Dash and Dingo (40 page)

Henry saw that Jarrah had fashioned a rude cane from a branch that bent at a suitable height for a handle. Grateful that he didn’t need assistance from one of the others, he got slowly to his feet. His leg felt heavy and numb, and the soreness seemed to make the cut flesh of his wound slide together disagreeably. Henry decided not to dwell on it.

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“The devils rejoiced last night,” Jarrah commented.

The events of the day before rushed back, overwhelming Henry. Jarrah put a hand up to steady him as he collapsed onto the camp stool without comment. He handed a plate to Henry.

Henry was ashamed of how he gobbled his food, but it felt as if he’d not eaten in days. In between mouthfuls, forgetful of proper etiquette and how he should swallow before speaking, he asked, “What made you come after us?”

“One of your bags was found by a ranger,” Hank said. “A bag full of food, I might add, which raised some concern. Jarrah heard about it and contacted me.”

“Lucky I have a sense about these things,” Jarrah teased.

Hank refilled Henry’s plate without him even having to ask. “Just go a bit easier this time, son.”

Son
. Funny how that sounded more affectionate coming from a man whom he had only just met than from his own father.

“I admit it,” Hank said. “I was worried. And it’s a good thing, because look at how we found the pair of you.”

“We were fine,” Dingo said, cheerily lying through his teeth. “Just taking a breather, that’s all.”

“You looked like you had dug yourselves a hole to die in,” Jarrah observed.

“Quiet,” Dingo muttered.

Jarrah grinned, indicating he would do no such thing. “Told you I’m the best tracker, didn’t I, Dash?”

Henry nodded absentmindedly, still chewing.

“Now, perhaps one of you would like to explain how you let that numbskull sneak up and get the drop on you,” Hank demanded.

“We found a tiger family. The mama had three cubs, and the parents decided to move them,” Dingo started.

“No doubt because you poked your fat nose into their business,” Hank complained. “How often have I told you not to go near them when they’re breeding?”

“Hey, she found us!” Dingo protested.

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Hank ignored Dingo’s interjection. “And therefore you lost all common sense and forgot to look about behind you?”

Dingo looked sheepish, so Henry took up the tale. “The male had moved one cub, and the female set off with another. It was fascinating. I took pictures and we followed them… but we—” Henry broke off, unable to admit that their argument had been the cause of the entire mess. Now he had no doubt that Hodges had managed to locate them from their shouting and had been able to set up the entire trap because he’d lost his temper.

“We hadn’t seen any sign of Hodges in a day or two,” Dingo said.

“What did he do?” Hank demanded.

The color drained from his face when Dingo told him. “He killed the unprotected cub that was left behind.”

Hank remained silent for long minutes. Henry feared further castigation for their carelessness in not guarding the one cub, but finally Dingo’s father turned to him. “No court in the land would have condemned him to death, but you did the right thing in executing him. That was murder.”

Henry hung his head. “I know,” he said softly.

“Not what you did! What
he
did!” Hank exploded. “International zoos pay a king’s ransom for the cubs! He could’ve at least—but he never would.

The man was a beast!”

Henry shook his head morosely. It still couldn’t be right.

Jarrah asked, “What did he do with the body?”

“We left it for the parents.” Henry looked up, startled, and his eyes met Dingo’s. “Wait a minute, Hodges had another skin in his pack. Did you find it?”

Dingo shook his head.

Hank said. “I’ll bet he kept it to claim the bounty.”

Jarrah stood up. “I’ll go see.”

Hank stood up as well. “Better make sure that soulless devil is truly dead,” he growled.

“I’m coming along.” Dingo stood up, cradling his injured arm.

“Then I’m going too.” Henry struggled to his feet.

“You stay here,” Dingo said soothingly. “Your leg—”

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“I’m not staying behind again,” Henry said. “Where’s my camera?” He realized he missed the weight of the camera dragging on his neck.

Hank picked up the camera and handed it to Henry, who put the strap around his neck, caressing it. The films inside the camera might yet be the only proof of the miraculous animal he had seen. He had to have the pictures to prove the success of this journey, even if Larwood were the only one to see them.

