Yellow Earth

by John Sayles

  When the herd was reduced to a handful of stragglers most of the buffalo men left, off to find other work, none of it paying nearly as well. And once the maggots and flesh beetles were done with what the other scavengers left and wind and sun had bleached them white and dry, the bones were left for a final harvest, stacked into horse-high ricks and carted off by struggling farmers to sell for eight dollars a ton at railhead, to be ground for bone china, carbon for sugar production, phosphates for the soil, and finally all evidence of the great herd was gone, even the annual crop of dried shit that had lit a million campfires, gone from the land forever.

  THE TRANSLOCATION, CONSIDERING THE short life span of the average prairie dog, has become another Trojan War, and she, Leia, is Helen. Aggressive staring, tooth chattering, tail flaring, bluff charging, defensive barking, reciprocal sniffing of scent glands– the outcasts of Poker Flats are not giving their territory up without resistance. But her invaders are healthier, more unified, desperate.

  Odysseus has kept busy romancing some of the younger females, receptive perhaps because their coterie’s adult males are too closely related– co-submerging with one, then the other, five or six times a day, symbolic nesting grass in his mouth. Ninety-eight percent of copulations occur underground, so she can only gauge his success by the females’ behavior, each now preparing a nursery burrow, laying in dry grass and getting huffy with anyone who approaches. If this isolated bunch has been genetically drifting, new blood will pull them back into the heterogeneous current and perhaps avoid some inbred misfits. Mixed parentage of litters is possible, of course, and Leia imagines the steps to take to be sure, the drawing of blood samples from mother, pups, and potential fathers, sending them off to the lab for PCR amplification and DNA profiling. Nike and Niobe, impregnated back in the old colony, have each set themselves up in abandoned holes, and if not too damaged by hitting the padded extraction chamber at 300mph, should be nearing parturition.

  Ajax, despite his advanced years, continues to be the enforcer, greeting each challenger with a display routine complete with anal sniffing, then choosing to fight rather than run. At least one rival has been chased, scarred and churring in submission, to the periphery of the town, and Ajax has come out of a few holes to meticulously lick his feet and rub his face in the grass, a sure sign that he’s just killed and eaten the early litter of a resident female. Very Olympian of him. Lions kill their predecessor’s cubs without cannibalizing them when they take over a pride, but even regular backyard fluffy-tail squirrel females will go for the protein while securing their genetic dominance. It is, in fact, a jungle out there.

  The coterie will survive in a modified version. Leia has already recorded two instances of allogrooming between newcomer and resident juveniles, Romeo and Juliet action promising to unite the divided houses, and Hera, the oldest female, is working on a rim crater for her newly dug burrow, piling moist earth all around the opening and jackhammering it to rock-hardness with her nose. It’s possible that the bunch over here started as a ward of the big colony, separated by the highway and the traffic, and that this is a reunion. Leia has checked every day since the move for fresh roadkill, and so far there’s no evidence that any of her animals have tried to cross back to the old homestead. It could be nice for them here– a new start, room to grow. The only real advantage of dense colonization is mass warning and defense against predation, and the downsides– the stress, the constant territorial disputes, the tight-packed vulnerability to epidemic– all discourage big-city living. The grass is patchy here, and though it would derail any claim to a proper field study, she may have to consider provisioning the fledgling coterie, at least for the transition period.

  A whining noise causes Leia to turn and look across the highway at the ever-developing fracking pad, a rat’s nest of pipes and tanks and power hookups going in, at least twenty men and a half-dozen pickup trucks swarming over the area, working over and around each other day and night. Industrious little creatures, she thinks, but they’re still varmints.

  “WHAT HAPPENED TO MR. Rushmore?”

  He made sure to check with Jonesy on the name. This one is younger, sharper suit, and comes bearing blueprints.

  “He’s really just a landman,” says the young one, whose name might be Calkins or Dalkins. “He’s the matchmaker and I’m the marriage counselor.”

