Paradoxes of Consultation in Newe Sogobia

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Paradoxes of Consultation in Newe Sogobia Politics and Poetics of Heritage Management on the Duckwater Shoshone Reservation and the Ely Shoshone Reservation of Nevada
Morini, Ryan S
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University of Florida
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Doctorate ( Ph.D.)
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Anthropology ( jstor )
Cultural anthropology ( jstor )
Cultural preservation ( jstor )
Elders ( jstor )
Ethnography ( jstor )
Mining ( jstor )
Native Americans ( jstor )
Treaties ( jstor )
Tribal land ( jstor )
White people ( jstor )
Anthropology -- Dissertations, Academic -- UF
heritage -- indigenous -- memory -- shoshone
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born-digital ( sobekcm )
Anthropology thesis, Ph.D.


This dissertation is a critical, multivocal ethnography of the politics of heritage management among Western Shoshone Indians on the Duckwater and Ely Shoshone Reservations in eastern Nevada. Heritage management is a complex body of federal law and policy that mandates the use of anthropology to evaluate the potential impacts of development projects on federal lands. Anthropology is in this way rendered a tool of governance, and that role needs to be carefully considered in historical and ethical context. In particular, I approach heritage management as an inevitably entangled tool of settler colonialism, as issues of heritage are predicated on issues of land and property. The way that heritage is constructed as an object of management does not articulate meaningfully with the ways that Western Shoshone communities understand, value, and define their own heritage through thought and action. For the dissertation, my primary goal was to try to understand Shoshone heritage on the communities own terms. By mapping out points of tension with the application of federal mandate, I consider the consequences that these disjunctures have on the future of Shoshone heritage. If we cannot improve this dialogue between Shoshones and federal agencies, anthropologys uses in this situation undermine its own ethical and theoretical aims. ( en )
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Thesis (Ph.D.)--University of Florida, 2014.
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by Ryan S Morini.

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2014 Ryan Samuel Morini


To the future generations, and the legacy we leave them


4 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS In Ely, Sally Marques told me that her mother described Shoshone ceremonies as always being long, because the elders would have to thank and bless every single thing that made up their world from the largest to the smallest, leaving nothing out. I have had to force myself to resist the same temptation here. This dissertation was only made possible by the help of a great many people. I will begin by thanking my family: my parents, Ralph and Diane; my sister, Valerie; and the extended grouping of the Morinis, the Schobers, and the Macklins They have not always understood me, but they have always supported whatever directions I have taken my life. I cannot reasonably recapitulate all of the people who were instrumental in my education before I arrived at UF, but I should name at least a few. m not sure where I would have ended up, but it probably would not have been here. I thank him foremost among the several teachers who helped me rediscover some sense of purpose in an education system that I found generally stultifying and disillusioning. O ccasionally cutting class with Justin Brown at Conestoga High so we could debate political philosophy in the cafeteria also seems, in retrospect, somehow foundational to my growth and development. From my time at Penn State, I must first thank Sandy Feins tein, who helped reforge a completely nave wayward intellectual into a profoundly transformed wayward intellectual. As with the best teachers, much of what she taught continues to gradually sink in over time If not for Sydney Aboul Hosn, my thesis adviso And excellent seminars with Pius Adesanmi, Sophia McClennen Ralph Rodriguez, Robert Burkholder, and others prepared me for anthropology in ways that I did not understand at the


5 time. Last but foremost, Stephen Beckerman was both teacher and mentor. It was through his unfailing support and mentorship that I chose to pursue anthropology, and to do so at UF I thank my doctoral committee, as well as several other UF faculty who were instrumental in my development as a scholar. Peter Schmidt has been my unwavering advocate and unparalleled mentor; as a committee chair, he never impinged on my freedom to find my way, though he was always there to help me renew my direction or find my b earings. Faye Harrison discussions in her office helped me to navigate both graduate school and the exigencies, ethical quandaries, and existential dilemmas that can acco I owe much of my approach in this dissertation to her guidance. Paul Ortiz has been a tremendous mentor, as well as a supervisor at the Samuel Proctor Oral History Program, and he has led by example as a public intellectual and as an out standing scholar. Jack Kugelmass always reminded me to let people speak for themselves and to think carefully about how to craft each story to let its meaning shine through as clearly as possible And Juliana Barr was always willing to make time to discus s the progress of the project as it developed, always asking inspired and incisive questions th I must also thank Susan Gillespie Richard Kernaghan George Abungu, Maria Stoilkova, Ken Sassaman, and Mike Heckenberger In pa g and approach to anthropology, both in terms of practicing it and teaching it I cannot name them all, but I will at least thank Ed Gonzlez Tenna nt, Jean Dennison, Scott Catey, Lizzie Hare, Elyse Anderson Justin Dunnavant, and Justin Hosbey for invaluable intellectual discussions in


6 addition to being excellent friends. Coffee, debate, and cathartic venting are staple activities of graduate school, and they rightly serve their purpose only in the best of company. In thanking folks from Newe Sogobia and wider Nevada, I have to begin with Johnnie Bobb. Johnnie has been a good friend and teacher, always patient wit h this taibo even at my clumsiest and most uncomprehending. I cannot imagine completing this dissertation without men ding or wood gathering labor And I would not have met Johnnie without the help of his wife Bonnie Bobb, whose support in my first forays into Newe Sogobia were also of tremendous help. Many long phone conversations gave me perspective on the various materials that I was reading as I tried to wrap my head around the issues of Shoshone country. Jos Corleto was one of the first Shoshones I ever met, and even in tough times he was unfailingly good Walk and Run over the years; some I am still in touch with, and some I have not seen since, but I have never forgotten any of you. I cannot say enough about the kindness, generosity, and welcoming spirit with which Virginia Sanchez greeted me in Duckwater. She gave me a place to stay on the reservation on more than one occasion, she offered her personal guidance and professional expertise on my work, and in many respects she made the entire project possible. I thank her, Jack, and Cora for helping and putting up with me, and only hope I can repay them in kind in the years to come. Cheryl Gumm also gave me a place to stay, and endless support at least, once it turned I am eternally grateful to her, and to Matt, Crystal, Devona, Aaron, and everyone else who helped Cheryl to help me stretch a meagre budget over most of a summer and who helped make sure that I learned things I might not have otherwise.


7 Maurice Frank Churchill has been a patient teacher and a good friend. Without his help, my grasp of herit age management would h ave been infinitely more feeble, and I would never have learned invaluable things such as how to cook yaha and how delicious it is when cooked in the old way. Maurice also kept me grounded, always thinking critically about taibo scho larly traditions, but also keeping me from falling off the opposing brink and focusing on the alterity of native peoples instead of the situated intricacies of their humanity. Kathy Adams Blackeye has always been supportive of me and my work and a patient and dedicated language teacher. I am indebted to both her and Kim Townsend for their readiness to discuss historical and cultural issues. Tim Thompson shared his collection of audio recordings, as well as a lot of time at his kitchen table; his enthusiasm for any work on Shoshone culture and history buoyed my spirits whenever they lagged. Floyd Collins was always happy to share his wisdom and experiences, invariably laced with wry wit. I would also like to mention Jerry Millett, Lisa George, Alissa Thompso n, Helen Walker, Edna Mike, Florence Millett, Boyd Graham, Nye Penoli and Rosie, Pat Knight, Christine Stones, John Mays, Janey Blackeye Bryan, and Jeff Bryan. If I keep going, I would list almost everyone in or working in Duckwater, so I will just thank t he entire community there for being so welcoming and wonderful. From Ely, I have to thank Delaine Spilsbury, Rick Spilsbury, and Laura Rainey for being kind, welcoming, and hospitable friends. Dwight Adams was a pleasure to talk to, and a great help in gai ning perspective about the history of Ely itself. Sally Marques was kind enough to share some wonderful memories, and I appreciated her strong support. I must also recognize Benny and Geraldine Reilley, Kenny Mike, Michael Dixon, Sandra Barela, Helen Eben, and others besides.


8 In other parts of Nevada, I especially thank Barbara Ridley for her unfailing hospitality, and for sharing her wealth of knowledge with me. I also thank Mike Miller, not only for being a great host, but for always being genuinely up fo r debate or serious discussion, and for always helping me learn. I also thank Jeremiah Jones and Trevor Sneed for their friendship and their assistance in learning. Katherine Blossom and Ross have always been warm and supportive, even in difficult times fo r both of them Thanks to Mel Brewster for being an intellectual compeer who could speak to all levels of this project. And I would like to thank all of the Newe elders who shared their time and knowledge with me, especially: Lilly Sanchez, Betty Robison, Nancy Stewart, Gayle Miles, and too many more to name. Without naming them, I would like to thank all of the Basin ist anthropologists, heritage managers, and current or former state and federal officials who took time out of often busy schedules to sit down with me. Though I am at times critical of the federal system in this dissertation, I hope they feel at the least that their perspectives have been fairly and clearly represented, and I learned a lot from our conversations. This project was mad e possible in part by two Sven and Astrid Liljeblad Fund grants from University of Nevada, Reno; a Jacobs Fund grant from the University of Washington; a Southwest Oral History Association mini grant; a Tedder Foundation grant from UF Digital Humanities; t he Waggoner Fund Grant in Aid from UF anthropology; and equipment and some travel support from the Samuel Proctor Oral History Program. I also must thank Michael Maher for his gracious help at the Nevada Historical Society in Reno. Lastly, I thank my wife, Caitlin, as well as our dogs Lorna and Maggie, and our cat Egon. Graduate school would have been a far colder place without our family


9 TABLE OF CONTENTS page ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ................................ ................................ ................................ ............... 4 ABSTRACT ................................ ................................ ................................ ................................ ... 11 CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION ................................ ................................ ................................ .................. 13 My Approach ................................ ................................ ................................ .......................... 13 Heritage Management and Ethnography ................................ ................................ ................ 15 Project Design ................................ ................................ ................................ ......................... 22 The Project Area ................................ ................................ ................................ ..................... 26 Methods ................................ ................................ ................................ ................................ .. 28 The Dialogue and Its Parts ................................ ................................ ................................ ...... 36 2 SETTLER COLONIALISM AND NEWE SOGOBIA ................................ .......................... 39 P ain and Survivance ................................ ................................ ................................ ............... 39 Settler Colonial Narrativity ................................ ................................ ................................ ..... 42 Entangled Foundations ................................ ................................ ................................ ........... 47 Reservations ................................ ................................ ................................ ............................ 59 3 COSMOPOLITICS OF NEWE HERITAGE: PRACTICES OF CHANGE AND CONTINUITY ................................ ................................ ................................ ........................ 71 Heritage, Shoshones, and Anthropology ................................ ................................ ................ 71 Heritage ................................ ................................ ................................ ................................ ... 81 ................................ ...................... 86 Legal Frameworks and Sovereignty ................................ ................................ ....................... 93 Discussion ................................ ................................ ................................ ............................. 101 4 HERITAGE AND LAND ................................ ................................ ................................ ..... 109 Treaty Rights and Consultation ................................ ................................ ............................ 109 A Possible Settlement ................................ ................................ ................................ ........... 113 Rights Over Land ................................ ................................ ................................ .................. 116 The Legal Basis of the Treaty Claim ................................ ................................ .................... 123 Perceptual Eclipses: Land vs. Money ................................ ................................ ................... 130 Lived Meanings of the Treaty ................................ ................................ ............................... 139 Implications for Imagined Communities ................................ ................................ .............. 143 5 NEW SKIRMISHES IN THE WATER WARS ................................ ................................ ... 150 The Tortuous Consultation Process ................................ ................................ ...................... 150


