A Form of Ranching

Standing onstage under the bright lights of the Royal Theater, a backdrop for the movie The Last Picture Show, my stomach churns. It’s one year after we’ve purchased Booked Up, iconic Texas writer Larry McMurtry’s renowned book shop in his hometown of Archer City. We’re readying for our first live auction of Larry’s books. I glance at a long table lined with a dazzling array of rare Western Americana books I’ve culled from his singular collection.

There’s Pat Garrett, a riveting account of the western lawman who slayed Billy the Kid. There’s Trail Driving Days, a detailed history of the American frontier’s golden age of cattle driving. There’s Sundown, a chronicle of the violent collision between Osage Indians’ tribal culture and white American society, which inspired journalist David Grann’s nonfiction masterpiece Killers of the Flower Moon.

Our auction, held in October 2025, has a worthy cause: raising funds to transform Larry’s battered bookshop into a vibrant cultural center, keeping his acclaimed collection and world-famous storytelling legacy alive. But with our stock already thinning from bibliophiles and collectors pouring in from all over the country in pursuit of Larry’s best books, I’m having second thoughts.

The auctioneer had coached me on how to whip up buying mania during the auction, and I’d vowed to do my best. Then the auction begins.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I know you’re anxious to get your hands on some of Larry’s Western stock—all curated and priced by him,” I drawl under my Stetson. But as I describe each book on the auction list, I acknowledge the angst inside me. “Frankly, I would prefer not to sell these books,” I sigh. “These books are irreplaceable.”

We end up generating enough cash to keep our nonprofit afloat for a few months. But our best stock continues to migrate out the front door of the shop, located in a one-stoplight town with a population of around 1,600, and into the truck beds and back seats of our patrons. I ask myself, How are we going to replace these antiquarian rarities that made Booked Up a treasure trove for readers and collectors?

The answer slowly dawns on me: I’ll become, as Larry did, a book scout. These nomads scour thrift shops, estate sales, antiques malls, auction houses, flea markets, charity centers, library clearances, and used bookstores in search of undervalued literary jewels. Larry was a book scout for 60 years—even before he started writing. My problem is I know nothing about book scouting.

For Larry, discovering an exquisite book at the bottom of a box at a yard sale or stacked behind a row of dusty paperbacks inside a drugstore was such a glorious pleasure that it became a lifelong passion culminating in the creation of Archer City as a book town overflowing with more than a half million antiquarian books jammed into four shops around the town square. Booked Up’s flagship store, which we now operate as the Larry McMurtry Literary Center, is the lone surviving shop.

To get started on my scouting adventure, I reread Books, Larry’s memoir about how the former cowboy became obsessed with the medium—scouting, collecting, sometimes selling, but mostly accumulating them to restock his giant barns. Just as Larry’s father, Jeff Mac, could identify a prime Hereford cow by its stature, texture, and color of its hide, Larry knew how to identify a rare book by the shape and color of its spine.

My efforts, Larry liked to say, “are a form of ranching; instead of herding cattle, I herd books.”

I realize that book scouting presents an opportunity not just to replenish stock but to engage in a swashbuckling, high stakes quest that Larry likened to those of a “hunter-gatherer, searching amid the great herds of books, seeking the next kill.”

For Larry, the adrenaline-charged business of scouting was more fulfilling than writing. By 1982, after 20 years of churning out prose on his cranky Hermes typewriters, he was weary and disillusioned with the writing life. He continued to write, but as he acknowledged in the preface to his novel Cadillac Jack, he felt his sentences were parading in a circle, as if his powerful and evocative prose had lost its voltage and all he could do was coast.

To escape literary quicksand, Larry created the alter ego Cadillac Jack, a former rodeo champion who finds redemption driving across the heartland searching for antique treasures in the same places Larry looked for antiquarian books. Larry wrote of his hope that, if nothing else, his novel “could be made to yield some fresh-seeming sentences, at least.”

I can identify with Larry’s ennui. I’m hoping that driving across Texas in my ancient Ford Ranger in search of rare books will help me shed the real-world entanglements that have kept me from completing a book about a South Texas ranching empress who ruled a plot the size of Rhode Island. Larry’s cavernous bookshop yielded several historical accounts of the ranch but nothing about the decades-long fight over the empress’ half-billion-dollar fortune.

During workshops or dining on chicken-fried steaks at Murn’s Cafe in Archer City, I never talked with Larry about my struggles telling this tragic saga. As my mentor and friend—he signed his books to me “To George, In Friendship”—I deeply regret not asking him to help me untangle the narrative knot that has kept me from finishing my book.

Now, every spine I touch in Larry’s shop carries the ghost of his timeless advice: “If you want to write a book, stand on the shoulders of the tens of thousands of authors I’ve brought into Booked Up. Immerse yourself in their work. Model yours after their best. They can teach you how to write your own.” I often wonder, Is this why it hurts to watch Larry’s books leave the shop?

Before launching my scouting expeditions, I begin tunneling through the dozens of book-collecting tomes tucked away in Larry’s sprawling shop. But after three weeks of reading one volume after another, I am drowning in trade jargon, Latin terms, and early edition identification rules. I sense Margaret Haller is sending a stern warning to me in The Book Collector’s Fact Book: “This is not a job for an amateur.”

