T
he days were getting shorter, and the night fell early at the old cow camp. After a hard day on the trail, the drovers gathered around the fire, their chatter drifting aimlessly until Sweetwater Slim leaned in and said, “Did you hear the Slash V outfit just sold? A bitcoin billionaire paid 40 million for that sorry piece of country.”
Sourdough barked, “Forty million? Those poor Slash V cows spend their lives on the move, chasing grass from one patch to the next. Forty million bucks?”
Slim shrugged. “New money’s everywhere. City folk want to be John Wayne and own a piece of Yellowstone. They’ll bite any ranch that comes on the market.”
Panhandle pulled a dog‑eared Sotheby’s catalog from his pocket, lit a coal‑oil lamp, and spread the glossy brochure on the fire. “Look here, partners,” he said. “There are a dozen old ranches in the Big Empty up for sale.” He opened the thick catalog to a scratch‑and‑sniff centerfold and passed it around.
The campfire smoke carried murmurs of “oooh” and “ahhhh” as the cowboys flipped through listings of Wyoming ranches priced in the nine‑figure range. They’d worked these outfits, knew them well, and were stunned by the prices and the airbrushed photos and flowery prose.
Cookie thumbed through the pages. “My nephew works for a big broker in Jackson Hole. He writes this stuff to sell ranches to city folks. If you can’t sell the profit potential, you sell the pretty.” Stetsons nodded. “He calls it real estate porn—a code.”
Puzzled glances met Cookie’s words. He tossed the catalog to Goshen Gus. “Read me something from one of those ads, and I’ll translate it.”
Gus squinted, ran a finger down a page, and read, “Enjoy unparalleled solitude and privacy on your own little slice of western heaven.” Cookie paused. “First, ‘little slice’ means no bigger than a wrangle pasture. The rest says you’re thirty miles from town on a washed‑out road, and you can’t leave in winter.”
Gus handed the glossy catalog to Deacon from Dayton, who read, “well‑watered with sub‑irrigated meadows.” Cookie shook his head. “They’re really saying mosquitoes and deerflies will suck you dry if you step outside in summer.”
Little Joe the Wrangler read over Deacon’s shoulder, “An uninterrupted, 360‑degree view of wild Wyoming splendor.” Cookie explained, “That’s the Red Desert—no tree tall enough to block the view of rattlesnakes and sagebrush. Classic real estate porn.”
Houlihan read, “a stone’s throw from world‑class, blue‑ribbon trout fishing.” Cookie waved his greasy spoon. “That’s real estate porn for ‘the river is on your neighbor’s land, and he’ll shoot you if you try to wet a line.’ See how this works?”
“Okay, Cookie. If you’re so smart, what does this mean?” Powder River Pete taunted, then read, “Room for a man of the West to stretch his legs and get a good, old‑fashioned feel for the countryside.”
Cookie replied, “That means no indoor plumbing, and the outhouse is a quarter mile from the cabin.”
The catalog returned to Panhandle, who read, “Thousand‑year‑old petroglyphs stand guard along your clear mountain creek, speaking ancient native wisdom to those who listen.” Cookie looked at him. “You and I have worked that ranch. Those petroglyphs along Difficulty Creek say, ‘This water will give you the runs. Don’t drink it.’”
Panhandle closed the brochure, the fire sputtered, and Cookie said, “Speaking of runs, who’s ready for some beans?”
