Dash and Dingo

by Catt Ford

  Henry stared off into the distance, then nodded, and looked down at Dingo’s arms. “Let’s go back to camp. We need to get some of that tea-tree oil on you.”

  “You’re going to look after me?” Dingo grinned.

  Henry knew he was being humored, but he let Dingo take him by the arm, and they began walking back to camp.

  Dingo graciously allowed him to daub his scratches with the oil but sat with his head cocked, as if listening for any suspicious sound. “Feel better now?” he asked, reaching for his shirt and pulling it on.

  Henry smiled. “I’m supposed to ask you that.”

  “Pack your things.” Dingo did the same, tossing the few items he had taken out into his bag.

  Henry had barely crawled out from under the tent when Dingo yanked on the ties, collapsing the fabric. Until now, Henry had always helped him fold the canvas, but Dingo had it halved and quartered before Henry was on his feet. He rolled it up and used the ties to lash it to Henry’s pack.

  Dingo lifted the ferns behind their now barren camp and ducked under, holding them up until Henry had followed suit. With his eyes lit with excitement and his skin green from the light that reflected off the leaves, Dingo looked like some overgrown, gleeful forest sprite as he held a finger to his lips.

  Henry rolled his eyes in annoyance. He felt like telling Dingo sarcastically that he had grasped that they were moving on, thank you very much, as soon as Dingo had ordered him to pack. He followed Dingo, trying to tread lightly, glancing back frequently to see whether he could spot anyone following them.

  They were moving upward again, and Henry felt his breath come shorter as the oxygen thinned. Suddenly Dingo stepped into the bed of a small creek. Henry sighed. It seemed they were always either too hot or too cold, too dry or too wet. Apparently today it was going to be wet. His boots filled instantly when he stepped into the stream, but he actually felt somewhat refreshed until the chilly water made his feet go numb.

  Dingo led the way downstream about two hundred yards. Henry wondered if they were going to be wading all the way down the mountain in this wet thoroughfare, but apparently Dingo had been looking for a specific spot to leave the stream. He stepped out onto a rock covered with a lush coat of moss. When Henry followed him, he felt the moss cushion compress beneath his feet, but when he looked back, it had sprung up again, leaving no sign of their passing.

  “That should slow them down,” Dingo said with satisfaction.

  “How did you know that was there?”

  “I didn’t. But one can expect to find that sort of moss alongside streams at this altitude.” Dingo sounded smug and pleased with himself, which irritated Henry, but he had to respect his knowledge of the terrain.

  “Then how do you know where we’re going?”

  “There are signs. The stars at night—”

  “When you can see them,” Henry grumbled.

  “Moss really does grow on the north side of trees. And even in deep shade, you can still tell which direction the sun comes up.”

  “I feel like when I was ten, walking through the maze at Blenheim and the hedge was over my head, and I thought I’d never find the way out,” Henry admitted ruefully.

  “How did you get out?” Dingo demanded.

  Henry laughed. Trust Dingo to hare off after a side topic that interested him even while escaping unknown pursuers. He swung around quickly to check behind them, but nothing was moving. “My brother James memorized the key, and eventually he took pity on me and led me out.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “It cost me two weeks’ pocket money,” Henry said.

  “Nice. Baz and Johnno probably would have nicked a whole month of mine.”

  For some reason, that made Henry feel better, as if it weren’t just him, but that all older brothers were cut from the same cloth. Although, it was difficult to believe that Dingo, who had belted Johnno on the nose at ten, would have stood still for that sort of extortion. “So what if there isn’t any moss and it’s raining?”

  “There’s my compass.” Dingo hefted his pack and turned back to say, “Look behind you.”

  Henry whirled, suspecting that his erstwhile chaser had come up behind them.

  “What do you see?”

  “Nothing!” Henry was ashamed to hear the rising panic in his voice.

  “Sure you do.” Dingo pointed. “See that tree, that one that has a hole about ten feet up?”

  Henry nodded, starting to calm himself.

