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Silence.

My stomach dropped even though I knew better. Every crowd enjoyed making a seller suffer.

The auctioneer came down.

Fourteen.

Still nothing.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “he’s housebroken.”

A buyer in the second row lifted two fingers.

The auctioneer caught him. Fourteen thousand.

Another bid came from the back. Fourteen-five.

The room woke.

Fifteen.

Fifteen-five.

The buyer who’d circled the weaning weight stared straight ahead, giving nothing away except the small twitch of his sale book against his knee. The ring spotter caught it.

Sixteen.

Boone walked Lot 14 another slow circle. He never looked at the seats. Never looked at Wyatt. The bull’s tail swished against his hocks.

Sixteen-five.

Seventeen.

Wyatt went still.

Most folks wouldn’t notice the difference between Wyatt standing and Wyatt going still. I did. Standing was natural. Still was arithmetic.

The bidder near the aisle shook his head.

The auctioneer worked him.

He shook it again, harder.

“Don’t let half a grand come between you and genetic excellence,” I told him.

“Easy for you to say,” he called back.

“It’s easy for me to say most things.”

That earned the room’s laugh, but the buyer still lifted his hand.

Seventeen-five.

The man at the back came in before the number finished leaving the auctioneer’s mouth.

Eighteen.

A hum moved through the chairs.