Jarrah had not remained to mediate the argument between Henry and Dingo; he was already slipping through the jungle like a shadow. Henry felt that if only he had such prowess, much of what had happened might not have.

Jarrah belonged here; he seemed to be part of the jungle, leading the way unerringly to the site of their abandoned camp.

Henry hobbled along behind the other men, trying to keep up. When he arrived at their old camp, Jarrah was surveying the ground, reading the signs of the struggle as Henry might read a book. He followed the tracks to where Hodges’s body had fallen.

“Don’t look, Dash,” Dingo called out.

But Henry had already seen it; the mangled remains of what he

identified as a torn human hand, still clutching a pistol, lying on the blood-soaked ground.

Jarrah nudged at the gory meat with his boot, dislodging the gun so that he could pick it up. He took the precaution of wiping off as much of the blood as he could on some grasses that were matted down by the devil’s nocturnal feast and stuck the pistol in his belt. He kicked the disembodied hand away.

“That’ll make a meal for Tassie if he can nip in before the devils.”

“Sort of poetic justice,” Dingo said. “If Hodges had succeeded in killing us, I’m sure he would have picked off the tigers one by one as they came to feed on our carcasses.”

Finding Hodges’s rucksack some distance away where the skirmish of the devils feeding had pushed it, Jarrah opened it. He gave an audible sigh as he reverently removed the pelt of an adult tiger. “This one was not a cub, maybe too old to run.”

Hank drew closer and put out a shaking hand to stroke the fur, but Jarrah held the furry skin away from him.

Henry watched, fascinated, at the silent confrontation between the two men, their eyes locked together. In that moment, Jarrah’s face took on an ancient savagery, as if he wished he could slay Hank and all the white men

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who had caused the ruination of his land. Then his eyes softened, as if he remembered who Hank was, and he held the pelt toward him.

Hank stroked the lank fur twice, running his hand over the long tail.

“He is yours, Jarrah. Thank you for letting me—” Hank turned away abruptly, and Henry caught the glint of tears in his eyes.

When Henry focused on Jarrah again, the tiger’s skin had vanished, and Jarrah was fastening his own rucksack. Henry didn’t ask, but he understood.

The body of the thylacine did not belong to white men. Jarrah would not suffer it to be used as proof that the animal still existed and bred in its jungle home. The thought of the body being put on display as an object of wonder, fear, or loathing went against all Henry believed in, and he was content to leave its fate in the other man’s hands. Jarrah would take care of it in his way, whatever that might be.

Henry actually wondered if in focusing solely on the thylacine, he weren’t missing a bigger tragedy. Perhaps the Aboriginal people and their customs were equally in need of rescue. Somehow he knew that if he asked, Jarrah would say that the secrets of his people were of no value to the white conquerors and better they not pry into what did not interest them.

In that moment, Jarrah stood on one edge of a great divide, and he, Dingo, and Hank stood on the other, as huge a gap between them as if it were the deepest chasm, never to be bridged.

Helplessly, Henry held out a hand in apology. “I’m sorry, Jarrah.”

Jarrah nodded with the innate dignity that always characterized him.

Then he turned back to his task, picking up a pair of bloody boots.

Henry felt his gorge rise as Jarrah poked into them with a stick, dislodging the dismembered feet, still clad in socks. “Might as well let the devils have him all.”

Unable to bear the grisly sight, Henry turned away to survey the remains of their belongings. In the state they were in, they were in no shape to carry everything out. “So much for leaving no trace of our presence.”

“This wasn’t precisely part of the plan,” Dingo said with a grin.

“Allowances can be made.”

Silently Jarrah moved about the site, hiding a tattered shirt under rotting leaf debris, where Henry knew with the constant rains they would soon be unrecognizable. Jarrah looked Henry over thoughtfully before he rolled up a torn pair of trousers and put it in his pack.

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“Will anyone be able to identify Hodges….” Henry’s voice trailed off as he remembered the hand.

“They will not look very hard for him,” Jarrah said calmly. “Foolhardy men who venture too far into the jungle disappear all the time. We are dust from the earth, and we return to dust.”

