Dash and Dingo (38 page)

“You’re just like Dingo, perverse and unnatural. How his father can’t see that in him—” Hodges broke off, beginning to breathe harder in anticipation. He took another step closer clenching his fists, but then he seemed to make a masterful effort to control himself. “I don’t smell like blood, as you do. I’ll be well away from here before they’re through with you.”

“Well, I came to Australia for adventure, even though I never meant to end as a meal for a devil,” Henry said gallantly. He smiled. “At least it’ll be different.”

“Damn your impudence! We’ll see how adventurous you feel when

you’re screaming in pain!” Hodges shouted. He started forward, and Henry strained against the rope, nearly strangling himself yet again as something flashed through the air and crashed into Hodges, sending him tumbling into the brush!

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“Dingo!” Henry shouted, recognizing that sandy thatch of hair he loved so well. His heart was already beating like a trip hammer, but now it was with joy rather than fear.

The two other men had disappeared from his view. To Henry’s relief, the rustling in the bushes stilled at the commotion. He could hear sounds of crashing and Hodges’s voice shouting in the distance, but he couldn’t make out the words. He held his breath, remembering Dingo’s injury, hoping it wouldn’t hinder him in the fight with Hodges and wondering how he had managed to swoop in like Tarzan.

He let out the breath with an explosive sigh when the underbrush parted and Dingo staggered into the clearing, looking slightly the worse for wear but still wearing his indomitable grin.

“Dingo!”

“Hey, Dash, why are you just hanging about?” Dingo asked casually, but Henry could see his left hand shaking as he cradled his injured wrist.

“I’m a little tied up at the moment,” Henry answered, his voice trembling with laughter. “Where is Hodges?”

“Heading for the river, last I saw him,” Dingo said, frowning. “He gave me the slip. Damned busted wing.”

“Fuck. Think you can cut me loose before he comes back?”

“I lost my knife, mate,” Dingo said apologetically.

“No worries.” Henry grinned and looked down. “I found it for you.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Dingo said grimly when he saw the knife still buried in Henry’s leg. “As soon as I’ve cut you loose, I’m going after him, and I’m going to bloody kill him.” He plunged toward Henry and paused in front of him. “This is going to hurt.”

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“No! Is it really? Just get on with it. I’d feel a lot better if one of us were armed.” Henry smiled reassuringly at Dingo. “Who’s a big girl’s blouse now?”

“I never called you a girl’s blouse,” Dingo protested. “Hold on.” He pressed his injured arm against Henry’s thigh to hold him still. “Brace yourself.”

“Get on.”

Before Henry was ready, Dingo had pulled the knife out in one swift, clean jerk. Henry gasped and bit his lip, feeling the surge of blood rush from the wound.

Dingo straightened up and sawed through the rope that bound Henry to the tree. “You’ll have to stop the bleeding. I’ll help all I can—”

“It’s all right,” Henry said soothingly. “I can handle it.” He took the knife, shiny with his own blood, and sliced through the leg of his trousers above the wound. He twisted the cloth and wrapped it around his thigh as both bandage and tourniquet.

“We’d better get going,” Dingo said regretfully. “No telling what Hodges will do next, and he has a gun. Once we’re clear, I know some plants—”

“What do you think he’ll do next?” Henry asked and took a step, staggering a bit when a sharp pain stabbed through his leg.

“He’ll come after us. His obsession, whatever it is, amounts to a monomania, and he can’t let us get back to Hobart to tell our tale. After all, he attacked us without provocation,” Dingo said. “It would be two against one this time.”

Henry stopped limping and put his arms around Dingo. “I thought he’d killed you.”

“I’m a bit harder than that to knock off,” Dingo boasted, but his eyes were filled with emotion.

Their lips met in a quiet kiss of reassurance and thankfulness that they were both alive and together again. Henry pulled away and rested his forehead against Dingo’s. “What do we do now?”

“Come on, we need to fix you up first, you can’t go romping through the forest bleeding like a stuck pig,” Dingo said, putting his good arm around Henry’s waist and pulling him away from the clearing.

“And you,” Henry said. “Is there anything left of our camp?”

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“Yes. I’ll bet that’s where Hodges is headed to wait for us to show up,”

Dingo said grimly. “But we have to risk it. We need a gun.”

“I found Hodges’s camp, and his guides… have decamped.” Henry bit his lip. “Dingo, I think he killed one of them—maybe both—I came across the body—lashed to a tree—”

“Damn. He’s gotten more reckless than I suspected.” Dingo helped Henry limp along and waited for his partner to say something.

“Reckless?” Henry asked. “He should be in Bedlam.” He noticed Dingo staring at him. “What is it?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me you told me so?”

Henry chuckled painfully. “Do I have to?”

“No, you were right. I suppose I just got used to him.”

“I don’t think I can go much further,” Henry said. He was suddenly feeling unutterably weary, but he chuckled with the sheer pleasure of seeing Dingo again, feeling his arm, warm and strong around him after believing him to be dead.

“Sorry, love, I should have thought—” Dingo led Henry to a fallen tree, helping him down to sit. “I have to get my hands on a gun. You stay here; I’ll be right back.”

“What if Hodges comes back and I’m sitting here like a rabbit blinded by headlights?”

“I don’t think he’ll suspect we would come here, but point well taken.

We’ll find you a hideout, where you
must
wait for me,” Dingo said. He paused. “Could you shoot him if you saw him?”

Henry’s face was troubled as he shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, it’s probably a moot point anyway, seeing as we don’t have a gun. He’s probably licking his wounds and contemplating his next move. I did manage to get in one or two good punches. He squealed like a little girl before he gave me the slip,” Dingo said. He gave Henry a hand up.

