Land in the wheat country was going begging at $300 a quarter—the same land that is now selling up to $200 an acre. Land agents were actually fighting over prospective buyers. Bill Talley, born in Indiana and reared here, was at this time operating a drink emporium in Wetmore, but had lived, and dealt in land, at Cimarron, in Gray County. At the depot, the day I started for the west, Bill told me to go to his friend, Johnny Harper. When I got off the train at Cimarron at 2 o’clock at night, Johnny was there to meet me. We by-passed the leading hotel—a rival agent, F. M. Luther, lived at the hotel—and Johnny took me to a restaurant three blocks away. The next morning Johnny and his partner, Mr. Emery, ate breakfast with me at the restaurant. Mr. Emery was to drive me across the river to look at land. Every parcel of land shown was priced at $300 a quarter. And at every booster stop we visited, the farmer would reply to Mr. Emery’s inquiry: “I would not take $25 an acre for mine.” A few sandhill plums, a dilapidated barn, and weather-beaten three-room house—made the difference. We got back to Cimarron about four o’clock in the afternoon.
As if he were sure I had seen a plenty to interest me on the side of a quick purchase, Johnny produced a map, saying, “Now, which piece have you decided on?” I had made no decision. Mr. Emery then thought I might like to see a big alfalfa field four miles up the river—not that it was for sale, but just to show me how good it was. In truth, it was just to get me out of town. The alfalfa looked good, but you know my mind was fixed on wheat, and this big field did not interest me.
I had company again for supper, and either Mr. Emery or Mr. Harper stayed by me until bedtime. It was Saturday. I needed a shave. Mr. Emery took me through the main business part of the town to a barbershop on the south side of the tracks. And here I came as near getting a skinning as I ever did in a business deal. There were, of course, better shops in town—but competitive real estate agents didn’t go across the tracks for their shaves. In the meantime Mr. Luther had dropped in at the restaurant. He was introduced by Mr. Harper. I asked Mr. Luther if he were engaged in business in Cimarron? He replied, “Yes, the real estate business.” Right away I had a notion that I should like to have a private talk with Mr. Luther. Likewise, Mr. Luther. And don’t think that Johnny didn’t catch on, too.
Mr. Luther bid us “good night,” and stepped outside. Mr. Harper bid me “good night,” and started on his way out—and I went up to my room. We were to start right after breakfast on a drive to Dodge City, thirty miles down the river, where I would get a train for home. I did not go to bed immediately. I went back downstairs for something, I don’t remember what now. Maybe to pick up a little disinterested information from the restaurant man. Mr. Luther came back in at the front door. Mr. Harper followed immediately. I went back up to my room.
The following morning three real estate men ate breakfast with me. Mr. Harper, Mr. Emery, and I started for the livery stable a block away, while Mr. Luther lingered awhile over his coffee. Bill Talley’s friends owned their driving team, and did their own stable work. When they got their fractious horses partly hitched, I made an excuse to run back to the restaurant. Mr. Luther said, “You were over in the neighborhood of the Kelly school house yesterday, I believe. I can sell you three quarters in the same section as the Kelly school house for $200 a quarter, or $600 for the three quarters.” I promised to write him—or see him later.
Mr. Emery drove me to Dodge City, showing me a big 30-acre cottonwood planting on the way, which purportedly was the reason for the drive. It did not interest me. We had cottonwoods at home. Mr. Emery stabled his foaming horses at a livery barn on the south side of the tracks, near the river, a good quarter of a mile from the Santa Fe depot. We ate our dinner at a restaurant close by the depot. It was Sunday. Mr. Emery showed me the town. We visited “Boot Hill” Cemetery, the only visible reminder now that Dodge City was once the wildest and toughest spot in the Old West, and other semi-interesting and some non-interesting places. After walking our legs off, we were now near the depot again.
Mr. Emery wished to look in on his erstwhile steaming horses. Yes, I would go along with him. On passing the depot I dropped out of the line of march on the pretense of wanting to get a line on the through train I was to take that evening. This done, I hiked back to the restaurant, inquired for a real estate office, and was told the Painter Brothers in office above the restaurant were the men I should see. A poker game was in full swing, but one of the brothers—I couldn’t for the life of me remember which one now—took time out to tell me that he could sell me land as good as the best for $200 a quarter. He gave me some literature. We planned to meet again.
I rushed back to the depot in time to meet Mr. Emery on his return from the stable. We walked some more. A local train from the west was due at 3 o’clock. Johnny Harper got off this train—and took over. Mr. Emery bid me “good-by” saying he would now drive his team back to Cimarron. Johnny proposed a walk. We took in the town again—always by our lonesome. He saw me off on the train. I did not learn how Johnny planned to get back to Cimarron. And I didn’t care.
Bill Talley was at the depot when I got back home. He said, “Well, did you see Johnny Harper? Fine fellow, isn’t he?” And, “Did you find anything to suit you?” Yes, I had seen Johnny; fine fellow, too. No, I had not bought anything—yet. But I planned to buy three quarters in the same section as the Kelly school house, from F. M. Luther, for $600. Bill popped his fist in the palm of his left hand, and bellowed, “Damn Luther!”—with shocking prefix.
It is only fair for me to say that ordinarily Bill was not given to the use of such language. But the exigencies of the situation were very much out of the ordinary. With prospect of a cut in commission—and his fear that I might run afoul of Mr. Luther—Bill had gambled the price of a telegram to Johnny Harper. I did not learn the why of this explosion for a little over one year. My brother Frank was considering a trade for a quarter of irrigated land south of the river, two miles from Lakin, and had written from Fresno, California, asking me to look it over, and report to him. On going through on the train, I stepped off at Cimarron, and inquired for Johnny Harper. A by-stander said Johnny was not among the people on the station platform—but, he said, “Here’s his brother.” Johnny’s brother stepped forward, saying he was going west on the train. On the train, he said, “You were out here last year driving with Johnny. Why didn’t you buy, then?”