  The young one smiles, what he thinks is pleasantly. Press steps around to his side so he has to turn in the chair, pretends to be pondering.

  “So you’re telling me the honeymoon is over?”

  “All honeymoons end. By now your people have an idea of who’s going to make a killing, who’s going to do fine, and who’s just waiting in traffic or staring at spoil pits.” Dalkins holds up a roll of blueprint. “So it’s a good moment to sweeten the pot.”

  “I thought this was about the housing ordinance.”

  “That’s the tat,” smiles the young one. “This is the tit. We have two workforce accommodation centers currently under construction– assembly would be a more accurate term– within your city limits, Mr. Mayor. The Company doesn’t think it fair for you to change the rules on us without warning.”

  “There’ve been some fights, lots of drunken driving.”

  Will Crowder was in just before, explaining that he’d need at least two more qualified deputies to monitor the clubs all night, that he’s got the whole county to worry about–

  “We don’t own or operate the strip clubs, Mayor.”

  “It’s a tone that’s been set.”

  “I understand. And we’d like to improve that tone. May I?”

  Press nods and the Company rep stands to spread the blueprint out on his desk. It looks undecipherable, like they always do to him, but very big.

  “Our men work long, hard hours, under a good deal of pressure to produce at speed. When they’re off work, they need a place to unwind. Believe it or not, their first choice would often not be a titty bar.”

  The young one is from Texas, and the way he says ‘titty bar’ makes you think of a furry, big-breasted animal.

  “What is it?”

  “A three-story, multiuse recreational center. Gym, saunas, weight-lifting equipment, room for yoga or cardio classes, indoor track– we’ve taken the nature of the weather here into account– and an Olympic-sized swimming pool in the basement.”

  Press thinks of four places, three old warehouses and a failed big box store, that would make a good site.

  “This is for your fellas.”

  “For the public. Company employees would have access twenty-four-seven, of course, but the people of Yellow Earth, especially if they’re involved with a program sponsored by your city government, would be encouraged to use the facilities.”

  As the rep slides one blueprint on top of the other Press realizes that each is the plan for just one floor. He’s not sure Bismarck has anything as grand.

  “This is for reversing the man camp ordinance?”

  “No, only for not applying it to projects already in progress.”

  “There’s another outfit halfway through building one on the south side.”

  “We’d leave that up to your discretion, but I’d say any added clause would apply to them as well.”

  Press makes his move to the window. The state committee has already felt him out about lieutenant governor this next term, a shoo-in for election but considered a dead-end job. Unless–

  “Totally funded by the Company?”

  “Not only that,” smiles the young one, rolling up his blueprints, “but we’re willing to commit to a healthy percentage of local hire for the construction.”

  “Any chance of that going through us?”

  “Absolutely. We could present it as a special concession you’ve badgered us into.”

  “I don’t badger.”

  “Something you’ve won for the people. The staff, as well, once we’re up and running, will have a lot of positions that could be filled from right here.”

 
“And this is called what– the Case and Crosby Arena?”

  “We were thinking of the Prescott Earle Recreational Center.”

  If he’s already gone to Bismarck before the announcement, it will seem like an honor, a memorial. A legacy.

  “So what happens if and when you people leave Yellow Earth?”

  “That’s the beauty of it. The way our contract is structured, we gradually cede ownership of the facility to the city. You end up owning it lock, stock, and barrel.”

  And taking on the cost of its operation, thinks Press. But if he’s already gone, that’s the next fella’s lookout.

  “It’s a generous and attractive offer,” he says to Hawkins. “I promise to take it up with my board right away.”

  It would be terrific for the people in town, especially while they’re not paying for it. Even Jonesy might come around, get her girls in there for winter soccer.

  The rep puts the plans under his arm, smiles like it’s a done deal.

  “As far as the specifications of the facility are concerned, I have only one important thing to ask you, Mr. Mayor. Do you people up here play hockey?”

