“Twenty-two,” Vance said, his voice flat and calm.

Nate stood perfectly still beside me.

His eyes were fixed on the wooden gavel hanging loose in Dobbs’s right hand.

“Twenty-three,” the farmer said.

“Twenty-five,” Vance said right away, jumping the price two thousand in one breath.

The farmer shook his head, tucked his gloved hands under his arms, and backed away toward the railing.

“Twenty-five thousand to Mr.

Vance,” Dobbs shouted into his bullhorn.