Dash and Dingo (21 page)

He nearly plowed into Dingo when the man came to a sudden halt at the edge of a small clearing. Dingo pursed his lips and gave a soft whistle, which

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sounded like some birdcall unknown to Henry. He knew enough at least to know that it was a birdcall.

Another bird obligingly called back, and Dingo edged around the clearing, staying in the underbrush, until Henry could see a dark shadow within the bushes. He wasn’t surprised to see that it was Jarrah.

Jarrah gave them a brilliant smile but said nothing, merely turning and leading the way deeper into the forest. Henry took notice of the sun’s position from the brief dazzling glimpses vouchsafed by the canopy overhead. The care the other two men were taking made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn’t want to put words to it, but he thought he had better take note of the trail just in case he might have to find his way back on his own. He looked round for landmarks, but the forest seemed one giant green shadow to him.

The sun was directly overhead before Jarrah stopped. “Might as well eat here,” he said in a perfectly ordinary voice.

So sudden was the change from all the ornate caution that Henry wanted to laugh. He bit his lip to keep it down, but the amusement was a welcome relief.

“Where is Hodges?” Dingo asked.

He seemed remote to Henry, a man fixated on his job rather than on
him
. Furiously Henry shook his head. Now was not the time to start acting like a lovelorn girl whose object of desire paid attention to some other girl.

Jarrah chuckled. “He hired a guide. A white man. Chances are you’ll never see him because he’ll be off chasing shadows.”

Dingo smiled but said, “I’m learning not to underestimate Hodges. He may be a rat, but he’s a clever rat with an eye on the main chance. He seems to be able to smell me, the way he’s been glued to my heels.”

Henry didn’t blame Hodges; Dingo smelled incredibly wonderful to him, and he could imagine following him a fair distance just to get a whiff.

“He’s still got his own weaknesses, though.” Jarrah shrugged as he started digging around in his pack to produce a pot for billy tea. “He hates us darkies. If he was truly serious about tracking, he would’ve hired a native.”

“That sounds like one thing that may work in our favor, then,” Henry said brightly.

Jarrah gave him a strange look. “Yeah, that’s the bright spot in it.”

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Henry flushed. Obviously he kept putting his foot in his mouth, even though he didn’t mean to. Dingo winked at him, and even though it ordinarily would have made him feel a hundred times better, Henry still felt a jab of remorse in his gut.

The silence remained as they continued drinking their tea and letting the sounds of the bush wash over them.

Jarrah threw the remains of his tea into the fire, quenching the flames.

“Let’s get a move on, boys.”

They packed in a comfortable silence, and Henry was embarrassed when his stomach rumbled despite his rather large breakfast. The two other men looked at him and laughed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Percival-Smythe,” Jarrah said with a bow.

“Having tea probably made your stomach want elevenses.”

Rather than smart at being the punch line of a joke, Henry haughtily put his nose in the air. “I at least thought there would have been a biscuit on offer.”

Jarrah laughed, rummaged in his swag, and produced a packet of plain biscuits. “You can have two, no more. We’re on rations.”

Henry opened the packet and divided a share out for everybody before carefully wrapping them back up and handing them to Jarrah. “Thank you, good sir.”

“I don’t know why I let myself get talked into this,” Jarrah muttered, although good-naturedly, and hoisted his swag again.

Dingo winked at Henry and then leaned in and took a huge bite out of the other man’s biscuit.

“Hey!” Henry protested. He was ignored as Dingo began following Jarrah into the bush. But Henry was pleased to notice that Dingo’s bite mark fit perfectly into his own, and he smiled to himself with this discovery.

Jarrah took them on a circuitous route through the forest until they reached a small clearing. A rusted Ford truck that had seen better days was parked under a large tree. Dingo and Jarrah immediately threw their bags into the tray, and Henry carefully placed his case. He was glad they weren’t going to be walking all the way, but he wasn’t going to be admitting
that
to his companions.

Jarrah pulled a long tarpaulin over the tray until it dangled down to the ground, where a series of rips at the edge created a fringe. He caught Henry

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inspecting it with an unspoken question on his lips. “If Hodges somehow managed to follow us this far, this will throw him off our scent.”

