Durango by Gary Hart Read Free Book Online Page A

those reservations belonged to us—she gestured at herself and Patrick—us white people.
    Even better than the Internet, she continued, if this interests you, go see Sam Maynard and his partners. They’ve been up to their eyeballs in this from the beginning. The basic point is that the Indians, the Utes particularly, were now recognized to have, for the first time in their troubled history, real wealth. It was already established that there was oil and gas and some coal and even uranium on the Southern Utes’ land. And you don’t have to be as old as I am to know what happened next. The vultures filled the skies around here.
    What were they after? Patrick looked puzzled. The vultures…?
    Frances Farnsworth laughed. Money vultures, Patrick. Money vultures. People who called themselves investment bankers. They were all over the Utes like a massive blanket. Here were a bunch of unsophisticated, only partially educated people, and they needed financial “advisors,” people who would tell them how to manage their resources and new wealth. For fees, of course. Very large fees.
    Patrick held up his hand. And Mr. Sheridan was still a county commissioner then?
    He was, she said. And very close to Leonard Cloud and his lawyer, Sam Maynard. The New York money people figured that out pretty quickly. They’re not rich by accident. So Daniel—Mr. Sheridan—was a popular fellow in those days.
    I know for a fact he chased one of the first groups away, she continued. And, from what I heard, they were not amused. He was pretty…what should I say… direct with them. Word soon got around in those circles that Mr. Sheridan was a tough cookie. Nevertheless, efforts continued to be made by several of these…interest groups, shall we say, to enlist his services. All on behalf of the benighted Indians, of course. But this was always accompanied by mention of handsome fees for his service in intermediating with the tribe. She rose and filled their coffee cups.
    So, how did all the trouble start? Patrick asked.
    The trouble had already started when Mr. Sheridan walked away—stalked away would probably be a better description—from the first investors. They called themselves Nature’s Capital or some such, but that was just a new smokescreen created by a giant financial conglomerate. She laughed. We taxpayers had to bail them out a year or so ago and they still collapsed.
    Patrick said, This is where the trail gets confused. So, what happened then?
    What happened then, she said, looking at the ceiling of her Victorian sitting room, was that the knives came out for Mr. Sheridan. As you know, he had earned a statewide reputation for helping work out a compromise on the Animas–La Plata project, with recognition of the interests of the Utes, and he had been called in to arbitrate a series of long-standing water disputes around the state. He had made himself something of an expert by then and was getting all kinds of invitations to speak at water congresses and other such events where crowds of one kind or another were conferencing. In those days he was—for that matter still is—a pretty impressive figure. He didn’t sound like a politician—still doesn’t—primarily because he wasn’t one.
    She studied her hands, remembering. He was the best we had produced for a long time, she said quietly.
    And people back then were beginning to talk about him for some office, Patrick said. I gather governor or something.
    Indeed, Mrs. Farnsworth said. And a committee was formed here to begin to organize support around the state. Mr. Maynard, Mr. Murphy, your professor Smithson, and a number of other people signed up. Mr. Sheridan didn’t encourage them. But he didn’t exactly discourage them either. As I recall, he treated it with considerable amusement.
    Mrs. Farnsworth sipped her coffee and retreated into memory. She and her late husband, Murray, had moved to