Dust motes danced in the light that slanted in from the auction barn windows. The place smelled, predictably, of straw and of cattle. Two men sat midway up the bleachers within easy sight of the auctioneer platform. The older one wore a straw cowboy hat and a lined denim coat. He fussed with a small notebook and the listings. The other sipped coffee and watched the drovers open gates to let a handful of leggy Angus calves in. Two of the calves raced in, bucked a little. Each calf wore a sticker on its left hip with large numbers stenciled on it.
“You buying?” straw hat asked.
“Maybe. Got a marker for a few heifers. One good bull calf. You?”
“Half dozen replacements and the usual order for Southwest Meats.”
“Say, you seen Bob Pallas around?”
“Can’t say I have.”
The auctioneer began a spiel and the two men kept their hands down. The calves were walked clockwise around the pen with the drovers walking with them. There were a few laughs when one calf followed a drover close enough to send a tongue at the man’s back. Buying of the bull calves was quick, most within twenty dollars of one another. Then the calves were shooed out a gate and back to the holding barns.
A few more men climbed into the bleachers and sat. The straw hated man nodded to a few. There was a pair of women in heavy coats dressed like enough to be sisters. He watched them too but they never looked his way. Big women. Looking again, he figured one was the daughter.
The three drovers each led a young cow into the barn. Holsteins, so they were easy to handle and came along.
“Look there at number 3228. See the one with the wide blaze on her face?” coffee asked straw hat.
“Yeah, I see her. Tall. Nice stance.”
“That’s one of Ty Enslow’s herd. That fella over in Spring Valley.”
“I heard of him. Pretty good grade cattle. Holsteins, nothing registered. Lives out on County R. That him?”
“That’s him. Got fifty-six head. One of those old-fashioned guys, uses a bull instead of artificial. I been buying his heifers for twenty years now.”
“Why’s that?” Straw hat was intrigued.
“He got a good herd, no, a really good herd for unregistered. Anyway, long time back I bought one of his heifers on how she looked. Got her for my son-in-law when he and Bonnie first got to dairying. Anyway, it was his best cow. I tell you, my son-in-law got done right by me.”
“He still milking?”
“Who?”
“Son-in-law.”
“Naw, he took the buy-out. Drives a forklift at a pallet factory.” He raised his hand over his head.
“How much was that?”
“Five.”
“You ain’t gonna get her for that.”
“I know, but now I’m in this game.”
Raise, counter. Wait. Counter. The auctioneer spoke faster.
“You still on her?”
“Yup.” He raised his hand again.
“Geez, who you buying her for?”
“Maybe Irving. I dunno, maybe me.”
“You’re kidding. You think that much of this Enslow fella?”
“I do. “ Raised his hand.
“You ever meet him?”
“Enslow? Once. I saw him at a county fair. Somebody pointed him out to me. Nice fella. Looked a lot like Dan Petroskey. Remember him?”
“I do. Great auctioneer. Real gentleman.” He raises his hand, holds up three fingers.
“Hey, you got her.”
“I did.” He drained his coffee cup and put the cup on the bleacher seat. “I remember Dan Petroskey for a story I hear about him. Maybe you heard this story, stop me if you did.
“Seems he was doing a farm auction a ways back. One of those killer auctions where they sell everything—livestock, implements, hay, kitchen stuff and kids’ clothes. Everything. Anyway, Dan was standing at a table of stuff—junk, really, old canning jars and boxes of bolts and string. Up to this far the auction had been slow. Not much action, lots of lookie-looks. A real sour day. So Dan is standing at this table and he knows the farmer and his wife are watching him. Dan wants to sell this stuff but he knows he just can’t. So he stands there a minute and looks at the stuff. Junk. He’s drinking coffee from a paper cup and it’s empty.
“’Folks, he says into the mike, the next part of the sale we’ll do bingo style. Anybody who’s had coffee from the ladies at the concession—and you know it’s good coffee—has a cup with numbers on the bottom. You all see that? Well only people who have a coffee cup can take part in this next sale. We’ll take a break here for ten, fifteen minutes so if you don’t have a coffee cup yet, go and see Dorie.’
“’Get a sandwich while you’re there. I recommend anything but the ham-and-cheese ‘cause that’s my favorite.”
“By now Artie, his assistant, is wondering what’s going on. He looks over at Dan who just shakes his head. Dan stays at the table and moves things around to make six separate piles. Then after fifteen minutes he takes the mike and says, Okay then, the first lot up for sale can only be bid on by folks who got coffee cups that have a three or six in the numbers on the bottom. Who’s got em?
“A buncha people raise their cups and some people start looking in the trash cans. Dan starts the bidding. Wouldn’t you know, the stuff went through the roof. He knew that if only a few people are allowed to bid, they will. Makes them feel special. No time flat, he sold all that junk. That’s Dan.”
The other man nodded. “What ever happened to him?”
“Car wreck. Got head-on with a pickup full of kids out racing. Killed outright.”
“Oh, man.”
“Yeah. That’s about it.”
Next up, bull calves. Dust whirled, lazily found places to set.
Travis Stephens was raised as a cowboy–the milking kind. Our cows were Holsteins and not a brand or horn among them. Still wondering, when I drive around California, is that a ranch or a farm?