The backbone of the ridge ended abruptly at a twenty-foot drop. Fifty paces away it rose again in a series of giant steps and continued on. Toby looked down into the space between, into a mess of boulders and stunted vegetation. The dog had somehow found its way down and as Toby started to look for a way to do likewise, Paddy tapped his shoulder and pointed. Toby followed the direction of his finger and saw a small patch of vivid white, out of place amongst the earthy tones of granite and bushland. It took him a moment before he realised it was a mess of white feathers, the remains of his mother’s chicken. Next to it was a flash of yellow and he could see the dingo, almost blending into the background. The dog stood in the shadow of an overhanging boulder, head held high as it sniffed the air. Paddy’s fingers dug deep into Toby’s shoulder.

As slowly as possible, Toby raised the Lovell and took aim. The dingo moved, turned, sniffed the wind. It sensed danger, but the boys were downwind and their scent had not carried to the animal. Toby tightened his finger on the trigger, but the dog moved behind a rock and was mostly hidden from view. Then it climbed onto the rock and turned in their direction, at last seeing the two brothers on the ridge.

Toby fired as the dog moved, the butt of the Lovell thudding into his shoulder as a cloud of gun smoke billowed. When it cleared the dingo was unhurt, twisting and turning around boulders as it sprinted in the opposite direction.

Paddy ran forward and let his spear fly in a high arc. It reached its zenith and plummeted towards the ground. A good throw, at least sixty yards, the distance helped by Paddy’s vantage point on the ridge. The spear struck the ground two feet to the dog’s right, the fire-hardened tip shattering against the rocks.

Toby dropped to one knee and opened the ammunition pouch slung around his neck. He pulled out a fresh cartridge, tore it open with his teeth, poured the fine grains of gunpowder into the barrel of the Lovell and followed it with a musket ball in a wad of cloth. With speed garnered through practice, he slid the loading rod from beneath the barrel and tamped the load. As he slid the rod back home with one hand, the other was already placing a cap onto the firing nipple. Then he had the hammer at full cock again and aimed at the yellow shadow dashing between the rocks.

The dingo reached the far rise and started its climb, leaping from boulder to boulder. The animal was tiring, but it still carried too much speed for Toby to have a clean shot.

‘Take him, Toby,’ Paddy urged. ‘You can do it.’

Toby watched the dingo climb higher and higher, following every movement with the front sight.