Sunset Ridge by Nicole Alexander Page A

the lead bullock on the nose. The animal shuffled and snorted and the driver, who had begun to climb back up onto the wagon, found the ground instantly.
    â€˜Get away with you, boy!’ he yelled, waving a whip at Dave.
    Dave backed off, scrambling up into the cavernous wool shed, which had been built on solid timber foundations at a height to match that of a wool wagon. In the shadow of the twenty-foot-wide doorway, he looked down to where his father was checking the ropes on the four tiers of bales already loaded at the front. His tweed coat-tail flapped in the winter breeze as he pointed, the driver’s assistant quick to re-tie the rope at his command. Dave had a mind to jump onto the wagon and run across the stacked bales, however he knew such antics would not be appreciated. Their father still held all three of his sons responsible for yesterday’s kerfuffle.
    While in the village collecting supplies, his older brother Luther had got into a scuffle with the baker’s boy, Snob Evans. They had come across him hanging around outside the funeral parlour, his narrow forehead pressed against the curtained window. Snob had a habit of marking his territory like a tomcat, and the results were not always pretty. Although at seventeen he was only a few months older than Luther, Snob was quick to chase Luther down a dusty side street and taunt him about his stutter. In response, Luther had threatened to chop Snob’s finger off with his tomahawk. Dave’s other brother, Thaddeus, had pleaded non-involvement when reprimanded by their father – at nineteen he was bursting with sibling superiority – but he had sported a torn shirt, while Luther carried his split lip with pride. Snob always won.
    Dave wasn’t much of a fighter, but he still enjoyed a good showing and his older brothers always provided the entertainment.
    Dave jumped aside as Thaddeus helped Rodger – one of the three remaining station hands, the rest having enlisted – roll a bale out of the wool shed. They expected Rodger to join up at any moment, especially because his brother had died at Gallipoli. Timber boards creaked under the weight of the wool as it was manoeuvred across the gap between the shed and the wagon. The wagon rolled back and forth under the moving bale as an extended arm swung across the load from a timber pole. Securing the wool bale with rope, Thaddeus and Rodger stood back as it was winched into the air. The bale hung precariously for a few seconds, haloed by blue sky before being lowered onto the second tier.
    â€˜Cold-footer,’ Harris hissed at Rodger.
    â€˜Don’t worry about him, mate.’ Thaddeus clapped Rodger on the shoulder as they walked back to retrieve the next bale. ‘You can bet he wouldn’t be so quick to judge if he wasn’t too old to enlist.’
    Dave stood back to let the men pass and then jumped to the ground and joined his father. ‘It’s a good clip, Father.’ Having overheard his parents discuss the wool proceeds in the dining room a few nights previously, he was full of knowledge about the British government purchasing the entire 1916–17 Australian wool clip at an agreed rate that exceeded previous prices. ‘Lucky for the war, or else prices wouldn’t be so good.’
    George William Harrow, known by all as G.W., turned towards his youngest son, and Dave felt, as he often did, that he should remind his father of exactly who he was. Instead he smiled as his mother often suggested.
    â€˜It’s a fine line between fulfilling the needs of the army and profiteering.’ His father surveyed the length of the wagon and its precious load. ‘However, this is how money is made in the bush, lad. You remember that. Now, go and help Luther stencil the bales.’
    Dave squeezed past Thaddeus and Rodger and made his way through the wool shed and the myriad bales filling the cavernous space. Beyond the three slatted wool tables and