10 Pla ce, Space, and Water Rights ................................ ................................ ............................ 151 Massacres and Colonial Violence ................................ ................................ ......................... 156 Wrestling With the EIS in Duckwater ................................ ................................ .................. 172 6 CORPORATE GOVERNANCE AND DIALOGICAL FORMALITIES: MINING, LABOR, ACTIVISM, TRADITION ................................ ................................ .................... 181 Breaks in Reciprocity ................................ ................................ ................................ ........... 181 Moving Beyond a Reified West ................................ ................................ ........................... 187 Dialogue amidst Adversarialism ................................ ................................ ........................... 194 The Ten abo Controversy ................................ ................................ ................................ ...... 199 CSR and Dialogue ................................ ................................ ................................ ................ 204 General Moly ................................ ................................ ................................ ........................ 206 7 POSSIBLE WORLDS AND ALTER NATIVE FUTURES ................................ ................. 208 The Middle Ground ................................ ................................ ................................ .............. 208 Heritage Management in Newe Sogobia ................................ ................................ .............. 211 Newe Tribes and the Future ................................ ................................ ................................ .. 216 Implications of Walking the Middle Ground ................................ ................................ ........ 218 APPENDIX ARCHIVED ORAL HISTORY INTERVIEWS CONSULTED ................................ ......... 221 REFERENCES ................................ ................................ ................................ ............................ 223 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ................................ ................................ ................................ ....... 248


11 Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy PARADOXES OF CONSULTATION IN NEWE SOGOBIA: POLITICS OF HERITAGE MANAGEMENT ON THE DUCKWATER SHOSHONE RESERVATION AND THE ELY SHOSHONE RESERVATION, NEVADA By Ryan Morini May 2014 Chair: Peter Schmidt Major: Anthropology This dissertation is a critical, multivocal ethnography of the politics of heritage management among Western Shoshone Indians on the Duckwater and Ely Sho shone Reservations in eastern Nevada. Heritage management is a complex body of federal law and policy that mandates the use of anthropology to evaluate the potential impacts of development projects on federal lands. Anthropology is in this way rendered a t ool of governance, and that role needs to be carefully considered in historical and ethical context. In particular, I approach heritage management as an inevitably entangled tool of settler colonialism, as issues of heritage are predicated on issues of lan d and property. The way that heritage is constructed as an object of management does not articulate meaningfully with the ways that Western Shoshone communities understand, value, and define their own heritag e through thought and action. For the dissertation, my primary goal was to try t o understand Shoshone heritage on the By mapping out points of tension with the application of federal mandate, I consider the consequences that these disjunctures have on the future of Shoshone


12 heritage. If we cannot improve this dialogue between Shoshones and federal agencies, uses in this situation undermine its own ethical and theoretical aims


13 CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION Consultation is when they ask us what we think and then they go and do what they already wanted to do anyway. Newe elder, Battle Mountain Band, 2009 Sylvester Lahren, personal communication, 2013 With the arrival of Historic Preserva tion laws that seek to protect and preserve the archaeological record, sacred sites, burials, and religious values of all Americans, and the intellectual property rights and cultural patrimony of Native Americans, the need to re examine the process by whic h archaeological history has been written is federal, state, and local agencies often lack the expertise necessary to write their heritage preservation plans and research design native people concerned. From a Nuwe [Shoshonean] point of view, scientific analysis of archaeology is a barren waste without the voices of themselves and other Punown [Uto Aztecan peoples generally]. Mel Brewster, 2003: 10 My Approach I have attempted to write this dissertation in a good way. Much of what I have to say is t are difficult for most U.S. citizens to confront S ince I began traveling to Shoshone country, I have become close to Shoshones on both sides of factional disputes that have at times been bitterly polarizing. I feel an obligation to honor the contributio ns of those who have helped me and worked with me, while concomitantly obligated to make my own observations with all honesty and sincerity. Some would attempt to argue that such a sense of obligation and honor creates inevitable roadblocks to objectivity profoundly and utterly wrong. Sensitivity to and sensibility toward the politics of representation regarding marginalized groups constitute the preconditions for approaching the truth. In la rge


14 known by situating it within the contexts from which it emerges, heterogeneous and complex, always more than one but less than two (cf Haraway 2003) This dissertation takes an approach to history, culture, and heritage that is rooted in the voices and perspectives of Shoshone people; they are a people whose marginalization was so very central to the formation of the state of Nevada that is often taken for granted, without remark or consideration. History is never merely the manifestation of preconstituted destiny. And while that remark may seem trite to most anthropologists today, the fact is that the histories taught in schools and universities across Amer ican continue to render that trite remark a rather radical thesis. The undergraduate students whom I have taught at the flagship public university of the state of Florida have found profound epiphanies in narratives and facts that most scholars would wish citizens have of the native peoples of the Americas adds up to less than nothing most of it seems to be misrepresentations and fabrications masquerading as basic facts. T his project has attempted to address these issues by beginning a dialogue with Western Shoshones on two reservations in eastern Nevada. Previous scholarship has helped to illuminate the problems that I have grappled with, though not infrequently it also be came part of the problem in the process. Rather than waxing sanctimonious about such matters, anthropologists in particular need to face down the (stolen) skeletons in their closet, and recognize that anthropology has had a role in reshaping the world for as long as it has existed as a discipline. Critical reassessments of our past would be useless if they amounted to nothing more than the fuel for self righteous indignation.


15 Anthony Giddens (1986), in his contributions to the foundational paradigm of most contemporary anthropology, has written that structure consists of simultaneous opportunities and constraints. In other words, change through future action is enabled and limited by the actions of the past at one and the same time much as, for instance, gr avity keeps us from flying, but also gathers the matter necessary for our existence to begin with. In better elucidating limits and problems in the uses of anthropology, we can better understand the opportunities afforded by our field; this project is inte nded as a small contribution toward that project. Heritage Management and Ethnography This dissertation is about the politics of heritage management amongst Western Shoshone referring to the complex of U.S. and international laws, policies, and practices that include Cultural Resources Management (hereafter, CRM), historic preservation, environmental policy, and Native American consultation, amongst other elements. Federal mandate requires that all actions on federal lands be evaluated for their potential impacts to the environment ecological, aesthetic, traditional, historical, spiritual, and other concerns. The space within which impacts are understood to potentially occur is known as the Area of Projected Effects, or APE. If any individual or group has identifiable concerns about environmental impacts within the APE, public consultation process. There are usually strict demarcations of public involvement in terms of deadlines on commenting periods and specificities of public meetings. We will look more c losely at this process in Chapter 3 I t bears mention that Native American political entities be they known as bands, tribes, or nations have a unique relationship to the process. Because it is understood that federally


16 recognized tribes are sovereign gov ernments, Native American consultation is intended to recognize that sovereignty through an appropriately thorough level of dialogue and interaction. In practice, the tribes tend to be overwhelmed with documents and underwhelmed by the dialogical or intera ctive parts of the process which is to say that, as with many a bureaucratized process, the rhetoric usually seems to be backed up more robustly with quantities of documents and paperwork than with the quality of relations and interactions. Federal lands account for 88% of the state of Nevada, which is higher than any other U.S. state (Skillen 2009). The proportion of federal lands to state and private landholdings suggests two intimately related points about the state: first, its population density is ex ceedingly low; and second, the actions undertaken on federal lands are often massive (Hulse 2009). In combination with the small size of Western Shoshone Tribes, the vast size of their traditional land areas, the historic devastation of the colonial projec t, and so on, it is particularly difficult for Shoshones to successfully participate in the Native American consultation process, as many amendments to heritage legislation have been made under the apparent assumption that most Indian tribes have a large l andbase and/or the resources to maintain an active cultural resources office. Why should we care about the politics of heritage management very Nevadan; yet relatively few people with whom I was able to speak had much to say about heritage management directly, and fewer still had a noticeably deep familiarity with the ins and outs of the laws and policies that structure it. In other words, he ritage management has the paradoxical qualities of being an arcane topic of ubiquitous relevance, as if it were everywhere could seem at odds with my assert ion that it was a constant source of concern and frustration, in


17 fact I think that understanding the analytically productive tensions between these positions is one of the keys to understanding the politics of heritage management in Nevada. For my part, I chose this topic after previously being intent on avoiding it when it As I explain further in Chapter 4 I originally expected to conduct a decolonizing study of Sh oshone nationhood, or something along those lines; but as I became increasingly aware of the then insurmountable challenges to that line of inquiry, I also consistently encountered narratives ement. Without fully understanding the implications at the time, I realized two things: first, that I had found a topic that seemed to be of relevance to all Shoshones; and second, that anthropology was a pre Had I more thoroughly digested some of the more recent critiques in the past several possible that neither point would ha ve felt like an epiphany. On the other hand, I suspect that one of the reasons that fieldwork is an enduring rite of passage for anthropologists is that it perennially forces one to confront otherwise obscured disconnects of logic and understanding. Despit (or whatever term one might wish to so counterpose), etched deep into my unconscious a which was took a wholly inductive approach to delineating community and institutional structures amongst any Native American peoples today, one of those in sit u institutions would be anthropology.


18 Deloria 1969), as well as federal laws and policies institutionalizing anthropology in matters of governance (Smith 2004), has made it more or less impossible for native tribes and nations to function without having some means of engaging anthropological methods and literature both its practice and the accretion of those practices. When I say that those expectations were deeply i ngrained, I want to stress that they were deeply ingrained. I do not wish to construct my past self as a straw man under a too convenient trope of navet. I might even have reacted defensively and angrily to the statements that I freely make now. After tr aveling to Western Shoshone country since 2008, taking an increasingly critical eye toward my experiences in graduate school since 2006, and scrutinizing the changes in in that time, I have come to appreciate just how deeply these ultimately racist or Othering expectations and predispositions become beaten or worn into the American intersubjective unconscious. I have been grappling with this realization throughout my more recent fieldwork experiences, throughout past attempts at writing this dissertation, and throughout conversations with friends and acquaintances outside of Shoshone country. It is a challenge t hat anthropologists are often particularly attuned to: the challenge of finding a way to speak truths and ideas that will not be unconsciously misconstrued or distorted by the listener so as to fit into convenient, prefabricated expectations for truth of w hich that listener may only be dimly aware (Trouillot 1991, 2003 in particular speaks powerfully to this phenomenon). Or to put it another way, most Americans see American Indians as somehow inherently that it can be profoundly difficult to tell a story about the humanity of people native to these lands, because most non native Americans are ill prepared to hear it without converting it into a


19 shopworn trope, or superficial symbolism, or some other form of national mythology. Non native Americans usually have difficulty really comprehending the fact that there are Indians with 9 5 day jobs and digital flatscreen televisions, who also speak their traditional languages fluently and pray in their native way. I knew better, and I still struggled with it at times; it is no small tas k to confront unconscious structures within oneself and it is not only the native and After having read Spivak, Ngugi, Fanon, Said, and others, I was inclined to speak of these American struct colonizer in the U.S. Euro Americans continue to carry out the colonial project on a daily basis. A growing body of scholarship has developed the argument that settler colonialism is a fundamentally different formation than other forms of colonialism, and must be understood as such (cf Wolfe 1999, 2006; Jacobs 2009; Veracini 2010; Porter 2010; P ilkington and Bateman 2011). However, other scholars have argued that the United States must be understood as postcoloniality is intended to stress continuities of ex ploitation and disruption, of course, and not discontinuities. Patrick Wolfe (2006: 388) has illustrated some of the structures particular to settler colonialism: The logic of elimination not only refers to the summary liquidation of Indigen ous people, tho ugh it includes that. In c ommon with genocide as Raphael Lemkin characterized it, settler colonialism has both negative and positive dimensions. Negatively, it strives for the dissolution of native societies. Positively, it erects a new colonial society on the expropriated land base as I put it, settler colonizers come to stay: invasion is a structure not an event. In its positive aspect, elimin ation is an organizing principal of settler colonial society rather than a one off (and superseded) occurrence. Th e positive outcomes of the logic of elimination can include officially encouraged miscegenation, the breaking down of native title into alienable individual freeholds, native citi zenship, child abduction, reli gious