“There’s—there’s another body to take care of,” Henry said hesitantly.

“Hodges murdered one of his guides and left him for the devils. Over that way.”

Jarrah nodded. “Hodges started with two guides. If it makes you feel better, one of them is still alive, heading down river to Maydena. I doubt he will talk much about what happened in the forest, no matter what he saw.”

Henry described as best he could where he’d found the man, and Jarrah nodded before disappearing into the trees.

He wasn’t gone long. “I cut his body down. I knew him. Not a good man, but not a bad one. He had no family.”

Henry nodded, understanding that Jarrah meant to let the man’s fate remain a mystery. Ordinarily he might have objected, but he just felt numb, save for his leg.

“We have to get moving,” Hank said. “You know the government boys will be hard on my heels. It’s not often I come over here to Tassie, and they’ll be curious as to why I did.”

“Why
did
you come?” Dingo asked.

“Jarrah got a message across to me that you were in trouble,” Hank said grimly. “If you
will
get yourself into such a fix, who else is going to come after your sorry arse?”

Dingo grinned. “Mum might.”

Hank gave a short bark of laughter. “She might at that.” A softer look came over his face. “It’s been years since I heard the tiger yipping in the night. I wanted to hear it one more time.”

Roughly, Dingo said, “You’ll hear it many times more, old man.”

Hank chuckled, and Henry was struck again by how alike father and son looked with that mischievous grin.

“At least on the walk back. Come along.” Hank hovered close to Dingo as he herded him to the dim trail.

Jarrah helped Henry to his feet. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”

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Henry shook his head and lifted the cane. “I can make it.”

“You won’t make it very far with only that cane to lean on,” Jarrah said.

“We need to move fast to keep Hank and Dingo safe.”

Henry hesitated. His leg was still giving him some pain, although Jarrah’s poultice had worked wonders.

“Sometimes the gift is to the giver,” Jarrah said.

“Very well.” Henry allowed Jarrah to pull him closer, circling his waist with his arm. “Thank you.”

“We thank each other, my brother.”

Sudden tears stung Henry’s eyes. He had not succeeded in bringing back a thylacine, but he felt he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams in securing something so much more precious. It was holding onto it that could prove more difficult.

“Steady on,” Jarrah murmured, tightening his hold around Henry’s waist.

Henry nodded miserably. Coming down the mountain had been torture for his injured leg, having to brace constantly against his weight being pitched forward. Henry stabbed the dirt ahead of him with his cane, knowing that if not for Jarrah’s support, he would have fallen a long time ago and simply rolled down the incline in Dingo’s wake.

Up ahead, Dingo seemed unusually quiet, walking behind his father with his arm in a sling. When he’d turned around once or twice to flash an encouraging grin at Henry, his face appeared white and drawn. Henry knew it would have gone hard with them if they’d had only each other to depend upon.

In addition to feeling like an added burden for Jarrah, Henry knew he had to be a particularly odiferous one; he was hot, and sweat was pouring off him. He was tired and his leg hurt.

Hank came to a halt, holding up one hand to warn them into silence.

Even Dingo waited patiently while Hank scouted ahead.

“Come ahead. I found a campsite,” Hank announced when he returned.

“We might as well make use of it.”

Henry sat down heavily when Jarrah lowered him to the ground. His leg was throbbing and yet numb to the point where he could no longer support his

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own weight. He watched dully as Hank built a fire using wood that had been left behind. Jarrah disappeared and returned quickly with water. Henry felt he was nothing short of useless, a tenderfoot who even at his best was of little use in the forest compared to the quick ease of the two men.

With a concerned glance, Jarrah set a pot of water to heat by the fire and came to Henry. “A watched pot never boils, Dash. Look away so I can have hot water to bathe your wound.”

“My leg itches,” Henry roused himself enough to say.

“Where?”

Henry pointed vaguely to the back of his calf.

Jarrah bent to look and made a displeased sound. “Land leech.” He went to the fire and brought back a burning stick, holding it close enough that Henry could feel the heat, and smell the singeing of his leg hair. He watched Jarrah apathetically, too exhausted to even move his leg away from the red-hot stick.