“Don’t turn ’round, boy, mind yer own business,” the low voice went on, barely above a whisper.
How I could hear him so clear still befuddles me. The auction corral was echoin’ to the sky with shouts ‘n hollers, and the silence of the stompled veternarian splayed bend and bleedin’ upon the dusty ground.
This ain’t no place fer heroes. That’s what he said, be it to me or Daddy. Heaviness weighed down my insides, it tasted somethin’ awful, and I feared if I was to slip a look Daddy’s way, I’d see somethin’ I wudn’t wantin’ to see.
So I set. And I did not turn left nor right nor ’round. Daddy managed to touch my fingers, what was grippin’ tight upon the top fence rail where we was set, froze. I swallered hard, hopin’ he’d see my Adam’s Apple a bobbin’ in response. He an’ me, we was in this together.
The mayhem and confusion and wailin’ and flailin’ was rampin’ up. Men and boys and cattle was runnin’, tangled in their indecision. Still don’t know how long we was still, could’ve been seconds, felt like hours. But Daddy, I could feel him decide before he leapt off the rail and hauled it to where the vet, he lay still.
I hauled my ownself, on his tail, lookin’ over his shoulder as he knelt beside the damaged man, that notebook clutched tight even still in his hand. Folks made a wide circle behind us, givin’ room and settlin’ the panic. Only a bit. Some flash, some sound would send this little world into chaos again in a New York minute, but for now, there was breathin’ room.
Ain’t no place fer heroes, the low voice said.
But then, said I, there’s Daddy.