The first of our calves came through the in gate at a trot, black and red hides shining in the afternoon light that fell through the high windows of the sale barn.
They were good calves. I knew every one of them by now. I knew which steer kicked at the chute and which heifer always came last to the bunk.
Pruett Lang sat up in the auctioneer’s booth with his microphone bent toward his mouth. He has called the fall feeder sale for twenty years, and he can make a number sound like a hymn.
“All right, folks, here’s a nice set,” Pruett said. “Eighty-four head, black and red, steers and heifers. Weaned forty-five days, two rounds of shots, bunk broke and ready to go.”
He glanced down at the man leaning on the rail of his booth. That man was my father-in-law, Merle Hatch, sixty-seven years old, white hair under a grey felt hat.
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“Merle, you want to tell ’em about these?” Pruett said, and tipped the microphone down toward him the way he does for sellers who like to talk.
Merle leaned in. He had his weight on his good leg and one hand flat on the booth, and he looked out over the bleachers like a man who owned the whole barn.
“Weaned ’em and worked ’em myself,” Merle said. “Every one. You won’t buy a better program in this county.”
There were maybe two hundred buyers in those bleachers. Order buyers with their sale bills, ranchers from three counties, a few backgrounders up from Texas. Some of them nodded.
I was sitting about eight rows up in my blue pearl-snap shirt and my tan felt hat. I felt my face go hot under my beard, and I kept my eyes on the calves.
I did not stand up. I did not say a word.
I want to be honest about why. I would not argue with my wife’s dad in a sale ring, in front of every buyer in the county, over his own cows. That is not how I was raised.
Shelby was beside me on the plank seat. She had been sitting with her dad until our lot came up, and then he had gone down to the ring and she had slid over next to me.
She did not look at me. But I felt her shoulder press against mine, just a little, and I knew she had heard every word.
Down in the ring the calves went around and around in the soft dirt, and Merle leaned on that booth like he had carried every one of them on his back.
To understand why that hurt the way it did, you have to go back to August.