Yellow Earth Read online

  Even over a cliff.

  Arne is nodding and stroking the hair on the muzzle of the two-year-old he’s holding, but it’s clear he’s got something on his mind.

  “Anything else?”

  Arne shifts the ball cap on his head, looks sideways at Harleigh. Arne deals out words like he’s got to buy them on credit. “So we got oil coming, or what?”

  No keeping it back now.

  “Where you hear that?”

  “It’s all over the rez.”

  It never ceases to amaze him, what with all the space and so few people to fill it, how quick gossip can travel.

  “It’s being looked into. Exploration stages.”

  “Gonna be good?”

  Arne is missing a bunch of teeth up front. The dentist at the clinic is only in three times a week, and don’t get Harleigh started on people opting for food stamps instead of the commodities and then buying candy bars and soda pop with them. Operation gets up to speed like he hopes, he’ll soak the oil companies for a real hospital and a full-time cavity driller.

  “Let’s put it this way,” he says to Arne. “Things work out, you’ll be quitting me to work for some service outfit, make a bundle for half the work.”

  “I wouldn’t quit you for that.”

  Harleigh has to smile. It’s nice to hear, but that kind of old-school loyalty is part of the problem.

  “You know, Arne, how when we brought the casino in, folks had stars in their eyes about all getting rich.”

  “It’s half empty over there.”

  “That’s cause we don’t have enough people up in this part of the world. To run a business, you got to have customers. But if the oil thing hits like it should, we’ll have em up to our ears.”

  “Good for the casino.”

  “Good for everything. What we’re looking for here is sovereignty. You know what that means?”

  “When you got your own country.”

  “Exactly, but what use is having your own country if your belly is empty? So this time, if they want our minerals they play our game, which includes paying us what they’re worth.”

  “People here get rich, just like the white man.”

  “The smart ones do, Arne. The smart ones do. And the way white folks get rich is to look out for Number One, which fosters competition and initiative and a whole lot of other things we could use a lot more of around here. They sure as hell didn’t make any fortunes giving it away in a potlatch.”

  Arne tugs on the bill of his cap, thinking this over. “So when these oil people come,” he says, “first thing is, I’ll ask you for a raise.”

  Harleigh smiles and thumps Arne on the shoulder. “That’s the idea, buddy. Find the highest bidder.”

  CLEMSON DOLLARHIDE WATCHES THE salesman do a lap around his den, looking over the paintings.

  “All the same artist?”

  Though technically he says he’s buying, not selling, the fella is still a salesman. Do you out of something in the friendliest way.

  “‘Artist’ might be pushing it some. They’re mine.”

  Mostly landscapes with cattle, done in oil. The sky above the prairie at different times of day, different moods.

  “Wow, really? Incredible detail.”

  “It’s a long winter up here.”

  “I bet. So the thing is, Clem– you mind if I call you Clem?”

  “Nobody else does.”

  “I stand corrected. The thing is, Mr. Dollarhide, several of your neighbors have already signed leases with the company.”

  “I got over four hundred acres.”

  “Four hundred and twenty-seven,” smiles the salesman, Zig or Sig, something like that.

  Clemson nods. “And most of those folks got as much or more. It’s not like we’re jawing over the backyard fence together.”

  “What I’m getting at is that they’ve made an investment in the future,” the man says as he sits down across from Clemson. “While at the same time doing their bit to free our country of its dependence on foreign oil.”

  If he’d been busy he would have just sent the fella away, but he drove all the way out here, and what the hell– give him a workout.

  “Foreign oil don’t run as good as ours?”

  “It’s not the oil itself, it’s the political entanglements, military adventures, whatnot, that come with it. But that’s only a collateral issue, the main point being that you are sitting on what could be a sizable fortune, Mr. Dollarhide.”

  Clemson shifts to look at the cushion of his chair. “All these years, huh? Right under my keister.”

  The salesman appears to have heard that joke before. The man understands by now that they are sparring, but doesn’t know he can’t win.

  “Whatever you choose to do with your mineral rights, this area is going to be transformed. A great deal of industrial traffic, wells popping up on the horizon, new businesses in Yellow Earth, new people.”

  “Not on my horizon.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Wells. There won’t be any popping up on my horizon. Even if Jake Wiltorp has said yes, I can’t see that far.”

  The salesman shuffles his deck, deals a new hand.

  “Perhaps if I give you a better idea of the numbers involved.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The drilling and stimulation of the well is an expensive process.”

  “How much you figure one might run you?”

  “It’s not unusual for a well in this type of play to run over a million dollars.”

  “So they’re figuring there’s a good deal more than that due to come out of the hole.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And they’d sink, what, a dozen holes on my property?”

  “That depends. We’ll make seismic and geological surveys.”

  “Let’s just say ten, make it a good even number.”

  “Fine.”

  “And you were offering what?”