Henry wasn’t sure how, but didn’t ask. They all climbed into the cab of the truck. Once again Henry found himself in the middle; Dingo was obviously a window person who didn’t like being hemmed in. But Henry didn’t mind so much when the truck set off, and Dingo casually laid his arm across the back of the seat. Every now and again his hand would dip down and scratch affectionately at the nape of Henry’s neck, and he would find his body reacting in uncomfortably obvious ways. Henry had to shift slightly, but he also craned his neck to fit into Dingo’s hand more fully. A satisfied smirk appeared on Dingo’s face, and Jarrah played the good friend by pretending not to notice.

Henry realized the ingenuity of the tarpaulin’s design when he looked in the rear view mirror. The fringe was acting as a brush, helping to cover up the tracks of their tires as they sped through the bush. Hodges and his guide would have a hell of a time even finding where they began their journey in the truck.

“Genius,” he murmured with appreciation.

“That’s a Jarrah original,” the man said proudly. “Your man here never would have thought up something like that.”

Dingo doffed his hat to his friend, and Henry warmed at the words.

Your man.

It seemed far too early for such ownership to be claimed. But the words seemed right, and Dingo certainly wasn’t protesting their use. Henry decided to allow them to remain in being and accept them himself.

“So where are we going?” he asked instead.

“Have a stop-off to make first,” Jarrah said. “My house. You can meet my missus.”

The academic anthropologist in Henry was excited at the thought. True native living! Oh, the things he was seeing! And they weren’t even on the true trail of the thylacine yet!

Secretly, Henry was a bit disappointed to find that Jarrah lived in a house much like any other. A bit smaller and shabbier that some in the town, perhaps, but there was no tent ornamented with colorful glyphs; no burrow

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with a hole in the ceiling for the smoke to escape from the continuously burning campfire. Instead, it was your typical Australian, three-bedroom, weatherboard house.

He was starting to believe anthropology was a science of stereotypes.

Jarrah’s wife and two children seemed inordinately pleased to see Dingo, judging from the shrieks of delight with which they set upon him. The children, that was, not Mary. She merely kissed Dingo on both cheeks and told him to come in with an easy comfort from years of friendship.

She looked at Henry with a scrutinizing eye, as if
she
were the anthropologist. “Hello, I’m Mary.”

“Henry,” he said, offering his hand. “Henry Percival-Smythe. Pleased to meet you.”

“Call him Dash,” Jarrah said, swooping in to give his wife another kiss.

“That’s what Dingo calls him.”

“Really,” Mary said with a smirk, now turning her all-knowing eye on Dingo. “Well, come on in, Dash. Don’t mind the kids.”

Dingo and Jarrah, however, had more packing to do. While they moved about the house from room to room, adding to a pile they were forming in the middle of the kitchen, Henry asked, “What do we need all this for?”

Dingo threw a spare rucksack at him. “You can’t scamper through the forest carrying a suitcase, can you? Might be a bit posh.”

“It’s just a bag,” Henry said, although he could see the wisdom of having one’s hands free to deal with whatever eventuality arose.

“Tell me,” Dingo said curiously, “how precisely were you planning to convey a full-grown mating pair back to England with that one bag? I mean, it’s big, but not
that
big.”

Jarrah snorted at the unintended double entendre, and Mary slapped him for it before continuing to make tea.

Henry sniggered at the remark and was surprised at himself. “That might be a bit obvious when I tried to get back on the boat, wouldn’t you think?” He quickly left the kitchen and was back just as quickly, carrying his luggage. He sat back down at the table, opened the case and pulled the meager pile of clothing out, setting it on the table. A smaller black case then followed like a set of nesting dolls, which when opened produced a clanking mess of metal.

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“I brought two collapsible cages,” Henry explained. “I thought if we put the tigers into one they might fight.”

Dingo’s lips twitched, but he very considerately didn’t laugh. “And how did you plan to get the tigers into the frame of mind where they just trotted into the cage? Or keep them hanging about while you set it up?”

Henry’s face fell. “Uh, well, now that you mention it….”