  “There wasn’t a hole on the other side. You have to look back at things when you’re hiking. They appear different coming and going. A tree may look like nothing on one side, but on the opposite side there may be a spot where lightning struck and took off a branch. That makes it a landmark.”

  Henry nodded again, seeing just what Dingo was saying. And what he was leaving unsaid: how to get out of the jungle if something happened to him. “I thought you were looking at me whenever you turned around.”

  “You do tend to improve the landscape,” Dingo said with that smile that made flutters start up in Henry’s stomach, but then he was back to business. “All water flows downhill, heading for the sea. If you follow it, you’ll come out somewhere and be able to find a town or village. Look here.”

  Dingo picked up a stick and shoved the litter of dead leaves aside with his boot, starting to draw a crude map in the dirt. “That’s the River Styx—”

  “Where you fell in.”

  “Jumped. We traveled northwest from Hobart to cross it. That’s Maydena, another town where there were stories of a tiger sighting. Where we hoped Hodges was going.” He drew another squiggly line that arced closer to the line representing the Styx. “This is the Tenna River. I suspect that Hodges and his guide may have come up that way.”

  “And in the middle?” Henry pointed at the blank area between the two rivers.

  “Nameless, unexplored country. No farms, no towns. Only forest and water and animals,” Dingo explained.

  It made Henry feel a little thrill to know that he could climb a hill and know that no one else had ever walked there before—at least not a white man. “But Jarrah knows this area.”

  “Even Jarrah doesn’t usually come this far,” Dingo said. “Not that it matters. He’s at home in the forest like no other man I know.”

  “Then—how did Hodges get this far? If his guides don’t know the area?”

  Dingo shrugged and for the first time Henry sensed his uneasiness.

  “Probably using a compass, like we are. Maybe he’s offered them a lot of money. Times are tough right now, not much work in Tasmania.”

  “We’re not using the compass; you are.”

  “I’ll show you how when we get there.”

  “Where’s there?” Henry asked, feeling a bit of déjà vu.

  “We’ll know when we get there,” Dingo said. Carefully he scraped over the map he had drawn in the earth with a leafy branch until it was gone. He scooped up a handful of loose loam from the base of a tree and let it sift between his fingers, and then he carefully arranged dead leaves to look as if nothing had been disturbed. He thrust the branch he’d used deep into the brambles and surveyed the scene before he turned to lead the way.

  For the first time Henry felt Dingo did believe him about them being followed. He just wished it made him feel better than it did.

  Henry settled in for the hike.

  It felt like hours, but it was actually only two when Dingo slipped behind a thorny bush, threading through a thick maze of brush and stood gazing around. “This is a good spot,” he announced.

  Henry opened his mouth to ask why, but instead he looked around, trying to see what Dingo saw. It was an unlikely spot for a campsite. They had left any discernible path behind and pushed through the densest patches of brush to reach this spot. A semi-circle of four tall gum trees enclosed a tiny patch of ground, barely large enough for them to pitch their tent. He could hear the low sound of a stream nearby. Peering at the underbrus
h, he couldn’t see out, which meant no one could see in either.

  Even better, Dingo discovered a similar way out on the opposite side, so that they would not be trapped there if someone did discover their whereabouts. Henry let his pack slide off his shoulders and pulled the canvas free. Together, they pitched the tent in the compact spot.

  “I’ll get water,” Dingo said. “No fires here, sorry.”

  “I’ll live,” Henry said, and then he shivered as if the words were some sort of talisman to ward off danger.

  Dingo looked a little pale too, Henry thought.

  “Too right. Back soon.”

  Henry tried to make the tent more comfortable by spreading out the blanket even though he left all his other belongings in his pack. The speed with which they’d abandoned their previous camp made him chary of unpacking and moving in for the duration. He was still on his knees when he felt a hand cup his bum and rub it comfortingly.

  “That’s a sight a man likes to come home to,” Dingo teased.

  Henry turned and lunged for him with a desperation that surprised even him. All his life, he’d felt that everything that made it worth living was passing him by. Now, on the most glorious adventure beyond what he could have dreamed, the scare of being tracked down in the forest made him feel that this was all too fragile. It could all be taken away too easily, and he hadn’t had enough of Dingo yet. Possibly he would never have enough.