  “I am authorized to offer you fifty dollars an acre– that’s only the signing bonus.”

  “You said it was four twenty-seven I’m on, didn’t you? That’d work out to twenty-one thousand, three hundred fifty dollars.”

  The salesman stares at him for a moment, catching up with the mathematics. “That’s correct. Have you received other solicitations in the mail, Mr. Dollarhide?”

  “None that I’ve read. So if you can get me to sign up for fifty an acre instead of, say, a hundred an acre, you already saved your company twenty grand.”

  The salesman smiles again, almost enjoying this. “A market value for these things quickly establishes itself. We hope to have our lessors feel they’re in a partnership.”

  “So there’s usually some kind of percentage of profits from what you drill, too.”

  “You’ve been studying on the internet.”

  “I was sitting on this same fortune back in the ’80s,” he tells the salesman, “when the last batch of wells were drilled.”

  “This promises to be a much more successful phenomenon, Mr. Dollarhide. The technical advances we’ve–”

  “Just to keep the numbers simple,” he interrupts, “let’s say, conservatively, that you pull two million in profit from each of your wells.”

  “It could be much higher than–”

  “Stick with me here. Ten wells, two million dollars profit each well, and what’s the percentage you been authorized to give out?”

  The salesman has settled back into his chair now, understanding that Clemson holds the reins of this particular wagon. “Twelve and a half percent,” he says quietly.

  “Anybody ever get fifteen?”

  “As I said, these things fluctuate with the market, which has several dynamic factors that affect it.”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Ten wells, two million a piece, twelve and a half percent–” even Clemson has to pause a moment to calculate. ‘Show your work,’ old Miss Jutress used to tell him in class, but it was so much more fun to show off and do it in your head. “Wh
y that’s two and a half million dollars.”

  “So if we should drill more wells, or profit more from each, you could easily–”

  “Whereas if it was a fifteen percent cut– royalty? That would come out to an even three million. Why, you could be saving your company a half million dollars today, you do your job right. You work on commission?”

  The salesman is openly grinning now, not a bit embarrassed. “I wish. But I think your calculations give you an idea of what a financial opportunity we’re offering here.”

  “Don’t want it.”

  “This is only a preliminary meeting of course. Some rights owners choose to gamble, hope that with time both the bonus and the royalty the Company is willing to pay increases.”

  “Don’t want the oil business on my land. Don’t want to see it, don’t want to hear it, don’t want to smell it.”

  There’s a good dirt road off the highway that crosses his property, of course, and they’ll be after him to let them use it for a short cut to their wells on the Wiltorp place. Might even get the state or county to try to force access. Bring it on.

  Tina comes in from school then, offering the fella a moment to get his face back together.

  “You look like you run all the way from the bus.”

  “The wind is murder today,” she says, unwrapping her scarf. The wind is always murder up here– his wife used to say it blew people’s brains out, which explained a good deal of their behavior.

  “This here’s Mr. Rushmore. The fella who carved all those presidents’ heads on the mountain down by Rapid.”

  “I wish.”

  “This my granddaughter, Spartina.”

  The salesman stands to shake hands. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Mr. Rushmore says we could be millionaires.”

  Tina looks at the man with some interest. “Jason Cobb says there was a guy–”

  “That was me,” smiles the salesman. “Mr. Cobb and I were able to come to an agreement.”

  Tina looks to Clemson, more resigned than eager. “No way, José, right?”

  “You know how I feel about it.”

  She nods, crosses to the big painting over the mantel, and points to a spot on it for the salesman to look at.

  “You see that one cow, it’s pointed in the other direction from all the others?” she says. “That’s Granpa Clemson. Nice to meet you.”

  The salesman waits till she goes off to her room. “Beautiful girl.”

  “Competent, too. Had her in the 4-H back when I was still doing the dairy. Won something every year with her show calves.”

  “Is she hoping to go to college?”

  “Last I heard she was going to be a supermodel. Don’t know where the school for that is.”

  The salesman gets up, adjusts his jacket. “You know, it could be worked so that our operations are nowhere near your home. You’ve got enough space.”

  “It’s the money.”

  “As I said, terms are, in the long run, negotiable.”

  “I, we, get money because my great-great grandfather was so weary of tramping around the country that he parked himself on this piece of ground, not knowing that–”

  “Think of all the work that’s gone into this ground, Mr. Dollarhide.”

  “I don’t need to think about it, every time I bend over I got three compressed discs do the reminding. But that was the life we chose, people found a way to make a living from this sorry patch of land.”

  “So consider this a kind of compensation.”

  “That kind of money, it doesn’t mean nothing. I don’t need that. Don’t deserve it. And neither does Tina.”

  “So you’re willing to deny her.”

  “It isn’t hers. And I’ll tell you what– we get attacked again, whoever the new enemy is comes marching onto our territory and the country needs fuel to fight em? Government can come get it. For free.”

