“Would-ya-go-fifty-fifty-dollars-do-I-see-a-sixty-sixty-dollars-do-I-hear a seventy seventy dollars-seventy? Going once seventy going twice” A solid walnut gavel banged down on the auctioneer’s stand. “Sold! For sixty dollars to 197.”
The old man in a Stetson hat with a long handle bar mustache scribbled on his auction sheet.
“Next up, we have an antique gun. A well-kept 1873 Colt .45, affectionately known as The Peacemaker.”
The auctioneer smiled as a chuckled roiled through the crowd.
He continued, “You can find the description on this wonderfully preserved piece of Americana on page 70 of your auction guide. We’ll start the bidding at $2500.”
The auctioneer looked around. The item had not made its way to the table.
Instead, a gunshot echoed through the auction hall. As the sound faded, a silence filled the empty space. No one spoke. Eyes widened, the whites clearly visible.
The silent moment hung in the air over the crowd. Then, the screams began. The initial shock melted away and chairs scraped against the concrete as the audience stampeded toward the door.
Me, I ran toward the gunshot.
I pushed through the crowd and reached the room. The loud boom came from a room where they stored the items during the auction.
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