The Man Who Bought Twelve Tractors
Rick Stevens laughed.
Not a polite chuckle—a full, condescending laugh. The kind that says, I can’t believe I’m wasting my time with this idiot.
It was Tuesday morning, March 15th, 2011. Rick owned Stevens John Deere in Marshalltown, Iowa. He’d owned it since 1989, built it into the largest dealership in Marshall County, sold millions of dollars in equipment every year. Rick was successful, confident, and at this moment, amused.
Standing across from his desk was Walter Price.
Walter was sixty-seven. He wore dirty work boots, a faded Carhartt jacket stained with grease, and old jeans patched at the knees. He farmed somewhere south of town—Rick wasn’t sure exactly where or how much. Walter wasn’t a regular customer. Maybe came in once every few years for parts.
Walter had just said, calmly,
“I want to buy twelve John Deeres today.”
Rick laughed again.
“Twelve tractors? You want to buy twelve tractors today?”
“Yes.”
“Walter, do you know what twelve tractors cost? Even used ones?”
“Depends on the models.”
Rick leaned back in his chair. “Let’s say, I don’t know—forty thousand each for decent used inventory. That’s four hundred eighty thousand dollars. You’re telling me you want to spend half a million dollars today?”
“Closer to five hundred sixty,” Walter said. “I need specific models.”
Rick’s smile faded slightly. This wasn’t a joke. That made it worse.
Walter pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and placed it on the desk.
Rick picked it up.
Three 4440s (1978–1982)
Two 4640s (1979–1983)
Three 4430s (1975–1979)
Two 4230s (1973–1977)
Two 4020s (1968–1972)
Rick looked up. “This is… very specific.”
“I know what I need.”
“And you want all twelve today?”
“If you have them.”
Rick sighed. “I don’t keep twelve used tractors on the lot. I’d have to source most of these.”
“Do you have any?”
Rick checked his inventory. Two 4440s. One 4430. One 4640.
“I’ve got four that match.”
“I’ll take those four today.”
Rick felt irritation creeping in. “Walter, let’s be honest. You can’t afford this. Four tractors at forty thousand each is one hundred sixty thousand dollars.”
Walter reached into his jacket and pulled out a checkbook. Plain green checks. Nothing fancy.
“How much for the four?”
Rick read the prices aloud, expecting excuses.
Total: $162,400.
Walter wrote the check, tore it out, and slid it across the desk.
Rick stared at it.
“Walter… I need to verify this.”
“Of course.”
Rick called the bank.
“Walter Price? Checking account balance: two million, three hundred forty thousand.”
The check would clear.
Rick hung up slowly.
“You have over two million dollars in your checking account.”
“Yes.”
Rick stopped himself from asking how—that felt unprofessional now.
Walter smiled. A small, knowing smile.
“You laughed at me ten seconds ago,” Walter said. “Thought I was a crazy old man in dirty boots. You want to know how I got this money?”
Rick swallowed. “Yes.”
“I’ll tell you,” Walter said. “But first—deliver those four tractors today. Source the other eight within two weeks.”
Rick nodded. “I can do that.”
“And I’ll pay cash for all twelve.”
Rick’s calculator ran silently. This was the largest single deal he’d ever done.
“Why do you need twelve tractors?” Rick finally asked.
“I don’t,” Walter said. “I’m buying them for other farmers.”
Rick blinked. “You’re what?”
“I’m buying tractors for young farmers who can’t afford them. Some I’ll give away. Some I’ll sell at cost with zero-interest terms.”
Rick stared.
“Why?”
Walter sat down.
“Let me tell you a story.”
1978
“I was forty-four, farming three hundred twenty acres. I had one tractor—a 1959 Farmall 560. Paid for. Reliable.”
“In 1979, my neighbor Harold Thompson lost his farm. Good farmer. Bought new equipment in ’76. Borrowed heavy. When rates went up and prices went down, the bank took everything.”
“His 1974 John Deere 4430 went to auction. Starting bid was eight thousand dollars. Less than half what he owed.”
“I had twelve thousand saved. Bought it for eleven-two.”
Walter paused.
“There were eighty people at that auction. Most were vultures. But a few of us understood something—this wasn’t a one-off. It was a pattern.”
“From 1979 to 1989, I went to forty-three farm auctions. Bought equipment every time. Paid cash. Bought only proven models. Nothing fancy.”
“By 1989, I owned seventeen tractors. Not to farm. Just sitting in sheds. Bought them for an average of nine thousand each. Worth double that.”
Rick was listening intently now.
The First Farmer
“In 1990, a kid named Michael Chen came to me. Twenty-six. Wanted to farm. No credit. No collateral.”
“I sold him a 1976 4430 for twelve thousand—what I had in it. Zero interest. Two hundred a month.”
“He paid it off. Came back for another tractor. Still farms today.”
“I did that thirty-two times over twenty years.”
Rick frowned. “But that doesn’t make you rich.”
Walter nodded. “Correct. Land does.”
The Real Wealth
“While everyone was buying equipment in the ’70s and going broke in the ’80s, I was saving.”
“My land was paid off by 1981. No debt.”
“Between 1982 and 2002, I bought sixteen hundred eighty acres. All cash. Foreclosures. Estate sales. Divorce sales.”
“Paid about one point six million total.”
“Today? Worth over eight million.”
Rick sat back, stunned.
“So why buy twelve tractors now?”
Walter smiled.
“I’m seventy-seven. No kids. Wife passed in 2008. I’m selling the land this year.”
“I’ll net about six million.”
“Four million goes into the Walter Price Agricultural Foundation.”
Rick swallowed.
“Zero-interest equipment loans. In perpetuity.”
The Twelve Tractors
Over the next twelve days, Rick delivered the tractors.
Some were gifts.
Some were sold at cost.
All went to carefully chosen young farmers.
One cried.
Another couldn’t speak.
Every single one worked harder than anyone Rick knew.
Walter didn’t dress better.
Didn’t buy a new truck.
Didn’t build a mansion.
“I don’t care about looking rich,” Walter said. “I care about impact.”
The Lesson
Walter Price died in 2019.
By 2024, his foundation had helped forty-seven farmers. The endowment had grown. The impact multiplied.
Rick Stevens tells this story to every new salesperson.
“Never judge by appearance,” he says. “The richest man I ever met wore dirty boots.”
Walter walked into a dealership asking for twelve tractors.
The dealer laughed.
The check cleared.
But the real shock wasn’t the money.
It was learning what real wealth looks like.