  The salesman, Rushmore, holds out his hand in parting. “Mr. Dollarhide, it’s been a pleasure. If your philosophy should evolve or your financial situation alter, you have my information.”

  Clemson can tell it’s going to be painful to stand, and chooses not to show his visitor the twinge.

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Rushmore. You do a good pitch.”

  He can see the fella drive off in his rental car through the den window, which is buckling a little with the wind. The money would have been something when Nora was sick, but it wouldn’t have saved her. Clemson tries hard to think of something he’d like to do with all those millions. Ten thousand, sure, there’s repairs that could be done. The heating bill wouldn’t be a worry. But millions. After Ted and Alva were killed he’d sit with Tina and watch her favorite shows– she didn’t ever like to be alone then– which was mostly singing competitions, fashion deals on MTV, and the latest profiles of the rich and famous. He never wanted to be any of those people, or live in any of those places. And a few of them had even earned what they got.

  Tina comes out and sits in the chair the salesman just left.

  “You know what an iPod is?”

  “Computer thing?”

  “It’s a bunch of stuff. Computer stuff, you put all your music on it, carry it around– it’s like smaller than those things– cigarette cases?”

  “Expensive?”

  “Couple hundred dollars.”

  “And everybody’s got one.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So you could share.”

  “That’s not the point. We’ve got like a museum of obsolete technology around here.”

  “You mean the record player.”

  “Starting with.”

  “It’s a nice piece of furniture.”

  “That I can’t carry in my pocket. Even if it worked.”

  She is a beautiful girl– would have been in any era– and he has to stay on her to keep the makeup to a minimum. Let your natural good looks shine through. And he feels bad for her, stuck here with just him, but none of the others had their lives together enough to be taking on an orphan girl, even if she was blood. Alva’s family, not that she wasn’t a pearl, but half of them are wearing orange suits and living off the county. And his daughter Jennifer, her three got enough learning disorders and behavior problems to keep a mental institution busy, and her always the nervous type for whatever reason, married to that slacker.

  “I’ll think about it, Tina.”

  “I’m joining the Fashion Club.”

  “Is that wearing or designing?”

  “A little of both. It meets after school so I’ll be home later.”

  “The bus.”

  “One of the girls in the club will drop me off. She’s a good driver.”

  He nods. It hurt when she said she didn’t want to do the calves anymore. ‘I’m tired of smelling like cowshit,’ was the exact declaration, and there was a whole sudden campaign for clothes that ‘weren’t embarrassing.’

  “These pod things,” he asks her, “they break easy?”

  “It’s more like people lose them cause they’re small. But I wouldn’t.”

  He gives her the nod that is just encouraging enough. They don’t fight. She just gets quiet and then you hear the wind and it can be worse than being alone. Tina is looking past him, out the window in the direction the salesman drove.

  “I know this is your place,” she says, “and I totally get it that it’s your decision about the oil.”

  “It will be yours someday.”

  She looks hurt. “Oh, Granpa. What would I do with a farm?”

  THE SIGN OUTSIDE THE motel says ‘American Owned and Operated,’ which means the Patels have made it this far north and somebody assumes you give a shit. Free Wi-Fi, breakfast bar, lovely view of the parking lot and the highway beyond it. Sig showers, using his own soap that he’s not allergic to, and changes into his casual selling outfit. Never know who you might run into. He runs his story for why he’s not driving back to Oklahoma or Texas or whatever he told people over in his head, just
in case, then steps out. Not so much traffic that he can’t just stroll across the highway to the Arby’s.

  Sig orders and sits by the front window, shuffling leases on the little table after he wipes it with a napkin. Have to get out early tomorrow before the tomtoms start beating the news. There’s only one other customer who’s passed up the drive-thru option to sit and eat inside here– and damn if it isn’t Ginny Sloan, two empty tables between them, grinning and wiggling her fingers at him.

  “Passing through?” says Sig.

  “Said the kidney to the stone.”

  Sig leans back and adjusts the Brown Sugar Bacon deal in front of him. The girl behind the counter had red glue-on nails long enough to eviscerate a bull elk. Put her in a new dress and get her a hostess spot with one of the steakhouse chains that will be hurrying in and she’s good for 50K a year. Sometimes Sig feels like a man from the Future.

  “Who you pitching for?” he asks.

  “The Swedes.”

  “You’re shittin me. Here?”

  “They like this field.”

  “They do any mapping or are they just tagging after my bunch?”

  “They say they know what’s down there.”

  “How much do they want it?”

  “Enough to yank me out of Pennsylvania.”

  The Swedes are big. Not as hyper and reckless as Aubrey’s outfit, but they can sling some hefty numbers if they want to. Sig considers inviting Ginny to his table, but she’ll just start in again on how you can’t get a decent salad in these godforsaken oil patches.