  SHE WAITS TILL THE hand is paid out, then taps Cheryl to take over the deal. Nice little posse around the table, the entire floor jumping though it is three o’clock in the morning. She claps her hands and shows them palm-up to the players, the old ritual, then burns a card and slides it into the discard tray.

  “My name is Lady,” she announces, “as in Lady Luck. Let’s play some blackjack.”

  You try not to lose the momentum of the action when you tap in, in fact you hope to speed it up. The players push chips into their betting circles on the layout and Lady distributes cards from the dealer’s shoe, sweeping them from left hand to right before flipping them face up as she checks the suspects across from her.

  “How’ve we been doing tonight?”

  “We’ve been up and down,” answers the table-hopper at third base who the dealers call Just Ask Chuck. “You’ve been raking it in.”

  “Oh now, the last table I worked, the House was down a bit when I left.”

  She watches the hand signals, hit or stay, and feeds cards as she talks–

  “What, five bucks down?”

  “More than that.”

  “What’s your play?”

  Chuck taps his finger on the felt and she shoots him a jack that busts him.

  “Ouch.”

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  “Is your middle name ‘Bad’?”

  She’s heard this one before–

  “As in Lady Bad Luck?”

  “I like all my people to walk away winners. Truly.”

  Cloyd, the pit boss, has explained that even with all her experience she’ll still have to pool tips with the other dealers, but the more you throw in, the bigger the pot. And losers don’t tip.

  “Everybody set?” she asks, scanning the cards in front of the remaining players. Nobody signals for another hit.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  She flips a seven up next to her eight already showing, then hits herself again with a nine and goes bust.

  “Everybody wins.”

  “Except me,” says Chuck.

  She gives him the dazzling smile. “Life is cruel, but blackjack has no memory.”

  It is a ten-dollar-minimum, five-hundred-max table, and Chuck is a ten-dollarflat bettor, win or lose, rain or shine. He talks through so many hands without laying a wager and spends so much time kibitzing at other tables that he never has a really bad night.

  “So I won with just sixteen?” asks a rig worker who is drunk but not as drunk as the buddy who leans over his shoulder, loudly advising his play.

  “When the dealer busts, anybody still in play is a winner.”

  She matches the stacks of chips in their circles, running a finger over the even tops and proving her empty palm to the Eye in the Sky.

  “I told you so,” says Drunker.

  “No you didn’t,” says Drunk. “You wanted me to hit again.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, fuck me.”

  Drunk shoots Lady an apologetic look. “Boy was raised in the oil patch.”

  “Like you weren’t,” challenges Drunker.

  “My mama taught me some manners,” says Drunk. “Done it with a broom handle, but she taught em.”

  Bearpaw has just started the all-night shift, the place filled mostly with drillers and mud men and roughnecks, with a sprinkling of local insomniacs and degenerate gamblers. The Drunk brothers are new to her, as is the chain-smoking woman at first base to her left, a scrawny babe in her fifties who Lady files as Wheezy. Next is the Boss Man, a mid-level oil exec who apparently never sleeps and plays a different, complicated system every time he lands at her table, doubling his bet after losses, upping by a quarter after wins, dropping back to minimum every ten hands, whatever. He is a good, steady loser who makes tipping her a single every five hands part of his routine.

  On his left are Drunk and Drunker, nice boys but clueless about the game, and then Sitting Bull, a member of one of the tribes that own the casino, who they say hit the jackpot with his oil leases, signing up early for a decent advance and already with four wells pumping on his land. He is a wide-faced, overweight, gloomy kind of guy who parks at whatever table he’s chosen– blackjack, poker, roulette, keno– and doesn’t budge for the session, hence the name. A real George, though, he slides a blue fifty to each dealer as they go on their break. We love Sitting Bull.

  Beside him is an Einstein-looking character wearing X-ray specs and constantly looking around at the other tables, at the drinks waitresses coming and going, at nothing at all, often a tell for somebody trying to count cards and nervous about it.

  Lady deals her up card, an ace, and asks if anybody wants to take insurance.