  But Dingo was here and available, and Henry wanted him with all his heart. He pulled Dingo down on top of him, kissing him madly, feeling like he wanted to devour him. Dingo tasted fresh and pure to him, like water did to a man who’d been lost in some vast desert and stumbled across an oasis by chance.

  Henry rolled over, pinning Dingo beneath him, biting at his throat while he unbuttoned his shirt. A yelp from Dingo made Henry realize he was being a bit rough and he raised his head. “Sorry….”

  “Don’t be. I like it when the tiger in you comes out,” Dingo gasped, his hands holding Henry in place when he would have moved off.

  Henry liked the way Dingo was looking at him. He ducked his head to kiss the spot he’d bitten in silent apology. He kissed his way down Dingo’s chest as he unbuttoned each button, enjoying the way Dingo caught his breath when he licked over a nipple, gently scraping his teeth against the hard nub.

  Dingo moaned in response, his body undulating slowly under Henry.

  Henry cupped the hardness straining at Dingo’s trousers while kissing his way down that feast of golden skin. Every muscle tensed with eagerness, showing off the perfectly defined abdomen when Henry rested a hand on Dingo’s belt and paused. The intoxicating scent of him made Henry’s fingers clumsy as he undid his trousers to catch a glimpse of the tip of Dingo’s erection protruding from the waistband.

  “Oh God,” Henry said softly.

  “What… what is it?” Dingo managed.

  Henry shook his head slightly, the emotion welling up within him too profound for him to be able to express. He couldn’t believe that this beautiful man was so aroused and hard, and it was all for him. And yet the evidence was right there. Henry pushed at the trousers, and Dingo obligingly lifted his hips, settling back with his cock resting on his stomach, a little glistening pool gathering under the tip.

  With a confidence that amazed him, Henry bent to lick over the head, savoring the taste of the clear drops. Dingo moaned and reached down to cup the back of Henry’s head in encouragement.

  Dingo’s cock was warm and hard, although the silky skin against Henry’s tongue had a surprisingly delicate softness. The head filled his mouth, the weight satisfying on his tongue. Henry closed his eyes and inhaled, swirling his tongue around the shaft. Fingers tightening in his hair told him that Dingo liked what he was doing, and Henry gave himself over to the experience. Dingo’s balls felt full and tight in his hand as he fondled them. He moved off Dingo’s cock to lick them, nuzzling the tender skin of his inner thigh as Dingo spread his legs.

  Henry opened his mouth to take the head again, wanting some part of Dingo inside him. He flicked his tongue over the thick ridge and as far down the shaft as he could reach, pleased with the way Dingo’s cock filled his mouth. With his back arched, Dingo bucked his hips involuntarily. Henry put his hand flat onto his stomach to keep him still, looking up to catch the look of ecstasy upon Dingo’s unguarded face. Henry marveled that the other man could be so trusting, even more so when Dingo opened his eyes and stared at him, letting him see the emotion reflected there.

  Tremors shook Dingo’s body and in turn made Henry shiver with desire. Then Dingo closed his eyes and threw one arm over his face as if the sight were too much for him. The movement of his hips quickened, and Henry sucked harder, breathing heavily through his nose, not wanting to break Dingo’s rhythm. The thrusts grew shorter, quicker, until Dingo went rigid, smothering a low cry by biting his forearm.

  Watching Dingo, feeling the pulse of him in his mouth, tasting the quick spurt of salty come pushed Henry close to the edge.

  He opened his eyes when he felt Dingo’s hand stroking his jaw. His glasses were askew, and Dingo gently took them off his nose, folding them and placing them to one side. “Come up here,” he said in a low breathy voice.

  Henry obeyed, feeling like he was floating rather than using any muscles to move. Dingo kissed him, his tongue gentle but demanding, taking possession of Henry’s senses yet again.

  “Let me return the favor,” Dingo said, his hands busy at Henry’s belt.

