A hazy mirage of mulga floated along the horizon. The humming of the gyrocopter had already been inhaled by the sultry atmosphere.

They’d be waiting.

Shelley sighed, then floored the rickety Landcruiser, leaving dust swirling behind. She followed the fence line through the paddock of death. Trees lay flat. Too dry to rot.

She dropped the windows to cool her face. Bruno sat quietly, his head now hanging out, tongue waving and ears pulling behind.

Arriving at the sorting pens, Bruno leapt out and ran to the guys for a rub. Bruno was top dog. He nudged their youngest dog, showing who’s boss.

‘’bout time, Shell,’ teased Dean. ‘We’ll be roast rump, sitting here much longer.’

The three brothers exchanged smirks.

Dean and Ray, with jeans hanging low, entered the main holding pen to move the cattle.

‘Many of Dean’s in with ours, Hon?’

'Yeah.' Matt wiped his brow, lumbering to his feet. ‘And a bull we didn’t know about,’ he chuckled.

Shelley watched the dogs dodging around the wary cattle, then gazed sadly at Dean’s homestead. Gutter hanging, windows boarded and an empty pool faded and buckled. No grass. Life hadn’t gone Dean’s way.

‘Look out!’

Shelley fumbled shutting her gate, just managing to funnel the monster bull into its pen. He stared, from behind his flaring fly-ringed nostrils.

After the sorting, an orange haze circled the restless beasts. The sun showed no mercy as it rose.

Matt opened the back gate and the cattle trotted towards the shade of the mulgas. He then straddled his bike, whistling. As their youngest dog leapt on the back, he said, ‘Shell, one of the windows is cracked in the shearing shed.’

Matt revved his bike, looking around for Bruno, then sped off after the herd.

Dean and Ray stepped over their bikes in unison ready to move their cattle as Shelley approached. 

‘You guys seen Bruno?’

‘Na. Sorry, Shell,’ the twins replied, kick starting their bikes without concern.

Shelley drove to the shearing shed, her shirt stuck to her back, desperately scanning for any movement. But Bruno had bolted. She knew Matt would be hard on him later.

 Stepping from the truck with a roll of tape, she strode towards the tin structure and climbed the stairs.

As Shelley gently smoothed the tape along the cracked glass, she wondered how much longer they could tough it out. Eighteen years out of twenty, living in a dust bowl. Matt still talked about his grandfather mustering on his push bike in 45 degrees then playing tennis at midday. 'Good-oh', she thought, 'not for me!'

Shelley hurried back to the pens, hoping to find Bruno. He’d need water.

The dust had settled in the deserted pens and the grating drawl of a crow was the only evidence of life.

An orange cloud expanded along the tree line. Shelley’s shoulders relaxed when she saw Matt with both dogs on his bike.

He stopped, easing Bruno down onto wobbly legs.

‘Take him home. He’s not good.’

Shelley felt Bruno's warmth and thudding chest as she floundered lifting him into the truck.

The Landcruiser creaked and bounced across the paddock while Bruno shifted in his seat beside Shelley. He wasn’t himself. Taking long whimpering breaths, he began madly circling himself in the confined space. 

His distress escalated into high pitched cries.

‘Shit!’

Shelley braked, choking up. Knowing he didn’t have long.

Bruno collapsed. Legs up. His mouth frothing his last baited breath.

Shelley shakily held his paw, sobbing. The first dog they had lost to baiting.

She cursed, 'Bugger Dean!'