Dingo gave him a slap on the shoulder but softened the blow by turning it into a rub. “That’s what we’re here for.” He looked toward Jarrah. “Nice to know we’re still good for something, eh?”

“I dunno,” Jarrah said, with a cheeky grin. “I’m sure Dash here could find some other use for you.”

Intuition formed through years of marriage managed to help him avoid Mary’s dishtowel as she threw it at him. “Leave those boys alone,” she instructed him.

Thankfully, Henry observed, Jarrah listened to her.

Henry jumped when Dingo handed him a pistol. “What are you doing?”

“Do you know how to fire a gun?” Dingo asked.

“Yes, of course,” Henry said.

“Well, you might have a need for it,” Dingo said grimly.

“Why?” Henry protested.

Jarrah and Mary looked at each other and in silent unison left the two men alone.

“The forest is a dangerous place, Dash,” Dingo said. “Best to be prepared but hope you don’t have to use it.” He pressed it into Henry’s hand.

Henry hated the weight of it, both physically and morally. Even the smell of it revolted him, metallic with a lingering sense of some sort of powdered chemical.

“I can tell I’m going to have to give you lessons. We’ll start with the rifle,” Dingo frowned. He stood and yelled into the other room. “Jarrah!

How’re you fixed for ammo?”

Henry was left alone to wonder just what dangers Dingo anticipated that made him decide that weaponry was a necessity.

“Okay, kids,” Dingo announced. “Scram.”

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The two boys didn’t take offense at his light tone and obeyed as they ran off laughing.

“Why are you making them leave?” Henry asked.

Dingo looked at him quizzically. “You want kids to get ideas by being around guns?”

Henry nodded and realized that he was still getting to know this man who he was beginning to suspect he was developing genuine feelings for. His offhand nature about the gun in the kitchen had led Henry to believe Dingo would be equally casual about it elsewhere; Dingo, however, surprised him every time.

“Come along then,” Jarrah said, poking his head into the doorway.

Henry and Dingo followed him to a small clearing that backed up to a hill that Jarrah clearly used as a safety bunker to stop the bullets. Henry could see a number of empty tin cans littered about, most with holes in them. A plank lay across two tree stumps, and Jarrah placed the rifle on the ground on a bit of sacking before he went to set up a pyramid of the cans on his makeshift firing range. Henry appreciated his frugality in reusing them until they were too riddled with holes to be considered a viable target any more, suspecting that Jarrah really couldn’t afford a proper target.

Jarrah’s first shot nicked the top can and sent it toppling to the ground.

He missed the second, although not by much, and with the third took out the bottom can on the right hand side.

“Slipping, Jarrah?” Dingo teased. He held the gun pointed at the ground until Jarrah had set up another pyramid.

“No one can match your prowess, oh mighty white hunter.” Jarrah delivered the jibe as if they had a long-standing routine of rivalry.

Dingo took up his stance. He hit the top edge of the first can and put bullets cleanly through the other two, sending them to the ground. He reloaded the gun while Henry watched and Jarrah rebuilt his little pyramid.

“Let’s see what you can do with it, Professor.”

Henry hadn’t planned on showing off or even shooting the gun, but the hated nickname delivered so casually brought to mind certain other unpleasant occasions where he’d been teased for wearing glasses or being

“bookish.”

Carefully he brought the gun up and braced the butt against his shoulder, sighting down the barrel before squeezing the trigger.

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His first shot kicked up one of the bottom cans, sending the other two flying up into the air. In quick succession, he squeezed off two more shots, tracing the arc of each can, making them spin in midair before they fell to the earth.

The silence that followed felt respectful to Henry, and he almost smiled as he lowered the rifle.

“That wasn’t a happy accident, was it?” Jarrah asked.

“You know how to shoot!” Dingo accused him.

Henry shrugged. “One learns, living in the country.”

“You bloody Pom!”

Henry winced as Dingo buffeted his shoulder in glee.

“You’ve been holding out on me, mate! Did you see that, Jarrah? The boy can shoot!”

“I’m not blind, Dingo.” Jarrah went forward and stacked up another set of cans. “That wasn’t a fluke then, Henry?”