The dew sparkled on the sand as the early morning sun rose. As its rays brushed the vast world the bushes and scraggly grasses that grew from the harsh red soil seemed to sigh and shack softly as a warming breeze of morning's dawning stretched out its hand to gently brush away the quilt of night. It was bitterly cold at night, beyond that many would imagine in the Bush Country, far removed from the farm fields, vineyards, and condominiums of the coast. Standing erect facing a small pocket mirror laid up in the elbow of a spiny tree a man in a light undershirt stood with a towel thrown haphazardly across his shoulders. A layer of lather covered his chin and mouth as he scrapped a razor across his broad chin and wide, round cheeks.

	Shaving clean his face, he did not pay close attention to the figure behind him fast at work gathering up the campsite, tossing loose debris and the last night's effects into a heavy green satchel. His heavy hunched back rose and fell and swayed side to side as the creature went about his work, tossing tin plates, spoons, and bottles into the heavy canvas sack. He reached out with long arms, finished by a hand of four long sharp fingers. Under a heavy denim coat the entire creature was dressed in mottled mangy fur, that thinned out in spots to reveal the naked, discolored skin underneath. The beast had a face like a mongoose, or a raccoon, but splotchy with uneven fur heaviest at the top of its head.

	“Baro Daro, have we got word back from Tracks?” the man asked in a heavy gentile voice.

	“Ah? Oh, nah mate. He's been a coupeh' hours now I reckon.” the mongoose creature answered back, making a short jump to the side, his pawed feet scraping at the loose soil as he hoisted up onto his back the sack and walked with a limping gait over to a nearby four-by-four. Tossing the sack into the back he sauntered back to the camp, “But iffin' I were to guess, I'd say the cunt might've found a good trail and is following it as far as he can before comin' back.”

	“I would have liked if he came back to tell us he found something.” the man sighed, scraping his chin clean and whipping the lather off on his towel. He turned to face Baro Daro and headed for his tent, “Never the less I want to be ready to head out in half an hour, him or not. We'll continue along the tracks we found last night. He'll catch up.”

	“And I'll say again, he'll be back.” Baro Daro said, looking up at the human as he rolled up his sleep bag. The man shrugged indifferently and began methodically working on his tent. Without a reply, Baro Daro shook his head and muttered some manner of curse.

	As all the tents were gathered up, and loaded onto the vehicle a lanky figure rose over the nearby rise. The sun was in full rise now and the diamond sparkle of dew on the leaves and on the sand had fully evaporated away in a single last cool breath. The morning was beginning to heat up as another bipedal creature with a canine, dingo's head with the same patchy, mangy hair pattern.

	“Blimey, why don't you look at that.” the man said, leaning against the car.

	Bounding down the hillside, Tracks made his way to the encampment as it was closing up for the day. “You cunts ain'ta 'bouda leave me now, ain'tcha?” he snarled, snarling as he licked his lips. His mouth was missing a few teeth, and most of the others were turning yellow. Up close, a noticeable dusting of sand could be seen in his hair.

	“Bouda' fuckin' leave me I bet. Well won't you be happy when I steal ya bottles, mate. That'l lbe the truth, swear it on me own.”

	The man rolled his eyes leaned off the side of the car. “So what did you find?” he asked.

	“Ain't the bleedin' ticker tacks ya were followin', can tell you as much. Followed 'em down to a 'bubbleh 'bout two miles down. Issa killin' field, corpse is fresh but ain't our kuey bird. Nah mate, ta'in't that. Muey adeh bird, musta been picked off by sum dingahs couple days ago. Is a dead end there, mate.

	“Nah, other trail go out for longeh', all fresh signs long the way. Bird went that way sumut. Followed ticker tacks fer some, oh ah- bleedin' ten miles wortha that cunts legs. Sure as Hell I did. Went about as near-asa big rock sticker, 'bout as crook as Barbo's back.”

	“Oy!” Baro Daro protested, stulking up behind Tracker. He straightened himself up, showing off how he wasn't all hobbled spin and crooked posture. Up straight he stood fully a foot over the man and the dingo-man. As he did his denim shirt pulled up from Daro Baro's ragged jeans revealing a sunken torso, thinly covered in patches of white fur.

	“And as I gabber ever time ya go an do that: and all th' good that whip of yous that does for you, cunt. Gonna snap yourself inna tree. Fuck off back down here.”

	Satisified with his rebuttal, Baro Daro returned to earth. Bringing down his shoulders and arms until his knuckles brushed the red earth at his feet. “Right, so tracker: you know where it goes. Jump on the hood and point me that way.”

	“For fucks-sakes Roger Weetherby, yer a bigger fuckin' cunt than I ever worked with. Can I tucker in some snooze least? I'vva been ploddin' 'bout all dark hours.”

	“You want those bottles, or not? As soon as you get me on the path I'll let you sleep.”

	“Cunting right ya will.” the dingo-man snarled, climbing onto the hood. Roger followed, taking the driver's seat and Daro perched himself like a sentry in the back among the gear. Starting the engine the four-by-four hummed itself to life before the engine silenced into its cool, quiet idle state. With only the pop of gravel and rocks to signify it was moving forward, it turned, and headed down the trail Tracker indicated.

	After some two minutes, Roger felt he was well enough on the right path and called Tracker back in. Scratching and scrabbling over the metal hood and glass windshield he crawled inside where he half sat, and half curled on the front seat and laid his head on the dashboard to shut his eyes, using his sinewy arms as a buffer the jostling of the offroader and his head.