  Henry clung to Dingo, aching with his need to be touched. When Dingo took hold of him, his hand warm and firm, his orgasm finally and quickly rushed over him, and Henry convulsed against Dingo’s leg, rubbing frantically before he lay gasping for breath.

  A low chuckle made Henry feel almost embarrassed, but he was too busy feeling blissfully content to really take umbrage. Besides, he knew that Dingo was pleased with his own prowess. He himself was feeling a bit set up to have gotten Dingo off for the first time with his mouth.

  “You don’t know… it was… very exciting to… to….” Henry tried to explain the completeness he felt when held in Dingo’s arms, how very exciting it was to make love to him. He slipped his tongue into Dingo’s mouth, trying to convey that way the emotion he felt.

  And it seemed as if Dingo understood after all. He let Henry’s tongue slide between his parted lips, kissing him back lazily as he pulled Henry closer.

  “That was nice,” Dingo said. He stared into Henry’s eyes as if searching for confirmation of something.

  Henry felt at a disadvantage without his glasses and reached for them. Dingo’s hand covered his, fingers entwining with Henry’s as he pulled him back.

  “You don’t need them this close.”

  “Yes, I do,” Henry said nervously.

  “You hide behind them sometimes. You don’t need to with me.”

  Henry thought Dingo sounded curiously insistent. “I don’t use them to hide; I use them to see.”

  “Look at me then. Tell me what you see.”

  Henry grinned, suddenly confident again. “Dingo Chambers, King of the Jungle.”

  “If only,” Dingo said, but he smiled too. “Sounds like a comic book.”

  “Maybe you should star in your own.” Henry didn’t like to suggest that usually the heroes in the comics returned triumphant from their adventures, for what if they should fail to secure the thylacines for which they’d come? What if whoever was after them managed to prevent them… in some way. But it was bad luck to vocalize such a negative thought, and he didn’t want to be the one to say it anyway.

  And besides, it was too late. Dingo had fallen asleep, his lips slack as he drew long, slow breaths.

  Henry lay still, running a hand over the solid curves of Dingo’s chest. He felt too happy to sleep. There wasn’t enough light to see very well, but Dingo’s body was relaxed, and he was warm and slightly furry to the touch. Henry ran his hand down his stomach, scraping lightly at the remains of the spunk drying on
his stomach with his nails.

  Absently he scratched his hand, listening to the night sounds that always intrigued him. He was thinking he’d give anything to see which animal was making the sound when he heard a low whine. It didn’t sound as if the animal was in distress, and he could tell it was an animal, not a human…. Henry scratched at his palm again and then held his hand inches from his face. He sat bolt upright, staring out into the darkness.

  It was Tassie. It had to be.

  Henry fastened his trousers and buttoned his shirt, remembering how the brush scratched Dingo’s arms earlier. Thankful that he still had his boots on, he shook Dingo.

  “Dingo! They’re out there! It’s the tigers!” Henry whispered, giving Dingo a sharp poke in the ribs. Dingo grunted and rolled onto his side.

  “Dingo!” Henry tried one last, futile shake and gave it up. Dingo would kick himself later when he found out what he’d missed, but Henry wasn’t going to worry about that now. This was his chance.

  He cursed himself for a clumsy fool as he scrambled out of the tent, making enough noise to wake anyone but a post-orgasmic Dingo. The burning of his palm seemed to spread through his entire body, making his nerves tingle with excitement. The whine sounded faintly again, and Henry pushed his way through the bushes at the back of their hideout.

  A soft rustle caught his attention, and a branch swayed in front of him. Without even thinking of the chase earlier where he was the prey, Henry pushed forward, realizing that whatever he was following was leading him uphill. A dim and silvery light ahead frosted the leaves blue. He stepped out from under the cover of the trees to find himself facing a steep drop-off with ghostly, moonlit trees crowding the valley below as far as he could see. He could make out a shimmery thread of water as a creek wound in and out through the leaves.

  He barely caught the movement in his peripheral vision and turned in time to see the familiar silhouette of a thylacine. It gave an awesome yawn, stretching its jaws wider than he could have imagined, showing rows of gleaming sharp teeth and ending on a little squeak. Then it trotted off.