20 conversion, resocialization in total inst itutions such as missions or boarding schools, and a whole range of cognate biocultural assimilations. All these strat egies, including frontier homicide, are characterist Settler colonialism destroys to replace. It bears consider ation that in simple point of fact, the United States is a postcolonial settler colony which is to say that the U.S. is a site of multiple, cross cutting colonial projects. Declaring independence from Britain is only one such example; it has been argued, f or instance, that the American West is subordinated in a colonial relationship with the eastern based federal government (White 1991; see Ober 2001 for discussion of central Nevada in relation to this issue). Two of the overriding questions of U.S. postco lonial expansion and nation building were with some outstanding exceptions (e.g. Sturm 2002, Baker 2010, Lowery 2010) scholarship on the U.S. tends to us, with at most a respectful glance at the other. This phenomenon leads me to wonder if scholars are not unwittingly replicating the separatism that these antipodean systems of racial classification were designed to build which is to say that Indian blood quantum is designed to create scarcity and delimit Indianness in both space and time, while the one drop rule is designed to make blackness plentiful and potentially contagious. I have come increasingly to believe that the project of decolonizing American anthropology (cf that: 1) The racialization of American Indians and of African Americans has been profoundly different, but 2) both are intimately linked throug h anthropological theorization of the culture concept. I mention this here because I have begun to wonder if these racial constructs are not integral driving forces of the multiple colonialisms of North America overall. Exploring this


21 question will have t o be the focus of future work, but I wanted to acknowledge it here, as it will remain a consideration in Chapter 3 when we think about the politics and cosmopolitics of American heritage. We cannot understand American heritage without understanding the fun damental power dynamics of inclusion and exclusion at play between American whiteness, blackness, and indigeneity (and note that it would read awkwardly here if I were to write is referring to the thesis that settler colonialism is predicated on the elimination of the native. That there is ultimately no room for the indigene in the settler colonial project, because as Wolfe (1999: 2) ulation between colonizer and native since the determinate articulation is not to a society but directly to the land, a precondition of social different contex t but a similar argument, Frank Wilderson (2003) has argued that American capitalism is so fundamentally premised on the violent maintenance of a black infra underclass that even Marxist critiques cannot adequately theorize a space for the black subject. I n other words, Wilderson argues that the African American is subject to a logic of vertical exclusion the black subject is the substrate upon which the American system is built. It can never be included, but always must exist outside and beneath. For my p art, I cannot shake the realization that these racial formations are concomitant developments of a colonial enterprise that, in its own construction, brought one group of to these lands even as it actively displaced the other. At no point in the project was the permanent presence of either as part of the land seriously entertained and engaged with. And this common deracinatory root of American heritage is crucial for understanding this dissertation.


22 For while we will consider Western Shoshone cult ure, history, and sovereignty in detail, this is not simply a story about how the U.S. repressed Nevada natives. It is a story about the dispossession that enables dominant Euro American metanarratives. Project Design The central question of this project was: what role does anthropology play in shaping the dialogue between Western Shoshones and the U.S. federal government? Because heritage management is the principal forum for that dialogue, I focused on the politics of heritage management, with the aim of broadly conceived, and 2) a comparison between those definitions and the ways that Native heritage is defined and shaped through heritage management. I took as a point of departure Laurajane S ideas or material artifacts, heritage is best understood as the practices relating each of these to each other in social contexts. Or to translate her thinking into the t erms of Bruno Latour (2005), heritage is about the enlistment and re enlistment of actors into the network. I struggled, however, to fund this project. I mention that for two reasons. First, the original project design ended up changing considerably, and in part that is because I had hoped to spend at least 25% more time in the field than I did, and under more auspicious funding conditions that would have enabled more travel and more ambitious work. Second, I was committed to an openness that I failed to hide or translate into the professionalized rhetoric that is expected at places such as NSF and Wenner Gren. However, I It was only after being amongst the communities and their members for a number of months that I came to understand the ways I might have pitched and designed the project so as to make it marketable to the grant agencies. This is no accident; my initial aim was simply something


23 unfundable. 1 I needed to spend months in Shoshone country inductively and indirectly learning about heritage and its relationship to management before I would feel comfortable defining the parameters of the project. Discussing this matter is important because the exige ncies of grantwriting were not the only places where I was confronted with a bemusing skepticism. For instance, one faculty member for whom I have great respect suggested that the project would have to divide time equally between Shoshone communities, fede ral agency offices, and Washington, D.C., so as to follow the discourse as it traveled. I had several qualms about this strategy, but the salient one was that spending only a small amount of time in a Shoshone community would lead me to obtain superficial good bit of time in the community. That statement brought the response that the project seemed So I learned about the strange tension in anthropology whe reby long term, community based research can be seen as outdated in the face of global and transnational scholarship; yet, it is the reappropriation of community based research, in some sense doing it again for the first time, that forms the core of many o f the decolonizing and indigenous methodologies that have developed in recent years (Atalay 2006; Chilisa 2012). The problem for people was that I was designing the project inductively and backwards. One is expected to read the literature, formulate a hypo thesis (or some form of humanistic hypothesis analogue), and then propose a scheme to test it. My training and my research objectives had made me perhaps unduly skeptical not dismissive, but skeptical of the existing literature. As a consequence, I was lo athe to put my 1 Of course, I realize that a skilled grantwriter can develop a sales pitch that glosses over such dilemmas.


24 faith in it for the purposes of formulating or testing a hypothesis. I would add that this suspicion was not some sui generis armchair self righteousness on my part. In fact, it was driven largely by my earliest experiences in Shoshone count ry. My first trip was to the Western Shoshone Walk and Run, which is a ceremonial weeklong relay run that began through the efforts of a spiritual leader from the Yomba Reservation in the year 2000. Through two years of participation in that event, I met a number of Shoshone activists from different communities, and through those contacts I obtained funding to study the Western Shoshone National Council in 2009. The National Council was officially founded in 1984 (Rusco 1992). It is not a federally recogn (Chapter 2; also Rusco 1989). One of the reasons for its explicit founding in 1984 was that the Treaty of Ruby Valley, which is the only treaty Western S hoshones ever Sho means of acquiring Shoshone land, so Shoshone activist s have made a legally correct case that Western Shoshones still technically hold title to 2/3 of Nevada (Chapter 4). Formation of the National Council was intended to establish a unitary body that could be a voice for all Western Shoshones, without which t he treaty struggle could not meaningfully be pressed. In fact, the treaty rights struggles stretch back at least to the early 20 th century, if not indeed fully back to the signing of the treaty in 1863 (Crum 1994a). As a consequence, the National Council w as seen by many as the newest incarnation of a deeper tradition. We will consider the National Council, and its supporters and detractors, more carefully in Chapter 4. The important point here is that I had attempted to work with them in 2009, and I


25 met m any Shoshones who were quite upset about the ways that they had been represented in national and international arenas. Many supporters of the National Council spoke of an alternative history, not represented anywhere in the scholarly literature (but see On tko 2005), in which Shoshones had been a silenced nation of great power, and the National Council was thus a millenia old form of traditional government. Even later, I found a very strong belief in many n written not all such Shoshones were speaking of the ancient nationhood argument, but simply believed quite firmly that no written sources had ever captured much of the scope of Shoshone culture. I understood that spending time amongst the communities wo uld be a prerequisite to situating these beliefs; and becoming increasingly aware of the colonial aspects of the most famous ethnographic work on Western Shoshones, that of Julian Steward (e.g. 1938, 1941 for critiques, see Pinkoski 2008, Clemmer et al. 19 99), in retrospect I think I had stopped trusting written sources to steer me in the right directions. If such a wholesale mistrust seems myopic, it possibility in the fragments contained within its rich details though, in apparent contrast to a number of Great Basin archaeologists, I see it as more important than ever to thoroughly picked up more thoroughly in Chapter 4 But it is fair to point out that Steward himself spent very little time in the greater part of Western Shoshone territory (cf Kerns 2003, 2010), and few ethnographers since have worked closely with Western Shoshone c ommunities. The main exceptions in academia are Richard Clemmer, who has worked for years in northern Nevada, and Catherine Fowler, who spent a short time on the Duck Valley Reservation on the Nevada Idaho border, and worked with the Timbisha Shoshone in t he present day region of Death Valley. Wick Miller


26 spent a good deal of time on Shoshone reservations in Nevada, but he was a linguist by training, not an ethnographer. Apropos to this project, some of the anthropologists who have spent the most time in W estern Shoshone communities might well be the contract anthropologists who work in heritage management, and most of whose output is part of the so challenging to wrangle from the hands of federal agencies. Although some of these anthropologists are undoubtedly skilled, well trained, and well meaning, federal CRM ethnography can hardly be considered community ethnography. So, we have a clear example of a longstanding separation between Western Shoshones and the resea rchers who would represent them. Such a separation should not necessarily be surprising, but it is certainly pronounced in Shoshone country. The Project Area word Western Newe Sogobia might then, be connotively glossed as The People Newe Sogobia stretches from southern Idaho to Death Valley, covering roughly 62 million acres. There are populations of Shoshones on nearly every reservation in Nevada, only seven of which are dedicated primarily or exclusively to Shoshones. The largest of these is the Duck Valley Reservation on the Idaho Nevada border; originally founded for Western Shoshones, it is also home to substantial populations of Bannock and Northern Paiutes (cf McKinney 1983). Four of the reservations in northern Nevada those of Battle Mountain, Elko, Wells, and South Fork each have their own Band Councils, but are united under an umbrella government known as the Te Moak Tribe (cf Crum 1994). The Yomba


27 Reservation is found in the heart of the Toiyabe National Forest, relatively cl ose to the western edge of the traditional boundary between Shoshone and Northern Paiute land (Rusco 1982). Many of its members end up moving to the town of Fallon to the west, which is the site of a combined Paiute Shoshone reservation in traditional Paiu te territory; Fallon is much closer to Reno, Carson City, and other urban centers of Nevada. I traveled to these and other communities in my work for this project, but the bulk of my time was spent on the Duckwater Reservation in the northeastern part of Nye County; to a lesser extent, I also spent time working with members of the Ely Reservation in a town of the same name that is home to about 5,000 people (U.S. Census 2010). These communities are, collectively, relatively isolated; Ely is the largest tow n in the area unless one heads as far as Elko to the northwest. Las Vegas is about a 4 hour drive south from Duckwater, maybe 5 from Ely, and Reno is roughly the same distance going west. As I discuss in Chapter 2, the colonial era brought many more boomto wns in with various mining rushes not just gold, but also silver and copper. The result was a considerable number of tent cities that swiftly became ghost towns. The more permanent settlements in the area were on ranches, and a number of ranches continue t o operate in the area today. I regard some of my conclusions about Duckwater and El C ertainly, there is much more work to be done, and there are more voices to include in such histories than I was able to accomplish in the relatively short time that I had to build rapport. But what is interesting about the two reservations is the contrast that they provide. The Ely plot of mountainsi de land on the outskirts of town that was owned by a private company, but the Indian Bureau could not pay for infrastructural improvements on private land. So the reservation,