  “I don’t believe in insurance,” announces Drunker. “Insurance is for weenies.”

  “She means in the game, dummy,” says Drunk.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “The dealer shows an ace up,” Just Ask Chuck volunteers before Lady can speak, “and she has a good shot at a BJ–”

  “Whoa, there’s blow jobs in this thing?”

  “A blackjack, twenty-one. Insurance means you can make a side bet on her cards– half of what you’ve already laid out– that she will have a blackjack. Pays two-to-one so it hedges your bet on your own hand.”

  “Just ask Chuck,” Lady smiles.

  “It’s a sucker bet,” says Chuck. The Drunks look at him.

  “Even with that ace up, the odds are really long against her nailing it. So for that return–”

  Drunk looks to Lady. “What do you say?”

  She is allowed, encouraged even, to explain basic rules and strategies with new players. The odds and human stupidity more than take care of the House.

  “It is more of a hedge. Unless by insurance you mean a policy that covers lightning but nothing else.”

  “Insurance is for weenies,” repeats Drunker.

  “We’ll pass on it,” says Drunk.

  “Pass on what?” injects a friend of theirs, a lost-looking guy a few years older who has been cruising the action at this table and that, one hand in his pocket probably gripping a roll of chips, waiting for Fortune to whisper his name.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” says Drunk. “It involves higher mathematics.”

  “It’s all a gamble, you know.”

  “Hell, that’s quite an observation, Tuck, seeing as we’re in a casino.”

  “I mean, since it’s all up to the flip of the card or the roll of the dice, doesn’t it make sense to just put your whole bundle on one play? Get it over, one way or the other?”

  “You go test that bright idea out, buddy,” says Drunker. “Come back and tell us how it works out.”

  The Lost Guy’s face shuts down then, he turns and heads toward the roulette wheel, determined, but wishing he had
an audience for his death-defying leap.

  “That was Fuck– I mean Tuck. We let him pretend to work on the rig.”

  “Insurance?” says Lady, head never leaving the game. “Anybody else?”

  The others have been sufficiently warned and Lady continues the deal. She hits a surprisingly long rocky streak, which includes busting on her third card three times in a row, the Drunks whooping and slapping five and upping their bets each time, a vibe you love to have at your table. After Lady dealt fifty-two hands in her first hour on the job, Cloyd has pretty much let her rock out, hovering near the few times there’s been a beef but letting her work it out on her own. All the players but Chuck, too timid to jump on the streak, are up on the House when Sitting Bull starts to talk.

  “The thing is, I got a bad ticker,” he says. He is usually silent, a nice presence, quick with his play decisions, which seem to be based on mood and stamina. “Congestive heart failure. My father had the same thing.”

  “That’s awful,” says Lady. “What do the doctors say?”

  “They say don’t do this, don’t eat that, get plenty of sleep. If I’m on borrowed time, what do I want to sleep for?”

  “I’m with you, buddy,” says Drunker, whose name is Ike. “Sleep is for weenies.”

  “Course my sons and daughter, they’re already fighting over the money.” He turns to the players on his right. “I got some wells coming in.”

  “Which ones?” asks Drunk, whose name is Mike.

  “Hidatsa 13A, B, C and D.”

  “Hidatsa 13B!” cries Drunker. “We drilled that sucker!”

  “Those are excellent sites.” Boss Man constantly rearranges his chips as he plays, as if their arrangement is a mnemonic device for whatever system he’s currently following. “They should produce for quite a while.”

  “They don’t like me being here,” says Sitting Bull, tapping his finger for another card. “Think I’m losing their money.”

  “Kids will break your heart.” Wheezy lays her cigarette butts parallel to each other in the ashtray, which is in the shape of a bear paw, and then builds a pyramid with them like logs in a fireplace. She smokes Camel no-filters, Lady’s least favorite. “I got a daughter in Phoenix, I never heard from her once that she didn’t need some kind of bailout.”