess.
But the man only gave Filth a quick glance. ‘May as well shoot him. He’s not gonna hunt again.’
‘That one was a bit brain-damaged anyway,’ said Mrs Arnold.
Luke shot an incensed look at her.
‘I got a shotty in the back if you wanna borrow it.’ The man nodded at Fang. ‘That one’s the better of the two anyway. Nice dog, that. What breed is it?’
‘Mount Isa Runner,’ said Luke. ‘New breed, from up north. They’re handy on cold scents, go all day, find the ones that are good at hiding.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said the man with a cynical smirk. ‘He might help you get that white stallion. Though I don’t know if he’ll have the jaws to hold him once he finds him.’
‘They’d have to run it down first,’ said Luke, nodding at the other man’s heavy-set dogs. ‘And these guys come into their own when they’re running. Good stamina and pace.’ He gave Fang a blokey slap.
‘Hard to find a dog that can do it all,’ agreed the man. He didn’t take his eyes off Fang, Jess noticed. Then she had an idea.
‘We got some of his pups at home, if you wanna buy one,’ she said, poking her head out the window. The man looked startled, as though he hadn’t noticed her there.
Luke looked just as startled, but had the presence of mind not to show his surprise.
‘Petunia’s pups!’ said Jess. Petunia was Shara’s prehistoric dog. She was a foxy cross and had been spayed for years.
‘Oh yeah, Petunia,’ said Luke, recovering well. ‘Good bitch. Bit smaller than these guys, but real hard. Quick, too.’
‘Might be interested in one of those pups,’ said the man. ‘Where did you say they were bred?’
‘Mount Isa,’ said Luke. ‘Big country up there. Lots of brumbies, pigs, rogue cattle . . . ’
‘Feral dogs . . .’ Grace added under her breath, and Jess jabbed her in the ribs with an elbow.
‘They don’t muck around with their dogs up there,’ Jess piped in.
‘Nah,’ agreed the man. ‘Mount Isa Runners, ay? Never heard of them.’ He looked genuinely confused.
‘They’re hard to come by. Worth a fortune. Could put some stamina into your bloodlines,’ said Luke.
‘Give us your contact details and we’ll let you know when they’re ready to sell,’ said Jess.
‘Listen, we better head off,’ said Mrs Arnold, sounding unimpressed. ‘That snow is coming down heavier, be getting dark soon.’
The men scrambled around in their glovebox and scrawled some details on a scrap of paper while Jess tried to memorise their numberplate.
As he handed the paper to Luke, the man looked at Filth, still motionless in the back of the fourbie. ‘Sure you don’t wanna borrow that gun?’
‘Nah, he’s my old man’s dog. We’ll finish him off when we get him home, bury him in the backyard with the others.’
‘Must’ve been a good dog, was he?’
‘The best,’ said Luke. It was the first truthful thing he’d said.
Mrs Arnold started the engine and began driving away. ‘We better get out of here, quick,’ she muttered as she hit the accelerator. ‘Before those guys use that shotty on us!’
Jess felt the seat pull behind her and Luke’s face appeared from the back of the car. ‘You’re a genius, Jessy,’ he smiled, and planted a kiss on her cheek.
They travelled in anxious silence, knowing that, quite literally, they weren’t out of the woods yet, as they searched desperately for the track that led back to Matty’s Creek. As the snow spread a thick white blanket over the land, everything began to look the same.
Filth lay miserably in the back of the fourbie and Luke urged Mrs Arnold, ‘We gotta get him to a vet. Drive faster; he’s not going to last long.’ Less than a minute later he was begging her to slow down. ‘You’re bumping around too much. It’s hurting him! It’s hurting me!’
‘Make up your mind,’ said Mrs Arnold, exasperated.
Finally, near dusk, she pointed through the windscreen. ‘Look!’
Rambo stood on a ridge-top, the wind ruffling his mane and his nose to the breeze, watching them intently with his mismatched eyes.
‘He’s come to check on us,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘I reckon he’s taken the other horses home for sure.’
Jess looked out the window, allowing the snow to land lightly on her face and catch on her eyelashes. The slopes were thick with it now and Jess hoped like crazy it would be enough to cover the fourbie’s tyre tracks before
the brumby-runners found their mangled yards.
13
IT WAS WELL AFTER sunset when Mrs Arnold’s battle-scarred LandCruiser bumped its way out of the forest and down the hill paddock. The snow had turned to rain now, and there were people in hats and oilskins walking around the property, lit by the headlights of several vehicles. Jess was enormously relieved to see the silhouettes of two saddled horses in the sweeping beams of light. She instantly recognised Dodger’s nuggety silhouette.
‘These guys came galloping through town with no riders,’ said Kitty, as Jess jumped from the car and threw her arms around her horse’s neck. ‘We didn’t know what had happened to you.’
‘Everyone okay?’ asked Steve, who was holding Legsy by a set of broken reins.
‘We got attacked by a brumby stallion,’ said Grace, leaning from the car window and launching into a full and enthusiastic account of the day. ‘Shoulda seen it. I thought it was gonna kill Luke!’
‘It kicked my dog,’ said Luke from the back of the fourbie, where he had Filth’s head cradled in his arms. ‘He needs a vet.’
People Jess had never seen before began crowding around the back of the vehicle. ‘What happened? What’s wrong with him?’
‘A brumby kicked him,’ said Grace. ‘There was a mob of bachelor colts and he was chasing them.’
‘Who are all these people?’ asked Luke.
‘Just a few neighbours,’ said Steve. ‘When a fourth-generation local comes home, word spreads fast. When his horse comes galloping through town without him, they form search parties.’
‘Let Barker have a look at him,’ someone said, and the swarm of people parted like the Red Sea. A silver-haired man in a police uniform was pushed to the front of the crowd. ‘Thirty-five years on the dog squad!’ said another voice. ‘He’ll know what to do with him.’
Barker had a kind and craggy face with three days of stubble on his chin. He held a hand out to Fang, who sat next to Luke. Fang sniffed it and allowed the man to pat him. Then Barker ran gentle hands over Filth’s slack body. ‘What’s he, a dingo?’