28 which was originally only ten acres, was largely an expediency to enable water t o be piped to the populated town; at the height of the copper boom, the Ely area boasted several towns within a small area, and business was thriving (cf Elliott 1966, Crum 1994a). However, the Shoshone reservation was not originally expected by the government to help Ely Shoshones exercise their sovereignty as a people (Chapter 2). Most Ely Shoshones made their livings as wage laborers in mines, on nearby ranches, doing domestic work, or workin g at a commercial laundry downtown. By contrast, the Duckwater reservation, which was officially founded in 1940, was assembled from several area ranches, and although its area is less than 4000 acres, Duckwater Shoshone ranchers historically grazed their cattle on hundreds of thousands of acres of open land surrounding the reservation. With well watered land on the reservation, many families in Duckwater were able to raise large gardens, and some were able to grow small orchards. Traditional wild foods, b oth plant and animal, also seem to have either grown more abundantly or been more accessible in the areas surrounding Duckwater. I sought to understand the challenges faced by these two tribes given their different, though connected, ecological and econom ic contexts. Again, the intention was to see what not simply what their situated perspectives are. How heritage manage knowledge of it is constructed as the tribes interact with the federal government through it. Methods were more like kitchen table conversations, or discussions in tribal offices. They were not usually recorded, though I would often take careful notes afterward. In some in stances, in


29 Some Newene have explained that they were taught that way by their parents and grandparents: do not tell people things, do not let people record things. Maybe that ethic of secrecy developed digital recorders, and it is not hard to see these calculated silences as being a wise survival strategy amidst the chaos and repeated betrayals of white invasion and conquest. But we should not discount the likelihood that the ethic is an elaboration of previous tradition. Certainly, Newe have historically been reluctant to talk about some things. Ethnographer Isabel Kelly spoke of their characteristic reluctance to talk (Kelly 1932 ). In his fieldwork in the mid 1930s, Julian Steward collected a wealth of data through salvage ethnogra phic methods of paying elders about however, some of the Newe he spoke with were reluctant participants, either answering some questions with great reluctance or ev en breaking off the interview before it was finished, despite With these concerns in mind, I adopted a combination of purposive and snowball sampling methods for the project. I made sure to speak with certain people for certain reasons e.g., having held former political offices, having been involved with different events, having grown up in an tribal offices. As they got to know me, I met others through them, and yet others through them, and so on. Newe elders often become considerably more friendly not immediately trusting, but more friendly if the white man knocking on their doors is there with their son or niece. When I


30 had to introduce myself on the phone, I would commonly be asked who knew me in Duckwater or Ely, and then be told that they were busy but I could call back next week. In the interim, they would check my references. Sincerity is ethically vital to these sorts of methods. When you are forging relationships with a community that has learned not to trust strangers, you have to mean it, and hold to it, even when it means certain aspects of your research may slow down, or that certain questions you given, with the understanding that if no straight answers are given to one matter, then you consider on all possible levels the reasons for the contours of those answers. We should not be too blithe to accept this concept; one cr hanging out kinship and genealogy began to emerge organically in conversation with people. I never intended to study it, but when one i s speaking with elders, sooner or later discussion goes deeply into matters of genealogy and relatedness, as these are among the social frameworks that enable memory and meaning. All the time, Newe people gossip about relations, and who has taibos (white p eople) in the deeper roots of their family tree, or where people came from and where relations moved to, etc. I quote Fortes because I still think that he is making an important point. He continues (Fortes 2007): if there is one thing about research metho ds in anthropology [it] is that very few many secrets to hide? After all, how could so many socially maladapted, humourless, antagonistic and bitter snobs ever be great at establishing rapport? are abrasive toward students and snide with colleagues are, suddenly, wonderfully


31 warm human beings in places and among people that they aseptica As I have come to appreciate the hypocrisies of anthropology, the oft unspoken business orientation of the insti firmly embedded, the pedagogical laziness that can pass as teaching, and the ease with which one can bluster about public engagement without ever being engaging or going public, I have wondered the same thing. I had crises of consciousness in Nevada, as to whether or not I really wanted to be an anthropologist. The same avenue of inquiry that made it possible for me to meet and make friends among the Newe sometimes seemed, in puppeteer fashion, set to fav or conditions of being invasive, or callous, or self serving. I realized that my allegiances to Duckwater, and to Newe friends elsewhere, are stronger than my allegiances to anthropology. I would sooner not succeed than succeed at their expense. I feel no compulsion to betray trust or expose secrets just because they can be published. This ethic does not make me unique or morally superior though it is not universally shared by anthropologists, either: rather, it speaks to the sense of balance that accompan ies the serious all, though I took no guidance from him on diary writing. The best way of doing my work seemed to be that of getting some glimpse of what it is to be a community member. And when I Still, elders are never immediately comfortable. In the conclusion to a festschrift dedicated to his influence on American ant hropology, Vine Deloria (1997: 219) wrote: Anthros should not misinterpret the natural hospitality of Indians as an endorsement of anthropology or support for their work. Indians may like their work and admire their skills but only because they have first accepted the individual as a is indeed pitiful to listen to anthros recount their friendly reception from Indians


32 and conclude that they have found some Indians who appr eciate anthropology. Let the Indians detect a moral flaw in your personality and see how quickly the appreciation for your work changes. I was chided by an NSF reviewer for alluding to this passage in an ill fated grant proposal: s. credentials comes across as whimsical and please be careful not to essentialize Shoshones. I thought anthropology had moved If it has, then maybe it made a mistake. Deloria is perhaps hyperbolic in his delivery, but the issues that he is s peaking to are relevant to those working in Shoshone communities, as perhaps in many contexts of close knit communities with multifarious reasons to be suspicious of outsiders. The reviewer seemed to expect Duckwater to resemble other Indian nations and tr ibes whose greater resource base enables them to have a full time cultural resources office, such that their expectations for anthropologists would resemble the transactional professionalism that pervades the U.S. 2 s in Duckwater quite well. To be fair, as I more concretely establish myself as a professional and demonstrate things I could do that are useful to the tribe, there is the chance that people might want those services. The overriding factor for most elder s in talking to me was whether or not they knew me, and whether or not they felt they could trust me. When such a relationship was honestly established, then many elders were far less concerned about what I intended to do with the information. At that poin t, their greater reluctance to be recorded was often the fear of saying the i.e. getting names wrong, forgetting details, or making assertions that might contradict someone else who they regarded as more knowledgeable. I view it as an artifact of postcolonial disruption that so many Newe elders, whose memories of lived experience can be rewarding in rich detail that would have been hard to guess at, doubt the value 2 Or, at least, that is my best guess. Whether Tribes and Nations who have CRM offices in fact do pra ctice such transactionalism is a question that I will leave open.


33 of having their voice heard rather than that of another. Elder s do not always recognize themselves as such; sometimes, their self deprecation is more than a modesty topos, and a researcher must develop mutual trust and understanding before they feel as if they have something important to say. In the end, I was able to record seventeen oral history interviews with sixteen different elders. These interviews are being deposited in the Samuel Proctor Oral History Program at the University of Florida, and will be made publicly available in university libraries in Nevada, as well as being shared with the Duckwater and Ely Tribes. These interviews followed basic life history format, with an attempt to draw out the unique details that each participant might be able to speak to. Such interviews offer invaluable details that I will make use of analytically, but I am quite comfortable with the fact that a quoted section of transcript may have to be the voice for a concern that I heard half a dozen times in the unrecorded interviews. This was how some participants preferred it. I have adopted a heterogeneous strategy of anonymity and identification. In some cases, because I am quoting a public and recorded interview, I may refer to participants by their real names. In other cases, I will obscure the exact origins, but explain the basic context of utterance (e.g. an elder from Ely). In some cases, I will simply make mention of the thematic aspects of what I was told, and neither quote nor indicate where it came from. These are not obscurantist methods; I have nothing to hide. But I I am attempting to honor the importance of things that they shared with me. That is the objective in this method of representation. And I am considering their privacy not only with regard to the academy, but to the Indian communities in Nevada. To name someone or quote them might be to single someone out in a way that would risk personal backlash at home. Sometimes people told


34 me things they wanted me to know so it would guide what I write; they d follow, and to adequately illustrate to the reader the dynamics of these situations. Some of the unrecorded interviews, it should be adde d, started informally and then turned into an extensive recitation of memories of growing up, explanations of Shoshone culture, and so forth, in which my role was to listen rather than to ask questions or assign topics. Listening has been one of the rarest methods any researcher has employed in Shoshone country. And the lack of open listening, the alacrity with which researchers, journalists, and activists have seized upon whatever words they were hoping to hear at the expense of other voices, is perhaps on e of the central forces behind the disenchantment that Newe feel toward researchers both in and outside of heritage management. Newene are more used to being the canvas upon which visitors paint visions of noble and ignoble savagery than they are used to b eing heard by outsiders. They are more used to appropriation than to dialogue. One of the reasons for my unstructured approach was to attempt to gather as many viewpoints as I could, and hear from as many people as I could. In Shoshone communities, as in o thers, some people are more likely to be vocal when outsiders call upon them, and over time this can lead to certain viewpoints being elevated and others silenced (Trouillot 1995). Vital community members are not always the most visible community members. I am not simply speaking of a romance of the community, where all viewpoints must be shared. I am speaking of community dynamics being masked by facile engagement on the part of the outsider. I am critiquing tokenism, and promoting community engagement. T hese sorts of actions are a necessary part of decolonizing research and finding ways to make it meaningful for indigenous peoples (Smith 1999; Denzin et al. 2010; Chilisa 2012). I will speak at greater length


35 on these issues of representation in Chapter 4, when I discuss the history of the Western Shoshone treaty rights struggle. I also had to go outside of the community, of course. A critical part of unpacking the politics of heritage management was to understand the breakdown of dialogue between Newe and the federal government within the ambit of heritage management. I conducted a small number of informal, unrecorded interviews with officials from the Bureau of Land Management and the U.S. Forest Service, both at the state offices and at local offices. I spoke with the acting State Historic Preservation Officer in Carson City, a retired SHPO, and a few anthropologists who have worked in heritage management in Shoshone country, some of whom also worked with the BLM or USFS. I did not want to quote these i nterviews and did not record them. I am trying to look at overall systems and structures, and running the risk of isolating individuals for criticism might enable facile attacks myopically focused on pa rticular turns of phrase This is particularly true gi ven that the individuals with sufficient experience and knowledge of heritage management in Nevada is so small that I would have had to concoct a rather elaborately systematic sampling method to assure any meaningful sense of anonymity. If I mention that I spoke to someone in the Carson City office, for instance, not much doubt is left as to who that would have been. Moreover, because federal agents in particular might be subject to undue and unjust reprisal from their agencies if they stated unflattering things that made it into print, I heard very unpack the Bau drillardian complexities of extended quotation in such a context, where the


36 intimation, I have again resorted to obscuring most sources while preserving the salient issues. Even when these interviews might not be directly discussed, they are also helping to guide me because they were invaluable in giving me a broader perspective of the issues confronting heritage management in Nevada today. I imagine that some of the things I have to say might be at odds with what these participants believe, but I hope that in the telling I am neither betraying what they have shared with me, nor distorting the views that they themselves expressed. The Dialogue and Its Parts Anthropol ogy and indigenous peoples have had a longstanding antagonistic relationship. writeup in Playboy (Deloria 1969; see also Biolsi and Zimmerman 1997), since that critiqu e came on the heels of the Civil Rights movement, the Black Power movement, the Red Power (Diamond 1964, Levi Strauss 1965, Gough 1968, and especially Hymes 1969 an d Asad 1973). More recently, debates flared up after the passage of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990, which shifted the power relations between American anthropologists derally recognized tribes gained the legal ability to press repatriation claims on bones and ritually significant artifacts. Museum collections which were rife with trophies of colonial warfare and the contents of graves that many natives felt had been rob bed in the name of science, were restored to native ownership, or subject to reburial (e.g. see Thomas 2000). I will consider these matters in more detail in chapter 3, but the volatile debates that resulted from this process do illustrate some of the pre existing tensions that have persisted in


37 recognized tribes, and seek out only tho Brewster is describing a sentiment common amongst some circles of anthropologists; that the scientifi c quality of their work suffer. I cannot help but see such a viewpoint as profoundly wrongheaded; where there is truth in it, to validate this perspective is also to reinforce the myopia. The dialogue between anthropologists and native peoples has long bee n exploitative and abusive, even when it was not intended to be. The remedy to such a situation is not to merely promulgate doing business as usual with a firmer handshake. If we are seriously to consider heritage management as the site of dialogue between Western Shoshones and the U.S. federal government, then we must carefully consider a number of things. We must consider the entanglements of American and Shoshone heritage by thinking such is the focus of chapter 2. We must consider the politics inherent in the notion and deployment of heritage, and the ways that the relationship b etween American heritage and Shoshone heritage remains one of continuous colonization, within which worldviews are powerfully contested. This is the focus of chapter 3. We must consider the relationships between land and settler colonial conquest, which is addressed in chapter 4 through a consideration of contested representations of Western Shoshone treaty struggles and their consequences for heritage. And we should consider particular recent cases in historical trajectory. Chapter 5 looks at the historica l legacies of heritage management surrounding a present day water pipeline project sited in five valleys in eastern Nevada. Chapter 6 looks at the heritage management process in relation to recent mining projects, and the relationships that the Tribes have forged with mining companies through this process. Chapter 7 concludes with a contextualized focus on


38 the future oriented aspects of heritage: how heritage management articulates, or fails to articulate, with the future oriented values of Shoshone heritag e as the Tribes focus on providing for future generations.


