Aussie Chomps : 68 Teeth

Jack Gordon was up early and dressed before his parents began to stir. It was the second day of the Christmas holidays and he'd spent all of the first one travelling the six hundred dusty kilometres home from his boarding school, All Souls St Gabriels, in Charters Towers. This morning he had woken up in his own bed on Long Mile Station, his family's cattle property in the Gulf Country, and he was going to celebrate his homecoming with a bit of fishing.

'Not yet, Minty,' he called to the dog dancing excitedly around his legs. She was mostly boxer with a bit of cattle dog in her, though not enough to change the sandy brown colour of her coat. He swatted her playfully out of the way while he tied his rod and tackle box onto the side of his motorbike.

'There. All finished,' he said at last. He took his place in the saddle and gave Minty the command she'd been waiting for: 'Up.'

The dog immediately leapt into place behind him, digging her claws into the worn leather seat cover Jack's dad had attached for just that purpose. The warmth of Minty against his back made Jack think back to the night before when he'd arrived home and his parents had come out of the rambling homestead to meet him. Minty had been there with them, wagging her tail and barking, but he'd been expecting to see another dog as well.

'Where's Nutmeg?' he'd asked, looking around for the pup they had kept from Minty's last litter. The pup would be almost fully grown by now, Jack had thought to himself on the long drive home, but there was no sign of him. One glance at his parents' solemn faces had warned him of bad news, even before his mother started to speak. 'He's run off, Jack. Or at least we haven't seen him for a week. We were hoping he'd turn up before you did. Probably chased something into the scrub and found a king brown instead. Dad looked for him the day after he went missing but . . .' She left the rest unsaid, finishing with a soft, 'I'm sorry.'

Jack was sorry too, but life could be pretty tough in the Gulf Country. Yet tough or not, it was where he belonged and it was where he liked to be. He planned to take over Long Mile from his father one day – it would be a big job, but it was a destiny he welcomed.

He kept an eye out for Nutmeg as he guided his bike across the paddocks towards the river. 'We'll probably find his bones under a tree one day,' he muttered into the wind that whipped at his face.

At barely fourteen, Jack wasn't old enough for a motorbike licence yet, but that didn't matter much on a cattle property. He'd been riding since he was nine -just a little Honda 125cc at first, but then on his twelfth birthday he'd graduated to the 250. It went like a rocket – once he was out of sight of the homestead, of course. The surrounding land was mostly flat and dry. To the uneducated eye, there wasn't much to see except for a few trees and the hardy bush grass that defied long seasons without rain. But Jack knew that riding across ground like that had its hazards. If you weren't careful, you could end up down the banks of a meandering river before you'd even seen it, especially travelling at eighty kilometres an hour. Luckily Jack knew exactly where the river was.

But the rivers themselves could be strange beasts in the Gulf Country. In the wet season, they often became raging torrents that gouged their way through the sandy plains, the surging current cutting away a little more of the landscape each year. Jack knew there had been heavy rain just last month, though as he parked his bike above the steep bank it was hard for him to imagine just how deep and swollen this river must have been. The waters had receded weeks ago leaving a sedately flowing stream, just thirty metres across and no more than two or three metres deep.

Jack called to Minty, who was already sniffing and splashing in the muddy shallows. 'Get out of the water, you silly mongrel. You'll scare the fish.' Jack's voice was stern, but he was laughing as he threw a stick to her.

He was already thinking about the barramundi he hoped to catch that morning. Jack knew it was just about the best-tasting fish in Australia and that there were plenty to be caught in this river. No wonder he was happy to be home!

Climbing steadily in the sky, the sun was already hot on his skin. Nearby, three cattle made their cautious way down the high banks for a morning drink before the heat of the day. They looked at Jack with that 'Who are you?' look that only cattle seem to have. He ignored them and concentrated on adjusting the tension on his fishing line. Just as well, too, because moments later a fish struck. He yanked back on the line, jagging the hook firmly into the fish's mouth.

What a tug! 'It's a big barra for sure,' he called to Minty. He fought to bring the fish in, his rod bending almost double with the strain. 'This will feed the lot of us for a week!'

There was no great art to Jack's style of fishing. Reel it in and drag it out onto the bank was his usual way. But he did love the struggle! The rod jerked in his left hand as he wound in the line with his right. He had it into the shallows now. He watched as part of the barra's tail broke the surface before it dived again, determined to stay in the water.

Then whoosh! The line went slack. 'It must have spat out the hook,' he told Minty as he wound the reel. But there was something not quite right. A weight still dragged on the end of his line, not as heavy as before and definitely not alive, but something. He brought it to shore and lifted the end of the rod to raise his mysterious catch out of the water.

The head of a huge barramundi dangled from the hook. That was all – just the head. The body looked as if it had been cut away just behind the gills. Blood dripped down into the brown water.

'What happened to it?' Jack asked out loud. 'It's like something took a great huge bite -' Before Jack could finish his sentence, he started shouting, 'Minty, away from the water!'

But dogs don't understand specific words, just the tone of their owner's voice. Minty was leaping around, only a metre from the water's edge, excited and half-frightened by the fear in Jack's cry. Jack had to lunge forward and grab at her collar. As soon as he had a firm grip, he began to drag his dog back up the bank.

Behind him, he heard a violent thrashing of water, and turning to look, he was just in time to see the strike. A huge crocodile shot out of the muddy water, fast as a cat and more powerful than a lion. Its terrible jaws snapped around the nearest leg it could find. A young steer let out a painful bellow. But worse was to come. The croc didn't hesitate for a second. It was already drawing back towards the water, dragging its desperate victim with it. The other cattle charged away in terror, not even stopping at the top of the high river bank to watch.

The crocodile now had their unfortunate companion all the way into the water. It flipped over suddenly, turning the steer with it. A sickening snap echoed across the mud and sand, and the steer bucked wildly in agony.

But the crocodile had only just begun. Still with that same grip, it flipped again and then began to spin over and over. The brown hide of the steer span with it. There was no more bellowing now. The steer's head remained under water most of the time. Every breath would fill its lungs with more water. It was losing the strength to fight back.

Still the croc turned over and over. Jack couldn't believe how big it was. It had to be at least four metres long. No, wait, the in-goal area on the school's footy field was five metres wide. It was that length, easily.

The muddy water around the two writhing animals was stained with another colour now, a rusty red. The water was foaming, and Jack noticed the bubbles had a pinkish tinge.

There was no hope for the steer. Half-drowned and rapidly losing blood, it was as good as dead. The croc sensed this as well. It stopped spinning the limp body around and slipped backwards into deeper water, taking the steer with it. If the poor animal wasn't already dead, it would drown soon enough.

The sudden silence after the fury of the attack came as a shock. Aside from the bubbles left behind by the wild thrashing, there was nothing to show of the deadly battle that had just been so easily won.

Jack watched, unable to move for many minutes, all the time holding onto Minty's collar so that she would not rush down to the water's edge. At last, he saw the crocodile again. It was well out into the deeper waters of the river now. It broke the surface and began to swim slowly towards the other side. In its massive jaws it held the headless carcass of the unlucky steer.