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?” I told Johnny’s brother that they had “herded” me so closely as to make me suspicious. He said they had to do that to keep their competitors from blocking their sales. He said the competitors would quote a low price on tracts in the neighborhood of the places visited by Johnny’s prospects—and then, if the prospect decided to buy, the competitor would discover that his partner had just sold it to another—but he always had other bargains to show him.