“Wal, I’ll buy you’ blamed lots,” says Shackleton, “but I don’t stand fer compytition. Here, agent, what’s Chub’s block worth?”
The dude reckoned it was worth five hunderd. And Shackleton dug down like a man!
The rest of us done a turrible lot of buyin’ and sellin’ right after that–one to the other. The sheriff sold to Sam Barnes (fer a chaw of t’bacca); Bill Rawson, he sold to me (on tick); Hairoil Johnson to Dutchy, and so forth. ’R, it’d be like this: “Bet you a lot I can jump the furth’est.” “Bet you cain’t.” Then real estate ’d change hands, and the Tarantula ’d talk about “a lively market.”
A-course, the dude and Porky, and the doc and the new parson was doin’ some buyin’, too. ’Fore long, they owned all Bergin had, and Shackleton’s, and Chub’s, and Rawson’s, and Johnson’s, and mine. And they picked out a place fer the Deef, Dumb, and Blind Asylum; and named ole man Sewell fer President of the Briggs City Pott’ry works.
“I’ll buy you blamed lots, but I don’t stand fer compytition”
Pretty soon, havin’ all the land they wanted, they begun, steady by jerks, to sell each other, notice of them sales appearin’ in the Eye-Opener at two-bits apiece. Next, they got to sellin’ faster. Then, it was dawg eat dawg. Lickin’ things into a’ excitin’ pass, them lots of theirn flew back’ards and for’ards till the air was plumb full of sand. When the sun went down that never-to-be-fergot evenin’ (as the speaker allus says at a political pow-wow), ole Briggs City was the colour of mesquite. But the pockets of the punchers was so chuck full that, as the hours drug by, our growin’ city got redder ’n a section-house, ’cause the boys was busy paintin’ it. (But count me out–I had my draw-down, and I was a-hangin’ on to it.) Whilst over at the real-estate shack, them gun-shy gents was havin’ a quiet, little business talk, gittin’ ready fer they onloadin’ campaign next day.
About ten o’clock, I stopped by they shebang and knocked. When the door was opened, here they all sit, makin’ out more deeds ’n you could shake a stick at. I didn’t go in. I figgered I’d be gittin’ married soon; and no feller wants his face spotted up like a Sioux chief’s on his weddin’ day.
“Gents,” I says, “the boys sent me over to thank you all fer purchasin’ property hereabouts in such a blamed gen’rous way. And it’s shore too bad that they feel they cain’t invest. But they plan to wait a year, and buy in what you got fer taxes.”