Henry couldn’t prevent himself from dragging his leg a bit. The pain was made worse by the haunting dread that taking care of him could make Dingo vulnerable to Hodges. Henry didn’t think the government agent had given up that easily. Dingo seemed to know Henry was flagging. He led the way into a clump of ferns that clustered at the base of a tall tree. “I’m sorry, this is the best I can do for now.”

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Henry peered through the green leaves. They were so dense he couldn’t see past them. “I’ll be fine here, Dingo.”

“Look, we only have one knife between us. Have you ever thrown a knife before?” Dingo asked.

“No, have you?”

“Of course,” Dingo said, as if it were a primary skill taught in Australian schools.

“It must be an Aussie thing. Hodges was pretty good with it,” Henry said, grimacing as Dingo helped him slide down the tree to sit on the ground.

“Not as good as I am,” Dingo bragged.

“How are you going to throw a knife with your left hand? I’m pretty sure you’ve a fracture at the least,” Henry protested.

“I’ll manage. Trust me. I’ll be back soon. Just wait for me here. Stay put, I need to know where you are when I’m on the move.”

“Go.”

“I’ll hurry.”

Henry nodded wearily. The throbbing in his leg made him feel he couldn’t take another step right now anyway, at least without the provocation of imminent danger. “I’ll wait for you right here.”

The flash of Dingo’s grin showed he appreciated the faint humor, and he hurried off, making far less noise than the two of them had while struggling together. Henry allowed the tension to drain from his muscles. At least blood was no longer running down his leg, but he knew that before long, the carnivores of the jungle would scent the dried blood on his trousers, and he would become an object of intense interest. Much as he longed for another glimpse of the tiger, he vastly preferred to view the animal from other than the position of potential prey.

His head sagged and then jerked up at a sudden sound. Henry felt he owed it to Dingo not to nod off in comfort while the other man was doing all the work in what had become a struggle for their own survival. Suddenly, he wondered at the wisdom of simply giving up and sitting amongst these ferns to await Dingo’s return. What if he didn’t return? At this point Henry had little hope of getting out of the jungle on his own, without a compass or having to elude Hodges.

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A sudden rush of adrenaline energized Henry. He stood up and looked around. The rustling noises that had ceased with their arrival were beginning to manifest again.

He realized that he’d been stupid to buy Dingo’s story of going after the gun. It must have been the pain that clouded his head, for he knew now, as clearly as if Dingo had laid out his plan, that he had gone to track Hodges down, to put a stop to him.

With a surge of energy he’d thought was beyond him, Henry started away from his haven, keeping under the cover of the trees as much as he could, and headed toward their camp.

Fear for Dingo lent him strength, and he was barely limping in his effort to close the distance between them.

The murderous plan that would have horrified him only weeks ago seemed reasonable, if savage, considering the malign intent Hodges had revealed to him. A bullet to the brain seemed a clean end compared to what Hodges had designed for his own death, but Henry could not reconcile it with his conscience to force that solution onto Dingo. He must not bear the burden of this by himself; they were partners. And if Hodges had to die that they might live, Henry would shoulder his share of this burden.

He knew that he was going in the right direction. There was no trail he could see, but he had learned enough from Dingo that he’d begun to notice the different shapes of the trees. The forest was no longer an indecipherable green maze to him. He recognized the rock that looked like a kangaroo, and the gum tree with the dead branch hung up in it. Ahead of him lay the sheltered spot where they had made camp.

He peered through the dripping veil of foliage and saw Dingo bent over, searching through their scattered belongings. There was no sign of Hodges.

He paused, listening, but there was no sound other than that of the birds and faint noises Dingo made as he picked up the pistol.

Henry stepped out from under the trees. “Dingo.”

Dingo stood up, his face grey when he saw Henry. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to help you.”

Their voices were barely above a whisper. “I don’t need help,” Dingo said. He hurried to Henry and forced his fingers around the butt of the gun.

“This isn’t safe. You must come away,” Henry insisted, unable to explain the source of his unease.

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Dingo bent down again to pick up a box of cartridges. “I haven’t found the compass yet. We need it.”

“Not if we stick together—” Henry stopped speaking, listening to decipher whatever the sound had been, for it was not one he’d become attuned to during their expedition.

It was the click of metal on metal.

Dingo opened his mouth to argue, but Henry froze, sensing movement in the jungle beyond him, before snapping, “Get down!”

Instead of obeying, Dingo’s head whipped around, and he found

himself staring into the end of a rifle barrel with Hodges’s grinning face behind it.

“I might have known I would find you two perverse lovebirds

together.” Hodges licked his lips, looking at Henry. “I’ve been sitting here waiting for you. You’re late.”

Dingo leaped for him, and Hodges’s rifle blazed fire from the end of the barrel at the same time that Henry raised his gun and put a bullet unerringly between Hodges’s eyes, without thinking about anything other than saving Dingo’s life.

Henry stood there trembling, his arm straight out in front of him holding the smoking gun, unable to turn away from Hodges’s body, staring sightlessly at the sky with three eyes instead of two.

Dingo shakily got back onto his feet and came to him, gently prying the gun loose from his fingers. “You did what you had to, Henry. It was him or us.” He put his arm around Henry and turned him away. “Let’s get going. The devils will take care of him.”

Henry came to himself with a start. “He shot you!”

“He shot
at
me and missed. He was always a lousy shot,” Dingo said soothingly.

“Your wrist—”

“It’s fine, Dash.” Dingo grimaced at the weight of the gun, and Henry took it from him, putting it into his pocket.

“I’ll splint it for you.”

“Right. There are some dry sticks over this way.”

Henry realized Dingo was trying to get them moving away from

Hodges’s body. Suddenly he felt he couldn’t put enough distance between