39 CHAPTER 2 SETTLER COLONIALISM AND NEWE SOGOBIA Pain and Survivance We should begin with the matter of pain. This is not to say that Shoshones, or any other people, are defined by their suffering much less victimhood 3 1 But it is to say that pain plays a powerful and inescapable role in the history of the Newene It is an elusive thing. Pain often resides in the unspoken, a nd defines the limits of what can or will be said (cf Simpson 2007). In some cases, pain was the implicit reason that people would gloss over certain events or issues, or deploy a nostalgia that clouded more specific and upsetting stories that I heard unde r other circumstances. In other cases, pain was explicitly the reason that individual Newe would decide not to speak with me, or needed me to turn the recorder off periodically or told stories that I was told not to repeat. And with that recognition, we s hould consider that I may also have been more apt to see the pain because my presence the outsider, the taibo the researcher tended to dredge it up regardless of any actions on my part. The interactions of Newe past and present are rife with pain. And of ten, it can only be known in fragmentary form, through the jagged edges and snapped connections left by the breaches of the social fabric that begat it, the sacrifices that called it into the world. Much of the written history on Western Shoshones has ten ded to gloss over such pain, or confine it to the spaces that colonial tropes allocate for it; this is the selfsame noble savagery that shed a tear at the sight of litter in the now iconic television commercial. In these ways of telling history, Indian pain is inevitable, the sacrifice made for the greatness of progress, and any 1 image that strikes a romantic chord with non native publics.


40 particularly brutal events are the regrettable but epiphenomenal details of a story whose plot would have nonetheless remained unchanged. As Taiaiake Alfred (2005) points out with astute In Violence Over the Land Newe historian Ned Blackhawk demonstrates the olent histories of Native peoples caught in the maelstrom of terribly abusive husbands, his great grandmother Mamie was committed to a mental health facility at the age of 24, effectively orphaning her children, while his grandmother Eva worked to support her household (often by herself) until a stroke left her bedridden for the remainder of her trapped Shoshones in ambivalent systems of inclusion and exclusion, with both systems set to benefit white colonial expansion above all el se (Sider 2008). These stories are at most partial, parents often learn little about their family and are also reluctant to discuss it, and piecing together Mamie and (Blackhawk 2006: 288). These stories evince the profoundly personal nature of the histories many stories I have been told and not told by Newe in Duckwater, Ely, and elsewhere. But all Nevada Indians have, through the generations, endured disease, military repression, colonial dispossession, shockwaves of alcoholism and drug addiction and physi ca l and emotional abuse. M any lived out the dangers of having to use inadequate, improvised, or secondhand technology, far from the nearest hospitals (which in rural Nevada were in turn far


41 from well equipped hospitals). O thers survived the dangers of town s and urban centers, where mob justice or back alley violence would not readily be curbed by law enforcement (such laws having particular sanctions against Indians anyway). So what I ask as I proceed, sometimes spelling out the details of what I have allud ed to and sometimes not, is that the reader remember that the structures of recent Newe history were wrought with violence on multiple levels and scales. Shoshones should not be understood as the passive or underprivileged victims of violence, however; t hey are survivors of it. They are a people whose dignity has survived multiple attempts to strip them of it. Chippewa author and literary critic Gerald Vizenor has ich perhaps too readily connotes only a success in obtaining the rudiments of subsistence and shelter, rather than a survival on multiple and mutually cross he nature of survivance creates a sense of narrative resistance to abs ence, literary tragedy, nihility, and victimry. Native survivance is an active sense of presence over historical ab sence, the dominance of cultural simulations, and manifest manners. Native surviva (Vizenor 2009: 1). Pain a nd survivance are the two obverse forces that thematically run through the account to follow, wherein an undue focus on either at the expense of the other would distort both the writing and the reading. As my last point of clarification, I will note that I am not suggesting that these are the defining elements of Newe history and culture Far from it. But I am suggesting that these are crucial elements that have often been overlooked for other concerns, or else, as I suggested above, localized to those poin ts in the plot or the structure of a narrative where they form part of a cultural schema (Ortner 1990) designed to contain them and subvert their energies


42 toward metanarratives of American progress. Some excellent scholarship has been dedicated to countera cting these effects Blackhawk, and Richard Clemmer but dominant narratives remain and persist. Settler Colonial Narrativity In 20 th century U.S. society, Western Shoshones were best known for two things. The first was the anthropological assertion of Julian Steward and others that Western Shoshone Steward 1938, 1955a; Farb 1968), and the ensuing debate as to whether having or not having band level 1965 Steward 1955b, 197 8 ; Fowler 1965; Stewart 1966, 1978, 198 0 ; Clemmer et al. 1999; Clemmer 2009a). That debate has since given way to other concerns, but its various strands continue to haunt the discourse. The second was a series of efforts by several Western Shoshone organizations pursuing recognition of title to 62 million acres of land stretching from southern Idaho to southeastern California, and covering roughly two thirds of Nevada (Freedman 1975, 1989; Thorpe 1982; will thus pull up countless activist websites, blogs, and news articles discussing, for instance, Supreme Court cases, and victorious human rights decisions at the Inter American Commission on Human Rights and the UN Committee for the Elimination of Racia l Discrimination Both of these marks of distinction are intimately linked to the settler colonial logics of American expansionism in that they are linked to a sort of American, if not global, doxa (sensu Bourdieu 1978): there is a rarely fully articulat ed belief that Indians are symbols and figures of nobility and loss, which is more akin to European captains going down with their ships, or


43 Nordic warriors giving themselves over to a glorious and storied death, than anything particularly true to Shoshone debated letter to the editor in Elko Daily Times two years ag o argued (Stenovich 2012), or lost their land (Banner 2007), or lost their traditional knowledge and cultural integrity (Widdowson and Howard 2008), and so on. Indians are generally defined by non Indians in terms of loss. Richard Clemmer (2009b) has terme loss are constitutive parts of the U.S. legal system. To posit Indian experience as foundationally premised on anything other than loss is to contravene settler colonial logics that do not accommodate the ontological or epistemic presence of the native (Wolfe 1999, 2006). As I will rooted ambivalence toward the native peoples of the continent tends to elevate romanticized images of their past significance, while at the same time despising or casting aspersions on the legitimacy of their continued presence (cf also Pearce 1950 ; Deloria 1969; Alfred 2005 ; Gould 2013 ). This ambivalence is hardly new; it was well developed when New e first encountered taibos in Newe Sogobia, and vice versa. White settlers rarely saw people in these encounters so much as savages (Berkhofer 1979; Bird 1996; Ellingson 2001). Some of the earlier explorers and settlers described Newene as ignoble savages who signified the lowest of all possible human lows. Even Mark Twain, who launched his career by publishing wry observations about his experiences in rough cut mining towns of the Nevada territory (Hagen 1998), referred to


44 decided that the lowness of their position characterized the essence of all Indians: he G o shoots gave me, an Indian see if perchance I had been overestimating the Red Man while viewing him through the mellow moonshine of romance. The revelations that came were disenchanting It was curious to see how quickly the paint and tinsel fell away from him and left him treacherous, filthy, and repulsive and how quickly the evidences accumulated that wherever one finds an Indian tribe he has only found Goshoots more or less modified by circumstances and surroundings but Goshoots after all What is clear is that in short order, many Newe were brought quite low by colonial expansion, even as their country was little more than a hinterland of civilization. Newe country was first eyed largely as a means of getting to the lands beyo nd it: first, through the Buenaventura River, presumed to connect the Western states to the Pacific coast until John C. Overland Trail, which has been estimated as carrying as many as 25,000 emigrants in 1849, and as many again in 1850 (ITCN 1976: 24). Overland expansion was devastating to the Newe. The earliest trappers in the region, notably including Peter Skene Ogden in the late 1820s, trapped out the beaver s of the area in found large congregations of Newe along the river, estimating village sizes from 100 300 people; many of them wore clothing made from beaver, and sho es made of beaver (Clemmer 2009a). Beaver had been so thoroughly eradicated thereafter that Julian Steward concluded that they were of little to no importance, and his consultants had scarcely mentioned them, if at all (Steward 1938). Emigrants to Califor nia and the west coast began using routes through Nevada in the mid 1840s, following the Humboldt River for much of the way; historians have observed that


45 terms of the availability of game to hunt and grasses for their livestock, as well as in the assessments of the prosperity, well being, and friendliness of the Newe along the route (ITCN 1976: 20). The Greenwood party of 1845 was also remembered by some as a tur ning point in relations with the Indians; members of that party poisoned their dead livestock with strychnine, killing the starving Indians who attempted to scavenge from them, and one white southerner in the party, Sam Kinney, attempted to enslave a Newe man by waylaying him, binding him, and doubt that stories of his ill treatment would have spread widely amongst the Newe thereafter (ICTN 1976: 20). The Gold Rush brought up to 25,000 emigrants along the Humboldt River of northern Nevada in 1849 alone, and the traffic increased from that point on (ITCN 1976, Crum 1994, Clemmer 2009a). By 1858, Utah Territory 2 tribe of I ndians in the Territory with whom I have any acquaintance that have been so much discommoded by the introduction of a white population as the Sho sho accounts and diaries document, for instance, some whites shooting at Newe from their wagons as on sight policy relating to all Indians (even when leaders of the wagon trains opposed such a policy), or any number o f other such face to face violent acts (cf Clemmer 1987). But the ecological devastation was such that the region never recovered, and was ever after transformed. Hordes of livestock consumed and trampled wild grasses that formed summer staples for the New e, and settlers and mail station managers further displaced such plants by sowing fields of fodder; emigrants hunted as much game as they could, having little concern for the sustainability of any hunting practices in a region they had no intentions of 2 Note that N evada did not become a state until 1864, nor a separate territory from Utah until 1861. In 1858, present day Nevada was included in the Utah territory (cf Zanjani 2006).


