Sunset Ridge by Nicole Alexander Page B

wooden fleece bins built into the wall, a wedge of sunlight highlighted dust mites floating over the lanolin-smoothed board. He found Luther in a far corner of the shed, kneeling between large wicker wool baskets, rubbing half-heartedly at a bale. Smears of black streaked the bale on which he worked as he stencilled the property name onto it.
    Luther dumped the blackening pot and brush on an upturned basket. ‘T-take over, w-will you, Dave?’ He leaned against a timber upright as Dave began to stencil. The lettering for Sunset Ridge was perfect. ‘Not b-bad for a k-kid,’ Luther admitted. He pulled his tomahawk free of its leather pouch. ‘See that th-there?’ Pointing at a piece of rusty iron that was nailed over a hole in the wall some eight feet away, he took aim and threw the tomahawk directly at the wall. The blade whirred through the air to strike the tin dead centre. ‘C-cut clean through a m-man, I reckon.’
    Sometimes Dave wondered about Luther. The story his mother told of dropping Luther on his head when he was a baby didn’t seem to be reason enough for his actions at times. ‘Father is in a good mood considering the scrape you got into yesterday.’
    Luther prised the axe head free and tucked it back into his belt. ‘Th-that w-won’t last.’
    â€˜It will if we win the Champion Fleece this year,’ Dave said hopefully.
    His brother scratched a scab on the back of his hand. ‘Eighth t-time l-lucky, eh?’ He looked unconvinced. ‘I heard that C-Cummins is exhibiting another b-beauty and, l-let’s face it, he always w-wins.’ Luther jumped up on the bales and leapfrogged his way to the front of the shed. On reaching a timber pillar he scrambled up it, swung off a beam and scuttled back along the top of the bales. Dave watched his brother admiringly as thoughts of the fleece competition returned.
    The whole family had been present in the wool pavilion at the 1915 Banyan Show. Lily Harrow, dressed in grey with a pristine frill of white at her neck and a hat that brought every other woman’s to shame in terms of size, had ensured that Thaddeus, Luther and Dave were at their presentable best. With their smiles pasted on in support of the Sunset Ridge entry, they had stood proudly in line with the podium, the silver winner’s trophy within reach. Finally the winners were announced. Sunset Ridge received a forgettable ribbon.
    Cummins, the Champion Fleece winner for the eighth year straight, was treated by all with a grudging respect. Although his family had been in the district for twenty years longer than any other, he was not well liked. With a boil the size of a hen’s egg on the side of his face and a tendency to arrogance, he was difficult to take to. The Harrows had left soon after the competition, much to their mother’s dismay. She had taken a fancy to a piano and had already played two tunes that morning despite their father’s consternation. G.W. Harrow was not one for public showings.
    Dave positioned the stencil on the next bale and rubbed the blackened brush vigorously across the metal. Beyond anything, he hoped they won this year. Their father had turned purple that day and the colour hadn’t faded until the dust whirled behind their dray five miles out of town. No one had dared to speak, except for Luther, of course.
    â€˜I’ll go r-right over to C-cummins’s place and p-punch him square in the nose if you w-want me t-to, Father.’
    Of course, their father would never allow such a thing to occur, but in the offering Luther set himself apart. In response, their father glanced over his shoulder to where they all sat in the rear of the dray, and with the imperceptible dip of his chin did the rarest of things: he singled Luther out for approval. That Christmas, Dave and Thaddeus received new saddle blankets; Luther, the tomahawk.
    Dave finished stencilling the last bale and met Luther in the