So the chase continues, and is now but little more than a mile from the scrub belt which fringes the base of the hills. To this ark of safety, therefore, the dingo strains every muscle, and seizes every small advantage which his instinct discerns. No less strenuous is the cattle dog. He has the staying powers of his class, and he too runs to win. In this way the pursued and pursuers hurry-skurry over bush and brake, over stony ridges and across intersecting gullies.
Within half a mile of the scrub the country flattens out, and this gives an advantage to the cattle dog, who closes up. Joe's horse is now in distress. The course has been long and rough, the pace severe, and the grass-fed steed is weakening, can make no headway, is indeed losing in the race. The lad sees this, and chevies the dog on, for he can plainly mark now that unless the chase be ended on this side of the scrub all hope must be abandoned, Oh, to win! A supremely glorious thing were he to achieve the impossible! There are chances. Lots of things might happen yet. On, on, good doggie! Catch him, Brindle! Hurrah, Brindle is closing; is surely creeping up!
They are now about three hundred yards from the timber belt, and the dingo is slowly but surely being overhauled. Visions of the scalp as a proud trophy fill the boy's imagination. If only Brindle may seize his victim and hold him till he rides up and gives the brute its quietus with the stirrup iron! Brindle is now not more than four lengths behind, and the beasts are still a hundred yards from the scrub.
"On then, doggie: catch him: hold him!" shouts Joe across the widely intervening distance. The voice is borne faintly to the dog's ears, and nerves him to heroic effort in this the final stage of the struggle, the last lap, so to speak. Breath is too precious to be wasted in answering cry, but the spurt of the hound speaks volumes: "I shall catch him, master, never fear: I am gaining; but ''twill be on the post."
Both dogs, wild and domestic, are stretched to their fullest extent. It is the crowning burst. They are labouring heavily, staggering, and rolling in their stride. The pace is slow but hard. It is a question of endurance. Every ounce of strength in each body is laid under contribution. Once within the scrub the chances in favour of the dingo will immediately increase a hundredfold, for in doubling and dodging through the densely timbered belts the native dog has no equal.
Only thirty yards now lie between the dingo and his salvation—the good thick scrub that will swallow him up; but—the breath of the pursuer blows hot upon him. Throwing his head over his shoulder for the fraction of a second, the desperate beast sees that only by a miracle can he escape. The adversary is upon his quarters, and in another second the brute's fangs will be buried in his back. It is a supreme moment. Now or never! Making a super-canine effort, the fear-stricken thing draws away from its enemy in the last dozen strides. Saved, saved! Alas, alas! Right at the very fringe, and within a single step of safety, he tumbles in a heap, and with a convulsive gasp rolls over and gives up the ghost: the prolonged exertions have broken his heart.
You can work your will on the hunted one now, Brindle: no need to fear the vicious snap that was reserved for you should the worst happen. But the dog's instincts inform him that all power of resistance has gone from that mute and still form; indeed, he has no strength to worry should the call be made: the last spurt has left him without a vestige of strength. And so, when Joe appeared upon the scene a few minutes later, it was to behold the motionless dingo, and by his side, with lolling tongue and cavernous mouth, the panting and exhausted Brindle.
In a moment the boy has slid from his horse, and is dancing a grotesque fandango, expressive of his unbounded joy. But, when in a calmer moment he understood the tragedy of it from the dingo's side of things, a feeling of compassion possessed him, yet joy persisted. "He's a noble fellow, and has given me the grandest sport I've ever had. I'm sorry, and yet I'm glad," quoth the lad. "What'll old Nosey say to this! My stars, ain't the boys out of it! Wonder where the poor beggars have got to. Hope nothing's happened to them. Poor beast!" apostrophising the dingo, "you made a royal struggle and deserved to escape, but the fates were against you. And you, good old Brindle; my word, you've covered yourself with glory, sir! Poor fellow, you are done up; can only blink your pleasure; can't wag even the tip of your tail. Good doggie, I'm proud of you!"
"I'm blest if I don't skin the dingo," exclaimed he, after a moment's pause. "I'll keep it as a trophy. Something to look at in after years when I'm a grey-beard," chuckled the youth. So saying, he whipped out his knife. Joe had never before skinned a dingo, but as he had performed that office on many a wallaby and 'possum he was fairly expert, and in a few minutes had achieved his object. Rolling the pelt in the approved manner, the youth bound it with a stout piece of cord which he extracted from his pocket, and fastened it to the saddle ring.
"Next thing's to get some water. My word! I'm as dry as leather, an' could drink a tank dry. The animals, too, are clean done up, an' I'll get nothing out of them unless they have water. Good gracious! why—the sun's down, an' it'll soon be dark."