46 ret urning to, and in consequence, game that was sufficiently abundant for the local Newe became scarce. Newe responded with the diversity of approaches that one might expect in the most abstracted evolutionary terms: some found that they could scrounge by beg ging, particularly at the station houses along the main routes for mail and travelers. S ome took up wage labor at the stations; some, by the 1860s, had acquired guns and horses and taken up arms against the invaders shifting to a raiding economy. A nd poss ibly, though this is not documented and I offer it as only a logical consideration, some may have traveled to live with distant relations in other parts of Newe country, which would have created added strain on those ecosystems as well (cf Burton 1862, Ega n 1917, Madsen 1985). Newe were primarily viewed in the Taibo gaze as ignoble savages at this time, and accounts of them tended to move between two constructions. The first portrayed them as destitute beggars, often playing up the portions of their divers e diet that were offensive to European palates, such as roasted grasshoppers or marmots, as evidence that they were a often accordingly depicted as docile and inclined to peace. The second focused on the belligeren ce of the raiding bands, and highlighted bloodthirstiness and wanton cruelty; and, it is interesting, seems more likely to highlight inter tribal mixing between Bannocks, Paiutes, Goshutes, Utes, and Shoshones. These accounts of warfare were also accompani ed by a pronounced moral outrage, often playing upon common tropes of white supremacy such as motifs of the violation or murder of white women and in some cases, young white girls (e.g. Wren 1904: 298 99). The mail stations featured as centers, particular ly in the better watered areas more favorable to ranching such as Ruby Valley and its vicinity (Clemmer 2009a, Egan 1917), but it was the mining industry that drove the most consistent move toward settlement in Nevada.


47 Entangled Foundations Nevada was part of the territory transferred to the U.S. in the Treaty of Guadelupe Hidalgo of 1848; at that time, little of it had been explored and less still settled. It was officially part of Utah Territory, being divided up into ad hoc 852 that were quite literally just horizontal ruler lines on the map from western Utah straight across to the eastern border of California. Following the Gold Rush, most of the first permanent settlements in present day Nevada were on its western border, n ear the Sierra Nevada mountains, beginning in the early not just in physical distance, but also from the lack of transportational infrastructure these settlers soon petitioned to become part of California. Their efforts were in vain, but Carson County was created in 1854; repeated efforts to create a separate governing structure in 1859 and 1860 eventually led to the creation of the Nevada Territory in 1861. While some commentators have obser ved that mining was not the driving force behind those initial attempts to organize the territory, mining soon became the unifying force that would transform Nevada from being a Utah hinterland to becoming its own state (Bushnell & Driggs 1980, Zanjani 200 6). City became the impetus for a major mining boom in 1859 (Zanjani 2006). From the 1860s through the 1880s, the Comstock produced enormous amounts of silver and gold, and it became not only the political economic center of Nevada, but also helped set a precedent for Western mining which attracted the attention of capitalist financiers from San Fransisco to Britain (Hardesty 2010, Moehring 2004, Johnson 1992). Railroads soon followed, though throughout the 19 th century they were famous for price gouging in central and eastern Nevada, given that the people in such remote locales had no alternatives (Jackson 1963, Hulse 2009, Bushnell and Driggs 1980: 32). So colonial sett lement in Nevada in fact went from west to east, contrary to the


48 conventional pattern of expansion. Thus, the largest settlements of the mining boom began in the traditional territory of the Washo and the Northern Paiutes. The first official contact that the Newe had with the U.S. government the first encounter somewhat resembling government to was with the new Indian Agent of the Utah Territory, Jacob Holeman, in 1852. Holeman stated that Newe had been attacking mail carriers an d resisting all incursions to their territory, but found unequivocally that it was mistreatment by the taibos road have been in the habit of persuading the Indians into their camp under the most solemn assurances of friendship and then, without any cause on the part of the Indians, they would shoot them down others are in the habit of shooting the Indians whenever and wherever they find was removed from office in 1853, he reported repeatedly encountering Newe l eaders who expressed their willingness to stop attacking taibos so long as they would stop being attacked by them, and could guarantee the welfare of their people (Holeman 1852, 1853; on his removal, see Crum 1994a). urt, took it upon himself to attempt to end the men with supp lies and tobacco to head off and find the local bands and their leaders. He then returned, but


49 ah tio i.e. Nemetekkate 1993) though he noted but did not na great length, many of the chiefs displaying more shrewdness and sagacity in council than I had promise tha t Newe would attempt to turn in any individuals who broke U.S. law, and $3000 rt troubled himself to codify any provisions for the safety of the Newe. However, the Newe clearly interpreted the occasion as being highly meaningful. After co ntinues (Hurt 1855: 199): They then received their presents with great joy, making Poi gan, (medicine,) as they term it, which consists in a variety of curious ceremonies, in which the body and limbs go through a routine of motions altogether indescribable At night we were serenaded by a party of 50 or 60 young warriors with songs and dances. Early the next morning the old chief, Nim ah tio cah, came to bid us good bye. He stood for some time as if in a deep study, and then he said he was sorry that his pe ople had ever been mad with the whites, but now their hearts were good towards the white people, and he hoped they would always feel so. The old man wiped a tear from his eyes, shook hands with us, and then put out; and since this interview it is difficult for me to believe that these Indians are so unmanageable as they have been represented to be if properly treated. puhagant or medicine person; the implication is that a medicine person w as blessing the people, the gifts, and/or the occasion (Kathy Adams Blackeye, personal communication). The celebrations are a further sign Newene today will pray for: good thoughts and good feelings. Part of the reason for the very


50 positive response from the Newe is likely that they had rarely, if ever, before been approached by white dignitaries and extended such dignity in turn that they were able to sit and dis cuss problems like human beings, rather than being shot at like vermin, or treated a priori as criminals. others became impatient as the federal government failed to rel ease the provisions that Hurt had promised, and Newe traditional foods continued to disappear from the activities of the emigrants and the mail stations (Crum 1994). By the early 1860s, contemporaneous with the Pyramid Lake War near Carson City (Knack and Stewart 1984: 71 2), Shoshones and Goshutes in Nevada and western Utah were attacking the mail routes and begging at the mail stations with a renewed fervor (Egan 1917; ITCN 1976). White commentators of the time (e.g. Burton 1862) and shortly thereafter ( Wren 1904) expressed outrage that the same peoples if not exactly the same individuals were begging at strategies of begging and raiding were obviously responses t o the devastation incurred by colonial expansion; neither were possible before that time. upheaval of the Civil War. The first constitutional convention was assembled in Ca rson City in November, 1863, but its constitution was defeated by the Nevada electorate in a vote of 2157 for and 8851 against. The only two cited reasons for this defeat were concerns over a provision for taxation of mines, and those regarding voting righ ts. Abraham Lincoln signed into law an act second constitution was emphatically supported by a vote of 10,375 to 1284 (Bushnell and


51 Driggs 1980: 37). Elmer Rusco (1 Storey County, the site of Virginia City, Gold Hill, and the Comstock mines... over half the votes ly $3500, the longest telegram then on record, as they sent the entire state constitution, line by line, to Washington, D.C. (Bushnell & Driggs 1980: 37). We can see that the vast majority of the voting population of Nevada at this time lived outside of Shoshone country, and that most stable population centers were likewise outside of Newe territory. Even as Nevada became a state, Newe Sogobia consisted largely of the hinterlands of settled Nevada. It would later be asserted by the United States that We stern Shoshones had lost their land (Chapter 4); the phrase is not only legally null, but historically misleading. Non Newe behavior on Newe lands was more akin to a series of frenzied stampedes, the overland emigration of the 1840s only being the first. Following the frenzy surrounding the Comstock Lode, prospectors were soon scouring the hills all over Nevada for gold and silver, and boom towns blossomed and withered with a bewildering rapidity (Lewis 1955; Hulse 1971). One thus wonders what the Newe must have made of these rapid fluxes in population, imbued with a Gold Rush mentality that was often as quick to leave as it was to arrive. Consider this description of the 1868 rush to Hamilton, Treasure City, and Shermantown (J ackson 1963: 23 4): Earliest arrivals secured shelter in natural caves at the foot of the northern side of the hill 8,000 feet above sea level. In May, 1868, a settlement known as Cave City had been laid out. The next month the first frame structure, a sa loon, was built to mid winter this town, consisting primarily of tents, board and cloth shanties, and cabins of rock, brush, and earth, had become the stage and express depot fro m which supplies were transported by individuals to their mining location. The population had grown to six hundred.


52 From Hamilton a graded road wound up Treasure Hill to the settlement of osed to the full sweep of the winds on the summit and was without water except that hauled up from Hamilton and sold at eight cents a gallon. Nevertheless, anywhere from eight hundred to a thousand miners resided there the first season; it was in the heart of the mineral deposits and destined to grow. A third community, Shermantown, originally known as Silver Springs, was located two miles southwest from Treasure Hill with a road from Hamilton winding down a deep canyon to reach it. Because this community of four or five hundred was sheltered from the winds, it was a more endurable place of residence. Permanence seemed assured when two or three brick buildings were erected while the other settlements could boast only of frame or canvas. It is a shopworn rhe torical technique to ask how insane and illogical the actions of white settlers seekers settling waterless Nevada towns in the dead of winter on top of mountains, during a particularly severe winter of below zero temperatures (cf McDonald 1913: 1044), must have been rather uncanny to the Shoshones camped in their customary fashion, on leeward sides of mountains amidst water, firewood, and caches of pine nuts. One wonders what new meanings the winter stories of Coyote and Rabbit took on, what new aspects emerged in the telling, as elders reflected on the rather strange and disturbing presence of such a dense contingent of desperate determination. Hamilton, Treasure City, and Shermantown all played thei r role in colonization, but they are all long since ghost towns. These breaking waves of settlers drawn away again by the eventuations of fiscal undertow characterize much of the settlement, as such, of Nevada. A slower but more permanent movement charact erized the settlement of ranchers in the region, who seized upon any arable, irrigable land that they could find. Many of the earlier ranches formed around the mail routes, to supply both station workers and westward travelers (Burton 1862, Angel 1881, Cle mmer 2009a). As prospectors began to find ore, ranches supplied nearby boomtown miners with meat, produce, and other goods, though as boomtowns became ghost towns later in the 19 th century, they were often forced to take their products to more distant


53 mark ets. Many of the ranches that cropped up near Duckwater did so concurrently with the rise of Hamilton, Treasure City, and later Tybo; as these towns declined, they had to turn to markets in Eureka and Elko (McCracken and Howerton 1996). Similarly, ranches in Steptoe Valley and Duck Creek were well established by 1885, supplying mining communities in the vicinity of Ely (Elliott 1966: 174). The story of Ike Irwin, as told by his daughter Imogene Vanover in the 1950s, both illustrates and embodies many of th e tropes of this process of Western settlement. Irwin arrived in White Pine County sometime around 1867, and soon began cutting wild hay in the Duckwater ice after the fields froze over. He would then sell that hay for $100/ton in Hamilton. According to Effie Read (1965:14), this hay was bundled using tule ropes that Newe women showed the local ranchers how to make. Upon the ostensible success of his sales, I rwin filed a water rights 100 acre orchard; in so doing, he became one of the first settlers of Duckwater Valley (McCracken and Howerton 1996: 121 3). Much as miners fought over both discovery and boundary of their claims, so did these ranchers fight consistently over their water rights (Boudway 1985). As we will see in Chapter 4 none of these activities amounted to a legal taking of the land other than within particular boundaries of private property, but they did result in a fi ercely competitive atmosphere. M ineral rights disputes sometimes led to murder, and water and good soil were harder to come by in Nevada than in some other states. Faced with the destru ctive impacts of the mining industry on top of other colonial disruptions, many Newe men sought work as ranch hands, while women took jobs as domestic workers and laundresses. Non native Nevadan employers saw advantages in Indian labor, in that


