Finally, to the relief of the pack, the leader gave the signal to attack.

The sheep looked up at the strange coyote-like howl, but having never heard anything like it before, they did not immediately associate the sound with danger.   But they recognised the yapping of the dingoes and turned to flee in the opposite direction….

And ran straight into the second line of wild dogs, who had kept silent, concealed in the long grass.

Though nearly the size of the yellow dogs attacking them, the sheep had no chance against the dingoes and were soon being torn to pieces.   One of the sheep jumped out of the fray and raced away from the dingo pack, only to stop in shock as it came face-to-face with the head dog.   The Merino was as confused as it was afraid, having never before seen any animal like the large, tiger-striped dog.

Too late the sheep came to its senses and tried to sidestep round the wild dog, only to be snapped up in its powerful jaws and easily swung up off the ground, in a display of brute strength that none of the dingoes could have matched.

For a moment the commotion stopped as sheep and dingoes alike watched in awe as the grey-brown dog shook its head furiously, growling deep in its throat as it tossed the sheep around from side-to-side as effortlessly as a hound dog tossing around a squirrel.

After a moment the dingoes returned to the slaughter and quickly killed the entire flock of Merinos, until the paddock reeked with the burnt copper smell of freshly spilt blood.   They were noisily gulping down great chunks of meat and wool alike, when the back porch light went on at the farmhouse nearly a quarter of a kilometre away.

*      *      *

Reaching for the loaded shotgun in the bracket above the back door, Sam Hart called to his teenage son, Vic, to follow him.   “It’s that damn black wolf after our sheep,” said Sam, storming outside to start across the back yard.   “I told that stupid bastard Forbes that we never should’ve stopped hunting it.”

“How do you know it’s the black wolf?” demanded Vic Hart.   But his father was already out of hearing ranging, heading toward the back paddock where their flock of Merino sheep were grazing.   Or rather where they had been grazing.   Now all the two men found was the pack of dingoes swimming in a sea of blood and severed limbs.   Not a single sheep remained, not even a complete carcase.   Even the sheep in the jaws of the pack leader had been half consumed.