Chapter 157
The One-Cent Auction
Chapter 157 The One-Cent Auction
Six o'clock in the morning.
Arthur's Ford pickup truck stopped on a country dirt road outside Terre Haute, Indiana.
Frank and his convoy of workers had turned back to Ohio at the state border. Arthur would have to face the rest of the journey alone.
The dirt road ahead was blocked.
Hundreds of men in worn-out flannel shirts and wide-brimmed farmer's hats surrounded the entrance to a medium-sized farm.
Arthur got out of the car and walked over.
The air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco and gun oil.
Arthur noticed that almost every one of the hundreds of farmers carried a weapon. There were old-fashioned double-barreled shotguns, Winchester repeating rifles, and even muzzle-loading guns from the Civil War era.
They stared intently at a wooden table in the center of the farmyard.
Two men in suits stood beside the wooden table, along with four Pinkerton detectives with bulging pockets.
The man in the suit was holding a gavel and a thick stack of auction documents.
This is a scene of a forced auction.
Arthur walked to the edge of the crowd and handed a cigarette to a bearded farmer next to him.
"Whose land are we shooting today?" Arthur asked in a low voice.
The farmer took the cigarette and glanced at Arthur warily, but relaxed slightly after seeing that he was alone and unarmed.
"Old Tom's," the farmer said, pointing to an old man standing not far from the wooden table, head bowed and wiping away tears. "He owes the Chicago National Trust $1,500. If it goes up for auction today, he and his paralyzed wife will be sleeping on the street tonight."
"You're surrounding us with guns, are you preparing to resist the law?" Arthur looked at the hundreds of dark gun barrels around him.
"Resist the law? No, sir." The farmer gave a mocking sneer.
"We are here to bid legally. We are law-abiding citizens."
Arthur understood instantly.
He witnessed firsthand the most tragic yet intelligent grassroots resistance movement in the American Midwest during the Great Depression.
"Penny Auction".
When banks arrive with court orders to auction off the land and farm tools of bankrupt farmers, farmers from the surrounding villages and towns will all come with guns and surround the auction site.
The auction was conducted entirely legally, but the farmers set a bloody rule: anyone who bid more than "one cent" would be immediately riddled with bullets by hundreds of shotguns.
Under the watchful eyes of hundreds of gun barrels, the bidders hired by the bank dared not utter a word.
Ultimately, the farmer's representative would buy a cow for "one cent," a tractor for "five cents," and the entire farm for "one dollar," then return it to the original owner on the spot.
The bank may not receive the money, but the auction process has been legally completed, and the debt has been legally settled.
"Auction begins!"
In the center of the courtyard, the bank agent holding the gavel swallowed hard.
His voice was trembling.
He looked up and saw hundreds of murderous eyes around him, and gun barrels gleaming coldly in the morning light.
"Tom Jefferson Farm, comprising 120 acres of cultivated land, a barn, and two planters! Starting bid—"
Starting bid: $500! Anyone bidding?
A deathly silence.
No one speaks.
Several farmers deliberately pulled the bolts of their rifles.
Click. A crisp metallic clanging sound echoed in the courtyard.
The four Pinkerton detectives gripped their gun holsters tightly, cold sweat trickling down their foreheads.
They are mercenaries hired for money, not here to die.
Faced with hundreds of hunting rifles ready to fire at any moment, they knew that if they dared to draw their guns, they would be instantly turned into mincemeat.
The agent wiped the sweat from his brow, his voice weak: "Four hundred dollars? Three hundred dollars? — Anyone making an offer?"
It remained deathly silent.
At that moment, a tall young farmer stepped out from the crowd.
He walked to the wooden table, casually pulled a worn-out one-cent coin from his pocket, and tossed it onto the table with a thud.
"One cent. I'll take them all."
The agent's face turned a deep shade of liver.
He gritted his teeth and looked at the Pinkerton detectives beside him, but they all turned their heads to the side, pretending not to see him.
"This—this is against the rules! It's not even enough to cover the auction fee! I refuse to accept this offer!" the agent protested helplessly.
The young farmer glared at him and said fiercely, "You refuse? According to Section 14 of the Indiana Bankruptcy Auction Law, an auction must be concluded if there is a bid and no further bids. Do you want to break the law, sir?"
As he finished speaking, hundreds of farmers around him took a step forward in unison.
The encirclement has shrunk.
The agent's psychological defenses completely collapsed.
He desperately raised his gavel, ready to strike.
"etc."
Just then, a sharp sound came from outside the courtyard.
Two large, armored Packard cars drove straight over the farm’s wooden fence and into the yard.
The car door opened, and six men wearing black trench coats stepped out, each carrying a Thompson submachine gun.
The leader was a thin man with a scar near his eye.
He ignored the farmers' hunting rifles and walked straight to the wooden table, grabbing the agent's wrist.
"I am Clayton, Special Manager of the Midwest Executive Office of the Mellon Group on Wall Street."
The scarred man coldly surveyed the surrounding farmers.
"You bunch of peasants think you can manipulate the law with a few beat-up guns? This auction is canceled. We're not selling this land. We're taking it back!"
These words caused an uproar in the room.
"Why are you canceling the auction?!" the young farmer roared.
"Based on this."
Clayton pulled a blue document stamped with the federal court seal from his pocket and slammed it onto the table.
"The state court's auction order has been voided. This is a mandatory asset freeze and seizure order we just received from the federal district court this morning. There's no need for an auction; this land now belongs directly to Midwest Agricultural Trust. You have one hour to get out, or the federal marshals will come and teach you a lesson."
The wisdom of the peasantry is nothing but a dream in the face of absolute capitalist privilege.
The logic behind the one-cent auction was based on state bankruptcy law, but Wall Street overturned the table and invoked federal power.
The farmers were furious, but they were also plunged into deep despair.
Fighting bank agents is one thing, but fighting an enforcement order with the federal seal is something they dare not do yet.
Clayton looked arrogantly at the desperate faces, sneered, and turned to Detective Pinkerton, ordering, "Clear the area."
"This federal injunction is suspected of involving interstate financial fraud."
A calm yet penetrating voice suddenly came from behind the crowd.
Everyone turned their heads.
Arthur pushed through the crowd and calmly walked to the wooden table in the center of the courtyard.