	The Bush lands were a wild place to be. While much of it was flat, defined only by ancient sand dunes that in time settled into permanent hills when captured by the land's thorny brush, or even still moving dunes of red sand. Though, this made travel none the easier, nor direct. Having to keep a constant mind on where what went where Roger found himself scaling dunes, and having to find away around precarious drop offs. Fresh sand blown in from further inland by winter winds would collect in the open field, smothering bushes and trees and threatening to trap the off-roader in their gnarled, iron-strong boughs and branches. Everything had to be treated with suspicion. Never mind the potential danger in walking ill-equipped in some areas.

	After roughly an hour a crooked shaft of black rock appeared over the horizon and they made their way. Noticing it Baro Daro punched Tracker in the back, waking him up as they made their approach. “Ay, this place maybe. We pick up here.” he said, speech slurred by sleep.

	“How fresh were the tracks?” asked Roger.

	“Oh, guess summa' guess eigh' hours.” he grumbled, “When-I found 'em.”

	“Alright.”

	They pulled up into the shade of the rock, and hopped out of the car. Tracker went immediately  to the work, walking with long jaunty steps around the rocks, searching for a fresh trail. Roger and Baro Daro stayed behind, waiting. Wandering off to investigate something Baro Daro called back. “We hav'eha problem!”

	Roger turned to him, he was already squatting down over something. He walked over to see what's up, only to see what Baro Daro had his eyes on. With the tips of his index and middle finger resting next to a set of canine tracks he pointed it out.

	“We got bloody dogs!” shouted Roger.

	“Pah, cunt.” Tracker spat, “Found the ticker tacks, and theys too.”

	“Did you see them before when you were here?” Roger asked, walking to the car.

	“No, themsa must'of come in. Taking th' same ticker tacks as we's.”

	Roger grumbled as he sifted through the gear, finally digging out a large, long black box. Resting it on the edge of the bad, he popped the hatches and threw back the lid. A pair of black carbon fiber rifles, the moving parts trimmed in a white silver. He took one and loaded it, Baro Daro followed before Tracker could get to them.

	“Oy, fuckin'.” Tracker swore.

	“Got'sa revolver in me bag.” Baro Daro told him.

	“No time for that.” Roget interjected, “I need Tracker on the trail.”

	“Takin' the rove?” Tracker asked, just shy of starting his search.

	“I don't know where it's going. We're going on foot.”

	Tracker again swore, and Baro Daro sneered. But together the two followed after Roger. Tracker quickly assumed the lead, and began leading them over a long course away from the rock. One two and a half, or three and a half limbs Tracker moved quick through the brush, stopping only to move aside thick brush in search of snapped twigs, or prints hidden in the sand underneath. Then tacking off again in a sudden bolt, or switching directions.

	Roger, who held his rifle to his chest jogged after. His breath coming in short deep gasps as he bounded along. The day was growing hotter, and the race after the creature ahead of them was beginning to draw sweat. Baro Daro followed close behind, his rifle slung over his shoulder producing an audible rattle as it hit his side at each step.

	It was an hour and a half of pursuit that ended at the edge of an embankment at the side of a muddy oasis. In its middle, standing in its ankle in shallow water a dull gray and yellow bird, with a dinosaur of a face and small beady black eyes stood drinking, occasionally scratching nervously in the water. “There she is, so where are the dogs?” Roger asked.

	“Split'er some fourth-one mile way.” Tracker said, “Thinkin' they found 'ar, but are waitin'.”

	Roger straightened up and looked around. The bird didn't seem particularly troubled by them. They were far from hidden.  Throwing the strap of the rifle over his shoulders he crouched and slid down the sandy embankment. The sudden sound caused the bird to jump and opening its dwarfed wings quibbled nervously at the approach. It started to back up as if to flee, but stopped hesitantly as Roger stood to its eye-level. It chirped and squawked confused as he walked forward with a hand out. His other reached behind him to a pocket where he kept a small metal lasso rolled and ready.

	Tracker had snuck around behind the bird, and as Roger was keeping its attention took up a position to cover its rear. Baro Daro, being armed kept an eye out on the ridge. It was a tense tentative minute of silence as Roger made his approach, and wrapping his fingers around the loose end of the lasso pulled it from his pocket.

	There was a crack in the bush somewhere off to the side that drew the bird's attention and it looked that way. As its attention broke the lasso was thrown up over its neck and as it began to race away was pulled to a sudden stop as the wire drew tight around the base of its neck. Roger, with his feet planted in the mud was able to anchor himself and force the giant bird to be thrown to the ground, where it fell with a splash in the mud and began kicking furiously to rise back up.

	At that moment a rifle shot echoed in the air and there was the hurt cry of a dog as others nearby began to bark widely in protest and fear. Roger frantically wrapped the thick lasso wire around his hand as he drew the rifle and scanned the bush line. A few brownish, yellow-orange dingos had broken from the bush and began to pace nervously as one lay bleeding out to Baro Daro's left. Roger squeeze over a series of five quick shots in the direction of the dogs to scare them off, hitting one in the shoulder before it could turn to run. The canine collapsed to the muddy red earth kicking, blood splattering its matted fur as it came to rest.

	As the pack ran back into the bush, a sensation of danger avoided hung over the three's heads. “Cor, fucking hell.” Roger exclaimed.

	“Woulda warned'cha but the bloody cunts just sorta popped.” Baro Daro said in a laughing voice.

	“We earned those bottles?” Tracker asked.

	“I think you did, let's head back and get this bird back with the flock.”