Even Larry, acclaimed as America’s best book scout, considered the undertaking unfathomable. “Certainly,” he wrote in Books, “a normal lifetime is not long enough to enable one to learn even half of what there is to know about antiquarian books in general.”

At 75, I don’t have half a lifetime left. But as the chief custodian of Larry’s bookshop, stacked floor-to-ceiling with 300,000 volumes, I feel I’ve already enrolled in a training camp for novice book scouts.

Before we opened the Larry McMurtry Literary Center to the public in March 2025 and ever since, I’ve spent countless hours browsing the vast expanse of the bookshop, stuffed with the entire stock of 26 used and rare bookstores and 200 private collections Larry purchased over six decades. It spans everything from scientific texts and fine art folios to obscure foreign travelogues and modern literature. I’ve learned that curating takes the same care and skill as writing a stunning novel. As Larry put it: “I try to compose, first off, walls of books that please and hold the eye.”

At writing seminars Larry conducted for student and professional storytellers inside his bookshop, I learned that he composed his novels by impulse, instinct, and serendipity, allowing his characters to evolve organically rather than through an outline.

As I’ve since discovered, Larry organized his sprawling book stock the same way, shunning every standard organizing system. On a note posted on a door explaining how his collection is organized, he wrote: “Erratically/Impressionistically/Whimsically/Open to Interpretation.”

Larry also relied on personal taste rather than standard price guides. Using a No. 2 pencil, he adjusted prices up or down based on his highly subjective grading system. If he liked the book, he’d mark up the price. If he didn’t like it, he’d mark it down. Books Larry regarded as overly sentimental or sanctimonious would face steep price cuts.

Stepping into Larry’s self-proclaimed “temple of books” leaves most visitors spellbound, as if they’ve discovered a vast, uncharted literary planet. Take Robert Faires, former arts editor for the Austin Chronicle. He made his first trip to Archer City in July 2025 to see Larry’s long-shuttered bookshop breathe again. “My mind is officially blown,” Faires says. “This is an astonishing place. I’ve never, honestly, been to any place quite like this.”

While cleaning a row of bug-ridden bookshelves recently, one of the center’s veteran volunteers, Spencer Turrubiarte, is enthralled handling such precious books, ancient pamphlets, and broadsides. “It’s an insane collection of literature and ephemera,” he gushes.

On one shelf, Spencer discovers a deluxe edition—limited to 1,000 copies—of the first French translation of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, worth around $400. On another, there’s a first edition of Madman’s Drum, a scarce “wordless novel” that became the prototype for the modern graphic novel.  As a highly sought-after collector’s prize, it might fetch $800 or more.

A customer from Lubbock, Reese Sawyer, finds a book he’s been hunting for months: a first edition of Darconville’s Cat by Alexander Theroux. With a limited first printing of only 5,000 copies in 1981, the novel has developed a cult following. Scoring a $600 collectible for just $25 reveals why book hunters are still swarming Larry’s legendary bookshop.

On a bottom shelf in Larry’s Africana section, I discover a literary gem worth more than $10,000 underneath a forgotten stack of South African government bulletins: one of 300 signed and numbered copies of Congo by Irma Stern, a famous South African artist. The book contains black-and-white prints and drawings the artist made while traveling through the Congo in 1942. There are only a few book dealers in the world who possess what one auction house calls “The Collector’s Holy Grail.”

Studying, sorting, sanitizing, and selling thousands of titles from Larry’s collection for the last two years afforded me a front-row seat to the arcane antiquarian book trade, an insular subculture dominated by eccentric dealers and scouts. Observing these book geeks hunting for “sleepers,” or undervalued books, made me realize there’s a tight-knit crew cut from the same cloth as Larry. Reluctantly, I join their ranks.

I meet Craig Hokenson, a well-regarded North Texas scout who specializes in modern first editions, at a Mexican restaurant near his home. Over chips and salsa, Craig rattles off his favorite hunting grounds: secondhand shops, antiques malls, estate sales, and thrift stores. “Anything can be anywhere,” Craig says dryly, echoing the maxim of Jack McGriff, Larry’s fictional scout in Cadillac Jack.

One of Craig’s most lucrative haunts is Half Price Books, a Dallas-based bookstore chain. During a routine scouting expedition to its flagship store on East Northwest Highway, Craig spotted a first printing of Stoner, a collectible signed by the author, John Williams. The price: $200. He bought it immediately and called a dealer in Florida who he knew wanted Stoner—badly. The dealer paid $3,200.

After hearing this story, I practically beg Craig to make Half Price Books a high priority the next day. After we hit the estate sale in the morning, he says.

“I’m feeling pretty lucky,” I tell Craig. “I’ll bet I’m going to find a signed, first edition of Lonesome Dove.”

“Don’t count on it,” Craig snorts.

I wake up at my home in Flower Mound almost two hours before the start of the sale. I shower, gulp a few cups of coffee, and head out to the garage to hop into my Ranger. Before opening the garage door, I muse over Larry’s scouting vehicle. If only I was driving a Cadillac, my scouting buddies might call me Cadillac George.