54 they did no t require room and board, and could simply be turned loose at the conclusion of seasonal work (Knack 1996: 153). Some Newe also likely worked in mines, particularly in areas such as Smoky Valley (Crum 1994a, 1994b). M ine work could sometimes involve more s pecialized labor, and some accounts suggest that preference was given to experienced journeymen, and to peoples such as the Cornish who had grown up in mining cultures (e.g. Arnold 1973). This is to say that Newe may have found it easier to acquire jobs on ranches or laundries than in mines, but they undoubtedly explored all of their options. Several Newe have Graham 2013), and Frank Collins of Duckwater shared an oil claim with Joe Tognoni before bank foreclosure on their sheep herds led Collins to move to the Walker River Paiute Reservation in the early 20 th century (Boudway 1985). One of the most common motifs of every ore strike is that of the Indian guide who led would be prospectors to it, often without compensation. Such stories are recorded for the strikes in Hamilton (Jackson 1966: 5; Read 1965: 12), Tonopah (Elliott 1966: 5), Round Mountain (Weeks and Weeks 1990), Pioche (Hulse 1971: 6), Ely (Nevada Hi ghways and Parks 1955), and Goldfield (Zanjani 1992; Weeks and Weeks 1990), and this is far from an exhaustive list. On one hand, this motif recapitulates a popular settler colonial narrative trope, in which helpful Indians pave the way for civilization an d then become swept up in its inexorable currents and need never again be mentioned. On the other hand, these stories also appear to enco de racial and colonial tensions. I have often heard stories of Nevada Indians having been offered partnership in exchan ge for showing whites the location of a gold or silver deposit, only to be cheated out of their share, if not killed. In one documented case from 1905, a central Nevada Newe couple named Johnnie and Minnie Peavine were cheated by a prosp ecting group led by Ed Clifford. B y


55 the time they won their claim in the Nye County Court, Johnnie had already passed on (Crum 1994: 64). Such a claims court victory may have been far more difficult, if not impossible, for Newe in the vicinity of Duckwater and Ely in the lat e 19 th century. I nstitutions such as courts were not well established, law enforcement was largely a function of the collective will, and it would not have served the interests of the burgeoning towns to award monetary claims in favor of Indians. Ranch wo rk was also contested, though to what extent is hard to evaluate with the extant record. Martha Knack (1996: 154) found a 1909 letter by a Southern Paiute man to the Indian more?...That money, and getting old now. He has worked about 7 years, only Just for eat and many other In Duckwater Valley, Imogene Vanover remembered a late 19 th century incident again involving Ike Irwin. A Newe woman known as Suzie Jane wanted to rid the land of taibos remembered as disagreeing, arguing that they had been treated well by Irwin. In another incident, when there was talk of an uprising. She remembered her father bringing the guns into their house (McCracken and Howerton 1996: 55). This na rrative leaves a lot of questions unanswered and a lot of voices excluded, but it again seems to preserve a fragment of Newe resistance narratives


56 that enable us to consider the debates and diverse strategies within Newe communities as ranchers established themselves in these areas. We need to be careful here. M any accounts of Newe history have blithely accepted constructions of Newe tradition as being defined by scarcity and minimalism. In the process, we are confronted with narratives such as this (McCra cken and Howerton 1996: 54): Indians who did not move to reservations, who did not succumb to the diseases of the Euro Americans, who did not starve or freeze to death, and who did not give up and die because most of what was meaningful in their lives had been lost, tried to the Indians almost always lost. They were held in check by whites who subjected them to a different standard of justice than the one they were accustomed to and an economic system in which they were unprepared to compete. The Native Americans were also shackled by their own perceptions of themselves and by a Not only is Indianness being equated here with loss and disempowerment, but the authors also within the swath of Progress that was being forged across their lands. We cannot take it for granted that every time the Newe engaged with the new peoples and practices on their lands that it was an act of desperate, desolate concession. Newe cowboys are oft mentioned but scantily documented (McCarl 2004), but by the early 20 th century, ranching had become a valued lifestyle for a great many Newene, as I will explain below. Certainly, there was great pain in many of these transformations, and violent repression prevented most of the changes from being enacted on Newe terms, but this does not mean that Newene were therefore passiv e victims of sweeping conquest, any more than we could allege that globalization has caused uniform and frictionless changes in rural societies in Indonesia or Africa (Tsing 2005, Cooper 2008). So with view of my opening comments in this chapter, I am suggesting that we need to keep the pain in mind, but always remember that the Newenee are a resilient, intelligent, and


57 diverse people. Their struggle is never merely a story of victimhood, regard less of how profound their suffering. It is difficult to assess the alacrity or reluctance that Newe may have shown toward ranch work, but they unquestionably took to it rather successfully. Many commentators have stressed that the first horses encountered by the Newe were eaten rather than ridden (Steward 1938, 1941; Harris 1940), but it could be noted that white settlers sometimes did the same, even when they were not under conditions of starvation (McCracken and Howerton 1996). Newe resistance movements relied on horses (Steward 1938, ITCN 1976, Crum 1994a), and in the 19 th century many Newe were quite active in attempting to establish farms and ranches. One of the more sympathetic Indian agents ever to work in Newe country was Levi G heen, stat ioned out of Hamilton. A fter Gheen was dismissed from his post, he continued working to help the Newene more than once that he was not simply exhorting Newe to take t o farming, but that they were in fact pressing him for help in starting farms. For instance, in his report to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs in 1867, he wrote (Gheen 1867: 117 8) : Since the writing of this report I have been visited by a delegation of Indians from White Pine, (my former home.) Among them is an intelligent young chief by the name of Tsa wie, (good knife.) Captain Sam, another chief from the north side of the Central Pacific Railroad, is also present. In a conversation had with the former he stated that he could not see what was to become of the Shoshones in his country; that the game was all gone; the trees that bore pine nuts were cut down and burned in the quartz mills and other places; the grass seed, heretofore used by them for food, was no more; the grass land was all claimed by the whites, and the grass cut for hay before the seed was ripe; that the good land was or soon would be all claimed and cultivated by the white people; and that his Indians would soon be compelled to work for the ranchers for two bits (twenty five cents) per day, or starve. He also states that himself and many others of his tribe are in favor of a tract of land being reserved for the Shoshones, that they may have some place for their future home; that if one p lace cannot be found large enough for them all, then locate three or four places, as the case may require; but to have these places as near together as possible, and as near to where there is game and fish as can be found.


58 Captain Sam states that he thinks such places can be found north of the railroad in his country, but does not know to what extent it is claimed by the whites. He states that he is anxious to go with me this fall and ascertain if a place or places can be located suitable for a home for the Shoshones. Tsa wie and others also are anxious to go with me Many of the Shoshones express an anxiety to learn to read and write, especially the young ones; they have improved in civilization during the past year, and will c ontinue to do so if properly encouraged. One of the reasons that some Newene chose to move north to the Duck Valley reservation on the Idaho border, founded in 1877, was for the likelihood of successful ranching and when Jack Harris went to that reservatio n in 1937 to study acculturation, he found that arriving in the midst of haying season meant that he would have to wait for interpreters to become available, even if he was willing to pay them ( Harris to Benedict 1937 ). Shoshones in the late 19 th century a lso attempted to create a reservation briefly known as Carlin Farms, near the present town of Carlin. Though the farming was reportedly quite successful, several whites conspired to forge documentation alleging that they had already claimed and been using the reservation land before it had been withdrawn for that purpose, and so the reservation was annulled (Crum 1994, ITCN 1976, Thorpe 1982). In point of fact, there is stronger evidence that whites barred Newene from ranch work than there is that they we carefully documented the lifelong struggles that one Newe man, Tim Hooper, underwent in attempting to secure an allotment near Manhattan, Nevada for which he shou ld have been legally eligib le. D espite transcending his minimal formal education and filing forms as dutifully as he could, he was not able to acquire title to lands that he had worked until he was 70 years old. i.e. one of the many Nevada natives who ranch land, and thus were born reservations li ke Duckwater.


59 Reservations To understand the context of the Ely and Duckwater reservation histories, we need to situate the formation of reservations in Nevada. The discussion of reservations dates back at least as far as 1863, when the Treaty of Ruby Va President of the United States sees fit to establish one. The understanding of the signatories to the treaty was that the reservation would be in Ruby Valley; gene rations later, oral history 1987b, 1994; ITCN 1976). Ruby Valley would have been a desirable location, as it is sufficiently well watered and ecologically d levels of sociopolitical complexity than other parts of the state (Stewart 1978). As many Shoshones today will be quick to point out, however, not all Newene were necessarily represented in Ruby Valley. Some Newe were deeply attached to their traditional territories, and each group, and each family, had their own familiar places in the landscape. It is not uncommon in the literature to encounter Newe leaders refusing to relocate to a given re servation, but stating their agreement to move to a reservation within an area in which they feel co constitutive belonging. The caveat to that trend is that Newe can also be a profoundly independent, resilient, and pragmatic people; the 19 th and early 20 th centuries saw considerable population movement amongst them. Scholars have not thoroughly addressed the contradictions of this phenomenon, but it would be a powerful avenue for future work. Certainly, dispossession explains part of the demographic movem ent, but to assume it explains all is to again reduce Newe history to victimhood. If we understand Newe as a diverse people who variously adopt diverse strategies for survival and enrichment, then we must think beyond only the forced removals though these


60 did occur and must be recognized and begin to consider the aspects of tradition that could empower Newe to seek new opportunities in lands other than those of their birth. It is clear that g Aldo Leopold), but its dynamics and historical situatedness are far less clear. What is fated treaty of 1855, Newe leaders have repeatedly sought recognition of their rights to areas in their traditional territory. These strategies included but were not restricted to the establishment of reservations. Some families moved to Duck Valley in the late 19 th century (McKinney 1983); some continued to militate for a reservation in Ruby Valley, eventually acquirin g small allotments there (Crum 1994a, Clemmer 2004). Others moved to reservations in Paiute country, as these were founded decades before most of the other Shoshone reservations, as we will see below. Concomitant with Newe taking on jobs as ranch hands, d omestic workers, miners, laundresses, and so on, they began to live on the outskirts of white settlements that were prosperous enough to offer consistent opportunities. These Indian settlements became known as designation. It seems that most enduring towns had Indian camps, though only certain camps were designated as reservations. Residence in these camps seems to have been info rmal and in some cases seasonal. Newe ne continued to hunt wild game, gather wild plants, go pinenutting, and hold ceremonies, gatherings, and Fandangos throughout the period. In fact, in one instance in 1875, ranchers in Spring Valley became fearful that the Newe were planning an uprising, as th ey had all left the ranches and headed to the hills at the same time; after the whites gathered arms, requested military support, and lynched several Indians, they realized that the Newe were simply gathering pinenuts now that they had ripened (Crum 1991).


