Desmond was certain that Rudolph was the fastest dog in Australia and the best herder in the world. Though he had not made a thorough survey of the country’s other dogs, there was no doubt in his mind. Rudolph was also his father’s star station hand, but his father had left the dog at home for Desmond today. Des was glad of it. His father could manage, and Rudolph loved their adventures more.

At the top of a hill, Desmond paused to look back at the homestead, the barn, and the painted fences running around both.

Atop a ridge, he saw his father, mounted on his horse. The flock of sheep before him looked like a dirty cloud. He took off his hat and waved it in the air, motioning for Desmond to come.

Pretending not to hear his mother was one thing; ignoring his father’s summons was altogether different. Desmond’s mother was quite a bit more forgiving.

Desmond set out at once, and when he was standing before his father’s horse, his father said, “Don’t go too far, Des. Come back and help your mother with lunch.”

“Okay, Dad,” Desmond muttered, as if merely hearing the words had attached shackles to his feet.

“And bring back whatever Rudolph kills.” He pulled a sack from his saddlebag and tossed it down. “Well, go on. Have fun.”

Desmond took off, sack in hand, Rudolph at his heels. He looked back once, and his father and the flock were nearly out of sight. The state of South Australia was experiencing its worst drought in years. His father had to drive the sheep farther and farther each week to find grazing land and water. The blistering sun and clear skies were killing their property.

Thirty minutes later, Desmond reached the thicket where he’d been building his fort. Without wasting a second, he set about the hard work of moving stones from the nearly dry creek bed and packing them with mud to form walls. He had left a small hatchet and a shovel in the bush, to help with his work. If his father knew, he would be angry. Desmond made a note to bring them back with him that day.

He didn’t have a watch, but he occasionally glanced up at the sky, dreading midday. In dutiful fashion, Rudolph kept guard while Desmond stacked stone after stone. He was covered from head to toe in mud when the sun told him his time was up.

He wished the creek still flowed, even a trickle to wash his hands with. It had dried up two weeks ago.

He headed back toward the homestead.

The second he cleared the trees, he smelled it: smoke.

Dark clouds rose in the east. A bushfire, moving in from the direction his dad had gone—moving toward their home.