screeeech. They pulled up outside an old stone pub with a verandah out the front. As they got out of the car, Magenta and Hilda looked at each other. They were both covered in red ochre, from top to toe, coloured by the wind, the sunset, and that loong road.

Under the verandah sat several men, each with an instrument. Harmonica, banjo, ukelele, spoons. One old bloke was singing "Four little Johnny Cakes" in a rhythmic, earthy voice. A sign on the front of the pub said, "Bushwacker Hotel".

The girls strode confidently into the bar, two beautiful women, both tall, with long auburn hair (from the desert dust - a shower will return it to its original raven sheen), one curvaceous and venusian, the other slim, muscular, with long, long legs.

Hilda strode forward and spoke to the barman, a world weary man with a sun ravaged red face and a grey ponytail.

"Gdday. Dya have a room for two? With a bath?"

A smile crossed his battered face. He grabbed the keys to No.13 and tossed them at the girls. "That'll be $15 a night, best room in the house".

They raced out the back to an old converted barn - comfortable beds, linen sheets, a painting of flannel flowers on the wall. Magenta sat on the old cane rocking chair on the verandah, while Hilda plunged into a huge old bath.