worse than Wager’s own, and if it wasn’t going to bear on the case, Wager wasn’t interested.
“What we got on this reservation is a mixture, people who didn’t want to go to those other reservations for one reason or another: some Paiutes and even a few Apaches. Even a couple Navajo families who bought out some of the Utes and moved in. A real American melting pot, you know?”
“How did you get here?”
“I was hired to come: no tribal ties, no family bias.” A slight hesitation before he added, “They’ve had a lot of trouble here for a long time with a couple of families running the tribal council, stealing the tribal money, taking over the common land, hiring their own relatives, that kind of thing. So after the last election, which was mostly honest, the new tribal council went to BIA and asked to hire an outsider to run the police. So I got the job. It’s better this way, but sometimes it makes things hard.” A mild shrug that dismissed a lot of personal loss. “There’s weird stuff goes on around here sometimes and it’s better I’m not part of it. This way I’m everybody’s enemy.”
Wager could understand the man’s feelings: a lot of cops were outside the communities they were hired to protect and serve. “What kind of weird stuff?”
“Family feuds, one group jealous of another. They’re always maneuvering, you know? Always think some other family’s getting more than they are.”
“Why did Rubin’s father come here?”
“So he could register into the tribe and get his share of the tribal royalties money.” He moved his hand, palm down, over the dash. “Looks like shit out there, don’t it? Sand, rock, sky. Nothing. Except for the oil, gas, coal. Uranium, too, but the market for that’s gone bad. And we finally won some court cases; started getting property settlements for the stolen lands and broken treaties. But only registered tribal members can share it.”
“That means full-bloods, right?”
“Half-bloods.” Another shrug. “Too many people had already married outside their tribes to limit it to full-bloods. Some of the bands didn’t even exist anymore, if you only counted full-bloods. Anyway, after the property settlement of 1952, a lot of people came back to the reservations. Got a house, some money, food stamps and medical care, land for horses. Damn near doubled our populations in a couple of years.
“The Utes were the last Native Americans to be put on reservations—1880—and we filed court claims in 1932 for compensation for lands taken in violation of the treaties. It was finally settled in 1952 and the indemnity distributed in 1961. Hell,” he smiled again, “we only signed a peace treaty with the Comanches in 1977. We’re still pretty much savages, you see.”
“Rubin’s father came here in 1961?” The file Wager had read said Rubin had been born in 1965.
“No. Later, maybe seventy-two or seventy-three. That was when the tribe started getting royalties from gas and oil companies. He missed out on the first disbursal, so he didn’t want to miss the oil money.”
“And he could just move in and get a share?”
“He was half Squaw Point Ute and had his mother’s relations living here—the Box family. And at the time, the tribe was trying to build up its numbers, too; so the council let in about anybody who could come up with any kind of blood claim.” He tugged at a corner of the brim of his baseball cap. “You see, the way it was for a long time, the tribes got welfare per capita—the more people, the more money came into the tribe’s collective account. That’s starting to change, now—Washington found out it’s too expensive. People started having too many babies, some of the tribal councils opened membership to quarter-bloods and even one-eighths. Like on this reservation, where all the I am money still goes into the central account and then gets used for tribal expenses, management costs, disbursal, eighteen money, twenty-one
“What we got on this reservation is a mixture, people who didn’t want to go to those other reservations for one reason or another: some Paiutes and even a few Apaches. Even a couple Navajo families who bought out some of the Utes and moved in. A real American melting pot, you know?”
“How did you get here?”
“I was hired to come: no tribal ties, no family bias.” A slight hesitation before he added, “They’ve had a lot of trouble here for a long time with a couple of families running the tribal council, stealing the tribal money, taking over the common land, hiring their own relatives, that kind of thing. So after the last election, which was mostly honest, the new tribal council went to BIA and asked to hire an outsider to run the police. So I got the job. It’s better this way, but sometimes it makes things hard.” A mild shrug that dismissed a lot of personal loss. “There’s weird stuff goes on around here sometimes and it’s better I’m not part of it. This way I’m everybody’s enemy.”
Wager could understand the man’s feelings: a lot of cops were outside the communities they were hired to protect and serve. “What kind of weird stuff?”
“Family feuds, one group jealous of another. They’re always maneuvering, you know? Always think some other family’s getting more than they are.”
“Why did Rubin’s father come here?”
“So he could register into the tribe and get his share of the tribal royalties money.” He moved his hand, palm down, over the dash. “Looks like shit out there, don’t it? Sand, rock, sky. Nothing. Except for the oil, gas, coal. Uranium, too, but the market for that’s gone bad. And we finally won some court cases; started getting property settlements for the stolen lands and broken treaties. But only registered tribal members can share it.”
“That means full-bloods, right?”
“Half-bloods.” Another shrug. “Too many people had already married outside their tribes to limit it to full-bloods. Some of the bands didn’t even exist anymore, if you only counted full-bloods. Anyway, after the property settlement of 1952, a lot of people came back to the reservations. Got a house, some money, food stamps and medical care, land for horses. Damn near doubled our populations in a couple of years.
“The Utes were the last Native Americans to be put on reservations—1880—and we filed court claims in 1932 for compensation for lands taken in violation of the treaties. It was finally settled in 1952 and the indemnity distributed in 1961. Hell,” he smiled again, “we only signed a peace treaty with the Comanches in 1977. We’re still pretty much savages, you see.”
“Rubin’s father came here in 1961?” The file Wager had read said Rubin had been born in 1965.
“No. Later, maybe seventy-two or seventy-three. That was when the tribe started getting royalties from gas and oil companies. He missed out on the first disbursal, so he didn’t want to miss the oil money.”
“And he could just move in and get a share?”
“He was half Squaw Point Ute and had his mother’s relations living here—the Box family. And at the time, the tribe was trying to build up its numbers, too; so the council let in about anybody who could come up with any kind of blood claim.” He tugged at a corner of the brim of his baseball cap. “You see, the way it was for a long time, the tribes got welfare per capita—the more people, the more money came into the tribe’s collective account. That’s starting to change, now—Washington found out it’s too expensive. People started having too many babies, some of the tribal councils opened membership to quarter-bloods and even one-eighths. Like on this reservation, where all the I am money still goes into the central account and then gets used for tribal expenses, management costs, disbursal, eighteen money, twenty-one
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