I realize I’ve forgotten Craig’s checklist and scramble back inside to find a flashlight—to illuminate books in poorly lit situations—and rummage through my wife’s purse for a wad of cash in case the estate sales don’t accept credit cards. All she has are two $1 bills.

Rival scouts liked to swap stories about Larry’s aggressive tactics—sleeping on sidewalks or greasing palms to be first in line when doors opened in the morning.  To Larry, that wasn’t extreme; it was just the price of admission.

John Dillman, owner of Kaboom Books in Houston, tells me that during the 1980s, while scouting for antiquarian books in West Texas, he always found himself at least a half day, and more often a full day, behind Larry at every bookshop along the dusty roads. “He’d clean out the high-end inventory of all the small shops we were both entering from San Antonio to El Paso,” Dillman says.

Frazzled from running late, I turn into the cul-de-sac where the estate sale is underway. Well, at least I don’t have to wait in line, I mumble to myself. All the scouts are already inside, sweeping up the premium inventory.

Much to my dismay, a gaggle of scouts have taken up positions around a sprawling bookcase, creating a barricade with their bodies and boxes, preventing anyone else from getting anywhere near their books. The Turks, as they’re called by the old guard because of their descent, are vilified for their aggressive purchasing tactics and their use of barcode scanners to check pricing and demand. “It makes me sick watching them grab and stash books into boxes before anyone else can get to them,” an old scout fumes.

“Excuse me,” I ask. “May I squeeze in behind you to get a closer look at that Churchill book?” They look up from their scanners and glare at me. One of them slides his 4-foot-tall pile of books a few feet across the floor, allowing me to cross the barricade.

Nearby, the operator of the estate sale looks alarmed. He confides that he fears another brawl might break out.

“Another brawl?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “We’ve had a few instances where some of the older scouts got into fisticuffs with the younger scouts. The old guys hate being bullied by the Turks.”

I don’t like it either. But I feel euphoric walking up to the sales desk with my Churchill book.

“I broke their barricade,” I boast.

“That will be $12,” she says.

I hand her my credit card. She hands it back and keeps my Churchill book.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “We only take cash.”

I am determined to bounce back from my scouting blunder when I meet Craig at Half Price Books’ flagship. I take solace remembering that Larry made his share of mistakes as a rookie scout, such as signing his name inside his acquired antiquarian gems. When he tried to sell them, he discovered that, as an unpublished author, his signature devalued his collection. One of the dealers who bought Larry’s signed books spent years trying to remove his signature with sandpaper. Today, of course, it’s no secret that Larry’s signature on one of his own novels is worth a small fortune—especially Lonesome Dove.

We stroll over to where Larry’s titles are on display. No Lonesome Dove. But we find a copy of Duane’s Depressed, one of my favorite novels.

I pull it off the shelf, open the cover, and, bingo, there is Larry’s signature. For $7.99, I have unearthed a signed first edition of a book coveted by collectors. It’s listed on some rare dealer websites for $295.

“I told you I’d find one of Larry’s signed first editions here,” I gush.

“Beginner’s luck,” Craig replies.

In plucking Duane’s Depressed, I experienced that same glorious pleasure that Larry felt swelling up inside. At that very moment, Melanie Ferguson, one of the volunteers at the literary center, randomly appears with a stack of mystery novels. I introduce Melanie to Craig, hoping he’ll praise my first big book find.

As if on cue, Craig says, “George, show Melanie your signed copy of Duane’s Depressed.”

I hold the book up in the air triumphantly and say, “I think I’m making progress.”

Five months after I found my unicorn inside Half Price Books, I’m still scouting for fresh stock. With Craig’s help, I’ve acquired many exceptional books that I hope will attract bibliophiles from around the country into the Archer City shop.

During my apprenticeship, I learned a lot about the unpredictable, quirky, and irrational antiquarian book business. But my curiosity about complicated books continues to grow. I want to learn how editions and conditions affect the value of a rare book. I lean on Larry’s wise reminder: “There is no fixed point, other than death, at which one has to stop increasing one’s knowledge about books.”

Now, in my twilight years as a writer, I’m taking another lesson to heart. Larry was convinced that when he published Cadillac Jack in 1982, his best years as a writer were behind him at age 46. He claimed that writers tend to lose their edge with age, whereas scouts improve because their expertise continues to grow.

But Larry’s prognostication about book writing proved a fallacy. In 1985, Simon & Schuster released Lonesome Dove, Larry’s Pulitzer Prize-winning masterpiece that upended the romantic portrayals of the American West. His epic cattle drive narrative stood atop the New York Times bestseller list for 24 weeks. Today, 41 years later, Lonesome Dove remains a top-selling book on almost every U.S. bookseller’s platform.

Maybe there’s hope for my dormant manuscript after all. I know I’ll never be a quintessential book scout. But I have a feeling Larry and the 300,000 authors haunting his literary center will keep nagging me until I finish it. 

George Getschow’s Open Road essay “Escaping the Noise” appeared in the June 2020 issue.