‘Get your lazy arse out of bed,’ Scotty snarled as he kicked Bulldust’s swag.
Bulldust’s eyes opened and he saw stars. ‘What’s the time?’ he muttered.
‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve got work to do.’
Bulldust rolled over and looked at his watch as he heard Scotty throw more wood on the fire. The sparks shot towards the stars, and then he heard the clink of the billy on the coals Scotty would’ve dragged out from the fire.
The glow of his watch showed four-thirty. His head thumped a little; the after-effects of last night’s beer and whiskey.
Wriggling out of his swag, he reached for his boots and put them on, before heading to the part of the camp that doubled as a bathroom. There was cold water in a bowl, which he slapped onto his face and under his arms, before walking a little further away to relieve himself.
Looking at the night sky, he made out the Southern Cross, the Saucepan and the Seven Sisters. It would be a good hour and a half before the sun started to rise. Walking the boundary fence before daylight was a shit of a job, but he knew it had to be done.
There was no talking between the two men as they poured their cups of tea and ate the damper that Scotty had cooked the previous evening. Only as they were about to leave for their separate jobs did Scotty say, ‘You right, then?’
‘Done it before, reckon I can do it again today.’
‘Had trouble with camels yesterday, so you’ll have a bit of fencing to do when you get out there. They can smell the crop and think it’s grass. Probably smell the water, too, so they’re wanting to come in and graze it.’
‘Doped-up camels. Could be interesting.’
‘I chased out four. Three females and a calf. I reckon there’ll be a bull around somewhere. Managed to shoot one of them, but they were in around the bush, so I didn’t get them all.’
‘Did you get rid of it?’
‘Yeah. Don’t want the dingoes coming around. Dragged it about five ks to the north. Can’t go too much further, otherwise we’ll end up on the Aboriginal land.’ He paused. ‘I had a dingo around the camp while you were away.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Never saw him. Just the tracks. Reckon it’s a young one. Prints were small. We’ll need to keep an eye out.’
‘Will do. What are you going to do?’
Scotty’s face glowed golden as the flames reflected off him. ‘Check the pump again for the crop that’s just beginning to bud, then start harvest on the next lot. You can come and help with that when you get back.’
Bulldust nodded. He grabbed the large torch and his .243 rifle and walked the two hundred metres to the fence line.
When they’d first decided on their plan, they’d spent many days in the Crown bushland off the Great Central Road heading out to the middle of Western Australia. They’d found this patch of country, with a dry creek bed running along the bottom of a high hill range. Then they’d found a couple of caves and knew that it was the perfect place. Scotty had been taught to water divine by an old Aboriginal man who worked for their father many years ago, and when he’d found the deep underground river it was if they’d been kissed on the dick. This was their space. Their land. Their new start.
They’d carted in rolls and rolls of six-foot ringlock fencing to keep the camels and any other wildlife out—roos didn’t mind having a chew at the marijuana crop, and the sweet smell, when it started to bud up, attracted the animals. The water, too, brought unwanted pests that put pressure on the fence. Bulldust and Scotty had discovered that they had to walk it every day, often finding camels had pushed through and were happily munching on their profit.
‘Nothing that a gun won’t fix,’ Scotty had grunted when he’d first come across them. So now Bulldust walked the fence every morning and shot the camels, roos or any other vermin that had got in overnight.
They’d brought in water pumps and fertiliser in drums. Stretched out netting as a camouflage across the tree tops and started to plant in an old water course so there wasn’t anything symmetrical about the planting that could be seen from the sky, on the off-chance a plane flew over. They had about a thousand plants—four months’ worth—in each planting.
Together, they had run the reticulation dripper system to each plant and had carted in a large tank and placed it up on a hill so the water would syphon down to the retic. One diesel pumped the water from underground to the tank.
Bulldust wasn’t sure, but he thought it must be just about time to make a trip to one of the smaller settlements and refill their mobile fuel tanker. They chose a different place each time; you never knew who you’d run into.
It had been Scotty’s idea to hang shade cloth from the trees, higher than the netting, in case someone flew over and noticed them. It would also help protect the smaller seedlings from the viciousness of the sun. The cloth hadn’t taken long to absorb the colour of the ground—a vivid red. They were camouflaged well, as was their camp.
Bulldust was sure-footed as he followed the fence, stopping occasionally to test the tension. His daily walk had created a track and he knew most of the trouble spots.
The fence was cold to touch and as he bent down to check the bottom wires a spiky bush caught on his jeans and he felt the dew soak through them. He stumbled and fell to his knees, the torch falling from his grasp and the gun poking into his leg.
‘Fuck it,’ he muttered and got up, dusting his hands on his jeans. Then he stilled, his hand straying to the trigger of the rifle.
He wasn’t sure what had caught his attention, but a sixth sense was making the hair stand up on his arms. Moving slowly, he reached for the torch and swung it around in an arc.
Nothing.
