place. He disappeared into the night,rnand at once a tribal patrol car slippedrnfrom behind us and proceeded to thernend of the street, made a U-turn, andrndrove by the house again. Albert returnedrnempty-handed and got back inrnthe Land Cruiser. “Drive away now,” hernwhispered. “Hurry—hurryl” When wernhad gone a couple of hundred yards hernsaid, still whispering, “Now go back!” Irncut the lights and Albert cautiously extendedrnone leg over the runningboard,rn”You can take your foot off the brakernpeddle now!” he hissed through thernopen window. “We’ll teach you how torndrive on the reservation.” When we sawrnhim next he was carrying a black plasticrnbag containing three quart bottles ofrnBudweiser beer. While Mike twisted therncaps from the bottles, Albert instructedrnme in a roundabout departure throughrnthe streets of the town back to Highwayrn86, where he said to drive as fast as Irncould. In sight of the Tucson Mountainsrnwe stopped to relieve ourselves amongrnsaguaros on a hill overlooking the hazyrnmidnight glare of the city, and Albertrnplaced the empty bottles carefully uprightrnbehind a bush out of sight of thernhighway. We stopped again to visit thernSan Xavier bootlegger in the vicinity ofrntribal headquarters and slipped awayrnwith the lights off toward Mike Rios’srnplace, where the three of us sat silentlyrnparked in a field, drinking beer andrnwatching the moon, red with smoke,rnfloat higher in the sky between thernclimbing lights of the big jets out ofrnTucson International Airport.rnThirty-six hours later Albert lookedrnmuch neater and cleaner, Mike’s daughter,rnwho is a beautician, having madernhim take a shower and then lowered hisrnears on Saturday. Mike Rios explainedrnthat it was because his own father hadrnbeen a drunk that he felt a special empathyrnfor Albert, whom he had befriendedrnfive years before and who he said was arnvery good kid, though if you yelled atrnhim he tended to withdraw. The morningrnwas warm, a hot still cloudless desertrnday in late March. Mike directed me ontorna dirt road cutting south across an Indianrnhousing development toward BlackrnMountain, which was a steep lava hillrnbare of saguaros on its north aspect butrncovered thickly with them on the oppositernslope. “We have a story about that,”rnMike said. “I’itoi was climbing on thernmountain with a pail of cactus seedsrnwhen he slipped and scattered the seeds,rnwhich all fell on the south side. You rememberrnwhen we were talking, I said wernhave our own religion. We have I’itoi,rnyou have that other god you people arernalways talking about. When I was inrnCleveland, I went to 16 different churches.rnThere, they—the Episcopalians, thernAnglicans, the Presbyterians; whatever—rnwere all talking about the one and onlyrnGod. It makes me sort of want to laugh,rnyou know?” Past Black Mountain hernpointed to the 14,000-acre tract where inrn1983-84 the California developers hadrnwanted to put a small city. The area wasrna flat sandy plain covered with mesquiternand creosote bush, valued by the tribe asrna place where they could hunt rabbitsrnand deer. The developers’ plan had beenrnto lease the land for $300,000, the leasernitself being revertible to the TohonornO’odham after 100 years. “Providing, ofrncourse,” Mike added sarcastically, “therncommunity didn’t secede—take itselfrnout of the reservation. I got wind of thernproposal from my aunt, who was on therntribal council in those days and gave itrnto me to read. I was so pissed off—sornconfused. Finally I told the developersrnto take the same proposal to the richrnprofessional Anglo community underrnMt. Lemmon. I told them: ‘If they say,rn”That’s a great idea!” then bring itrnright back here and we’ll make a deal.'”rnAlthough the American Smelter Company’srnmine is just beyond the reservationrnlimits, its tailings rest on Indian landrnfor which the company pays the tribe sixrndollars per acre a year. The leachingrnpond, a wide circlet of thin discoloredrnturquoise, is suspected of poisoning thernground water beneath the reservation.rnAt a bridge across a clay access road Mikerngot out to search under the abutmentsrnwhere Satanic rituals are rumored tornhave been held recently. “Now I want tornshow you where I was raised,” he said.rnThe Rios homestead was on thernsouthern border of the San Xavier reservationrnat the end of a barely defined trailrnleading from a padlocked gate with arnbig NO TRESPASSING sign on it. Tornthe left of the gate a section of fence hadrnbeen thrown down; the standing partrnwas plastered with trash. Mike explainedrnthat people visit the site pretty regularly,rnand that the tribe has been havingrntrouble with trespassers cutting the fencernand coming onto the reservation. Wernstepped over the wire and walked the fewrnhundred yards among mesquite, cholla,rnbarrel cactus, and prickly pear wherernskinks recently emerged from hibernationrndarted underfoot. Nothing remainedrnof the house Mike Rios hadrngrown up in but a pile of gray sand withrngray wood splinters sticking from it. Hernwas raised by his great-grandparents; thernold woman, who died in 1966 at the agernof 99, had remembered the people ofrnSan Xavier running from the Apachesrnwhen they raided the village. She hadrnimpressed on Mike his duty to get a goodrneducation, attend law school, and returnrnto the reservation to help his people. Asrna boy, and later as a young man, he hadrnbeen caught between his desire to earn arnlaw degree and his loyalty to his circle ofrnfriends, who spent most of their timerndrinking. “I guess if I’d stayed here I’drnhave died of exposure. I used to chasernthe girls too; my grandmother never gavernme any advice on the matter. Indians arernreticent about discussing sex with adolescents.rnI believe there’s money hiddenrnsomeplace here. My grandmother usedrnto put it away in a baking soda can, but Irnnever saw what she did with it after she’drnput some more in or taken more out.”rnMike showed me the dry wash amongrnthe palo verde where he used to play andrnhide from his grandfather, the two cementrncisterns, and the old water towerrnfrom which the pump and wheel werernmissing. These he said had been stolen.rn”Maybe if I ever move back out here Irncan talk the BIA into repairing the well.rnNormally they do as little as they canrnpossibly get away with, but if you learnrntheir rules you can play their game, andrnsometimes even win at it.” We sat on arnslab of concrete under a mesquite treernwhile Albert balanced on the edge of onernof the cisterns, laughing to himself as hernplayed with a handful of chicken bonesrnhe had found in the dust. “My father,”rnMike said, “sold off all his cattle in orderrnto get money to satisfy his craving forrnliquor. They never learn. My father neverrnlearned. He would drink wine untilrnhe passed out. Finally he was hit by a carrnand had to go around with a walker, butrnhe still went on drinking. We used tornhave fights about it. He’d say, ‘You drink,’rnand I’d say, ‘Yes, but not like you do.'”rnFrom this vantage the city of Tucsonrnwas visible in the distance, its towersrngreatly diminished between the points ofrnthe dark volcanic hills. Mike asked me tornglass the western ridge and tell him ifrnanyone were up there watching us. Arndecade ago the Rios family had held arnreunion—ten clans amounting to 40 peoplern—on the opposite side of the hill, andrnafterward climbed to the ridgeline for arnview of the old homestead below. crn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn