There was always so much going on. Dogs barking, the stock being herded into their pens, the clanging of the metal gates as they slammed shut behind the cattle, auctioneers talking to stockies before the sale started and, without fail, there would always be two old men sitting up on the rails somewhere, discussing the season and stock prices. He had lost count of how many times he'd heard 'When I was a lad . . .' stories. Craig watched the cattle being unloaded and herded into their pens. The cattle snorted and bellowed as they ran down the cement raceway, looking for a way out or an open gate. He heard a yell of 'Watch that one, mate,' and turned in time to see a young man leaping for the rails with a Brahman bull close on his heels. 'Looks like that one's come from up north,' said a man standing next to him. 'The bull's just being friendly.' Craig grinned and moved on. He climbed the ladder that led to the walkways which lay across the tops of the yards. Sale yards always had steel walkways across the top so the buyers and stockies wouldn't be stirring the stock up every time they walked past.