He repeated the action, this time seeing a movement in the long spinifex grass. He kept the light trained in the one spot, taking a step towards it.
Eyes suddenly reflected in the light.
Dingo.
Bulldust adjusted his gun and looked through the scope.
The grass moved again and a small paw came out, followed by another. A few seconds later, a brown pup emerged and sniffed the air. It took a couple of tentative steps towards him and then let out a short, high-pitched bark.
Bulldust lowered the gun. ‘That’s not a dingo bark,’ he said.
The pup ran across, his tail wagging, and sniffed at the bottom of Bulldust’s jeans and around his boots.
‘What are you doing all the way out here without an owner?’
The pup flopped at his feet and stared up at him.
Fishing in his pocket, he took out a muesli bar and broke off a small piece, offering it to the pup, which wolfed it down quickly and looked up for more.
Bulldust’s stomach dipped a little as he looked at the liquid brown eyes staring up at him. This pup was scruffy, scrawny and clearly unloved. How had he got to be out here? Maybe he’d fallen off the back of a station ute or someone had left him behind. Lucky not to have picked up a bait already. Or to have succumbed to the midday heat.
He’d had to leave his dogs when he and Scotty had run. They’d been good mustering dogs; knew how to ring a mob and bite the noses of the troublemakers. They had been like him: fearless and unrelenting. They’d rarely let a beast beat them.
When he’d gone to Lightning Ridge he’d missed his constant companions, and not knowing what happened to them had torn at his heart. His guess was they’d been taken to the pound and probably put down.
‘Come on, then, let’s have a look at you.’
The little body squirmed under his touch and just about disappeared inside his large hands. A tongue reached out and licked Bulldust on the nose.
‘There’ll be none of that going on,’ Bulldust growled good-naturedly. ‘What are we going to call you?’
He turned the pup over and inspected him. ‘You’re bloody lucky, that’s what you are. Should call you that. But …’ He saw light-tan fur on the pup’s chest and realised he had light brown eyebrows, too. ‘You’re actually a proper kelpie.’ He ran his hands roughly over his head and ears, then, putting the pup down, he called to it. ‘Come on, follow me, Desert. Found you in the desert, so that’s what you can be.’
Walking back into camp, Bulldust reached into his pocket and pulled out Desert. He’d only walked half of the fence line before he’d stopped, curled into a ball and fallen asleep.
‘Can’t be sleeping on the job,’ Bulldust had told him, picking him up, but the pup hadn’t moved.
Scotty had just come out of one of the greenhouses and stopped.
‘What is that?’
‘Pup.’ Bulldust took some sausages from the car fridge, cut them up and them put them in a bowl. The pup roused, sniffed around the camp, then padded across to Bulldust, before sitting and looking up at him. ‘Got good manners already.’
‘What are you doing with it?’
‘What do you think? Can’t stay out there by himself.’
Scotty walked over and looked down. ‘He can’t stay here either.’
‘Yeah, he can. We’ll train him as a guard dog.’
‘Going to be a bloody long time before he’s capable of that.’
Bulldust put the bowl down and Desert started to eat. Ignoring his brother, Bulldust poured himself a cup of tea, grabbed some biscuits and sat in front of the fire. The pup finished his breakfast and wandered over to Bulldust before curling up at his feet and going to sleep.
‘He’ll get in the way,’ Scotty said, scratching his own stomach, before pouring himself a cup of tea as well.
Bulldust watched Scotty lean against a tree and bat flies away. He was still fit and strong, and would probably outrun most people if it came to a foot race. His hair was beginning to tinge with grey above his ears, and his neck and face were burnt a dull red. And he didn’t like dogs. That pissed Bulldust off.
‘Did you hear me?’ Scotty snarled.
Looking over at the white-trunked gum trees that lined the creek, Bulldust again fought the urge to hit his brother. Instead, he focused on the soft red dirt at base of the trunk. The vibrancy of the colours always amazed him, and the green leaves contrasted vividly against the whiteness of the trunk.
Ignoring his brother had always been the way he coped with Scotty’s constant belittling and commands. Their father had been the same, and Scotty had taken on his traits. With no mother—or mothers—to protect them, there had been little mollycoddling or affection in their lives. Scotty was older and had bullied Bulldust through most of his childhood.
When Bulldust had been small, he’d wished his mother would arrive and whisk him away. If he ever said anything about his mum, his father would tell him to take a teaspoon of cement and harden the fuck up. There wasn’t any room for softness out in station country.
By the time he was five, he could ride motorbikes, horses and muster with the best of them, and he’d hardened up. But Scotty hadn’t let up on him.
‘Well, don’t let him get in my way,’ Scotty finally said. ‘’Cause I won’t stop what I’m doing to make sure he’s okay.’
‘Wouldn’t expect you to.’
‘I need a hand to refuel the generators.’ Scotty put down his cup and took off towards the greenhouses.
‘Come on, Desert,’ Bulldust said, and watched with pleasure as the little pup followed him.