“Walter Dean Mercer,” Frank said, and his voice carried through the rafters. “Thirty-four years he stood in that alley, and not once did he sort a calf wrong.” A soft laugh moved through the crowd. Then Frank held up a small, worn notebook. “Walter kept this in his coat pocket. Last spring he gave it to me and said, ‘If anything happens, read this out loud, in this barn.’” I looked at my brothers. Neither of us had known.

Frank opened it and began to read names. Page after page, Walter had written the name of every young hand he had trained, every family he had quietly helped through a bad winter, every loan he had covered when a neighbor lost a herd. Men in the bleachers started wiping their eyes. Then the barn doors rolled open, and Marlene stood in the light, pale, her two daughters behind her.