61 Ranch work was, as previously indicated, seasonal and informal, although ranchers would sometimes employ certain Indian laborers in a lifelong relationship (Boudway 1985). From the literature, informal discussions with Newe elders, and oral history inte rviews, it seems that some Newe camped near ranches, some maintained their own ranches, and some lived up in the mountains to avoid government surveillance as best they might. So although in one sense Newe traditions were disrupted by colonial impositions, in another sense Newe accommodated these changes by including wage labor in their seasonal rounds, t hough so doing entailed changing both the rounds and the contours of the seasonality. In the early 20 th century, the US Forest Service led the charge in f ederal administration of the landscape. The Toiyabe National Forest was established on 2.1 million acres of land in 1907; the Forest Service soon began charging grazing fees (Crum 1994a: 63 5). When some central Nevada Shoshones were unable to pay their gr azing fees, the Forest Service slaughtered their horses (Crum 1994a: 63, 1994b). These changes particularly affected Shoshones living in the Smoky Valley area. Smoky Valley, in central Nevada, and Spring Valley, in eastern Nevada just shy of the Utah bor der, are two areas which were abundantly populated by Indians in the 19 th century, but are nearly devoid of native residents today. In neither case is it clear what combinations of coercion and volition were responsible for these changes. Spring Valley was particularly subject to violence, including two massacres and the short above (Crum 1991, Lahren 2010). The exodus from Smoky Valley seems to have been a combination of several factors. The decline of the mining in dustry, and in the prosperity of towns such as Manhattan, Round Mountain, and Belmont, seems to have made living in the are a considerably more challenging, particularly with the increased federal presence there (Ober


62 2001, Crum 1991). One of the narratives that I have heard from the communities, and which is corroborated by written histories (Honaker et al. 1986, ITCN 1976, Rusco 1991), is that some Newene saw opportunities in resettling on reservations such as Yomba and Duckwater because they both had good water sources and would enable Indians to r un their own ranches. O thers remember episodes of violence and coercive efforts by Forest Service agents to force Newene to resettle. Betty Millett Robison, who was a young child when her family moved from Smoky Valley to Duckwater, offers two narratives about Smoky Valley that give us glimpses of each: The only thing I remember about my grandmother growing up is she remembers clear back to when she was a little girl in Smoky Valley. And I'm trying to translate it the best I can, because my grandmother did not speak English. She tells me that in and by that, I'm thinking she was talking about the military coming in and herding the Indian people out of the valley. She said they had guns, and whips I guess, and they chased the, herded the Indian people out of that valley, out of Smoky Valley I was either 8 or 9, when, from what I understand and you need to bear with me, that was 80 y ear s ago, just about 80 years ago when we made the move from Smoky Valley to Duckwater. A nd from what I understand, the reason the people had to leave the area in the early '40s is the Forest Service came in with their various regulations, and put a stop t o hunting wildlife. And before that happened, that was the main source of food for the Shoshone people. And like I told you, I ate so many rabbits growing up you couldn't get me near a rabbit today. But at the time, it was a luxury. Because that was the on ly thing that we ate. Well, when we moved to Duckwater, of course, there was beef, and pork, and chicken, and a ll when we first moved to Duckwater, where life was supposed to be better for us -and the reason why we moved from S moky Valley is because the food supply was taken away by the Forest Service, you know, regulations. So they created reservations where life was supposed to be better. And the people were so happy, talking about how things were going to be better for us. We were going to move to these reservations and have cattle, and we could plant gardens, and it was just really going to be nice, and we were so excited to move. isplacement from Smoky Valley. H er grandmother must be describing events from the mid to late 19 th century. T he Millett family lived in Smoky Valley until the late 1930s, when they made the move that Mrs. Robison describes; this first displacement may refer to efforts to clear t he land of its inhabitants


63 and make space for the mines and ranches that enabled the rise of towns such as Manhattan and Belmont. This narrative is of an older injustice, but it is inevitably entangled with the later ones. Her own personal narrative of th e reasons for the trip gives us evide nce of both coercion and desire. I being more explicitly coercive. I spoke to one woman who remembered being terrified on the same trip from Smoky Valley to Duckwater, afraid that the soldiers would slaughter everyone. I am disinclined to discount either aspect of the narrative. The change in Forest Service pr esence was remembered outside of Smoky Valley. Elders from Ely recalled their parents having to hide deer from the game warden to avoid being charged with poaching, though I have heard few if any such stories from elders in Duckwater. More often, folks I s poke with in Duckwater remembered growing up without any idea of poaching or the need for treaty rights. T he right to wild game was just a matter of putting the time and effort in to acquire some. Less regulation seems to have been aimed at pine nuts and w ild plant resources, as their prized commercial value is mostly a recent phenomenon (Lanner 1981). It was in the context of these changes that Duckwater came about as a reservation. 3 Ecologically, it was prized because it harbors a rarity in Nevada: a per ennial water source that is not directly dependent on snowmelt from the mountains. Today known as the Big Warm Springs and the Little Warm Springs, they provide a consistent flow of 70 water to surrounding ranches, and the Duckwater Reservation acquired f irst water rights from the ranches that the BIA purchased to found it ( NV Engineer doc ). Though white settlers made various mining claims in Railroad Valley and Duckwater Valley, mining never became nearly so economically significant 3 Please note that while I primarily cite written sources here, I have often heard thi s story from Duckwater Shoshone tribal members.


64 in the area as did ran ching. Since the first white settlement of the area, Duckwater, and the surrounding Railroad Valley, has primarily been a ranching area. The first purchase was of ranches owned by A.C. Florio, after a severe winter in 1937 killed off his sheep, causing hi m to default on the mortgage of one of his ranches. Florio then suggested to two of his ranch hands, Brownie Sam and Wagon Johnnie, that they attempt to raise interest in getting the BIA to purchase the lands for a reservation. Both had ties to communities in Smoky Valley and Reese River, and they traveled to those places to convince others to come to Duckwater (Honaker 1986). Among the Newene who joined their efforts was Raymond Graham from Round Mountain, who is remembered as having spoken English very we ll and minimal, though his father, Bodie Graham, attended both the Stewart Indian School in Carson, Nevada, and the Carlisle Indian School in Pennsylvania (Graham 2013). In 1940, the BIA put the Florio ranches in trust, and additional purchases in 1943 led to the present boundaries of the reservation (Crum 1994a). Some of the families, such as the Blackeyes and the Bullcreeks, had long bee n living in the Duckwater area. R oughly 75% of the families that founded the reservation came from Smoky Valley, while the remainder came from different parts of central Nevada (Honaker 1986: 7). As we will see in later chapters, ranching was economically and culturally central to the Duckwater Reservation, and most of the families had a ranching allotment, as well as one or more gardens where they raised vegetables that they canned or stored in root cellars. Most elders remember going pinenut picking every fall, and although Duckw ater ranchers raised cows, pigs, and chickens, deer and rabbit were staple foods. Newe also commonly ate small gophers known as and two kinds of locusts, one of


65 which was known as nding appears to have been carp, though trout was fished in cold streams further up in the mountains. In contrast to the ranching life of Duckwater, Ely was founded in a mining area. Ranches certainly did form throughout Steptoe Valley. However, while the town of Ely was founded in 1868, taking the county seat from Hamilton after the latter town burned in a fire, the settlement never grew very large until the copper boom shortly after 1900 (Elliott 1966). Measuring the number of people who came through the area is challenging, as the ten year increments of the census are not well suited to the fast paced transit between mining camps that was characteristic of the booms. However, as recorded by the census, Ely grew from 520 people to 2,090 between 1900 and 1 920, and the towns of McGill (2,846), Ruth (1,312), Kimberly (459), and East Ely (699) came into being during the same period (Elliott 1966: 246). In 1917, the federal government hired Lorenzo Creel to evaluate the need of non reservation Indians in Nevad aside reservations in Battle Mountain, Elko, and Duckwater. He recommended against setting aside land for Shoshones in Eureka, Tonopah, Hot Creek, Monitor Valley, Smoky Valley, and Ely. In the case of Ely specifically, he found the Ely Shoshones living on land owned by the Ely Townsite Company, and although he stated that the Indian Bureau might install running water so l costs seemed to outweigh the economic benefits (Crum 1994: 73). The water piping issue did end up being central to the founding of the reservation, as Harry Johnny argued for the same water system in 1928. B ecause the land was privately owned, federal fu nds coul d not be spent in improving it. I t took a bill submitted by Senator Tasker Oddie to Congress in 1930 to create the 10 acre reservation which 5). Though ten acres is already


66 a minuscule Indian reservation, it should be noted that eight of those acres, or 80% of the land base, could not be developed because they were on too steep a part of the mountainside. Elders today remember a motley series of small shacks, mixed in with some sturdier government homes, clustered in the usable flat area. One elder from Ely told me that the impetus for finally installing the water line was that a Newe woman burned to dea th when her house caught fire. T he impracticalities of hauling water uphill in that s cenario became immediately apparent, and galvanized the whites in town to action (Adams 2013). It remains unclear to me just how and through what motivations Tasker Oddie took an interest in the matter; at present, my best guess is that political acquainta nces in Ely felt clearly did want to remain where they were, his observati ons were valid enough in terms of the economic prospects for the Newe on that particular parcel of land. When ethnographer Anne Smith visited Ely during her doctoral dissertation research in 1939, her field diary suggests that she would have agreed with Cr of one room unpainted, tumble down shacks where the Indians live. Such poverty and such frin Not all of the Ely Shoshones li ved on the Colony land itself. O ther families, such as the Starks and the Collinses lived on top of other hills on the north side of town. Additionally, relations of the Ely Shoshones lived in other places for instance, the outskirts of the town of McGill to the north, and the ranches in White River to the south. And as Ely grew as an urban


67 center, it increasingly became an important place for Duckwater Shoshones to visit, either to get groceries, to visit relatives, or to celebrate holidays such as the 4 th of July. In talking to elders from Ely, I did not get such a strong sense of squalor regarding the Colony, though people do remember it being small and overcrowded. While families in Duckwater had a land base and could raise their own cattle and grow their own gard ens, families in Ely might only have been as fortunate if they owned land outside of town. Ely residents were more likely to be hired ranch hands and domestic workers than they were to run their own ranches. M any of the women worked in a laundry facility i n town (Spilsbury 2013). Still, elders the deer could be found in any number of nearby mountains. Some hunters, such as Glenn Stark, are remembered as having occ asionally distributed deer to the elders in town in addition to feeding their own families. Though again I did not collect a representative sample, it seems that wild plants may have been less commonly collected in Ely, at least in the 20 th century. Given the infamous pollution from the rendering plant in McGill, the various mine tailings that ran into Steptoe Valley, and the rampant dust that was kicked up from the mining operations (Hulse 2009: 20 1), it is also possible that some plants were either harde r to find locally or had become un desirable for use. P inenut picking appears to have remained highly important nonetheless, in Ely as in Duckwater. Newe would also travel from Ely down to Duckwater for the annual a famous host. 4 These Fandangos were also opportunities for lucrative bootlegging, and some Newe men are remembered as having done just that. 4 His granddaughter, Lilly Penoli Sanchez, has stated that he never considered himself to be any chief, and often chafed at receiving the title from others (interview with Lilly Sanchez).


68 Drinking is said to have been a prevalent problem in both Duckwater and Ely, despite that it was illegal to sell alcohol to Indians in Nevada until the 1950s. But in addition to the dangers that excessive drinking could already pose to both communities, Ely Shoshones had to deal with the dangers of being in a large, racist town. One elder explained to me that unscrup ulous non natives in Ely were known to take advantage of Newe women after getting them drunk enough that they would be at both a physical and legal disadvantage in resisting. This same phenomenon was vocally decried by Harry Preacher after he was formally elected more or less limited to the Elko Wells area, and neither the vote nor the office were recognized elsewhere in Newe country. Leadership on the two reservati ons was also disparate. The first Duckwater Tribal Council was officially elected in 1937, three years before the reservation was actually formed (Honaker 1986). The council members at that time, and for years afterward, were all ranchers and allotment hol ders, and most of the principal issues focused on water rights or range then children who were too easily bored by politics to be especially observant, but it seems that the council continued an older Newe tradition of consensus that is, rather than majority votes, most decisions were argued out until everyone could agree on the plan of action. If this picture is accurate, it does more closely resemble the exerc ise of authority that went with the title of taikwani ouncil members were then chosen as able and active members of the community who would make the wisest decisions. It does not seem that elders usually sat on the council at that time. T oday, elders often stress that the council never


69 held closed members were often their sons or grandsons. 5 People I have spoken to in Ely insist th at there was no council there, but the community dynamics are a source of less agreement. It is clear that there were respected elders there, and a sense of community. One elder informed me that each family had an informal leader, and there were four major families on the Colony. When problems arose, one would go to one or more of these leaders to settle the matter. Ely did not officially organize a Tribal Council until they rewrote their constitution in 1966; before this time, leadership in Ely was not off icially recognized by the BIA (Crum 1994: 169 70). What I have attempted to illustrate in this chapter is the agency of the Newene in the face of the turbid settler colonial project of Nevada. This history illustrates the active role that Newe have played some of these themes in greater depth in Chapter 4, unpacking the inextricable relationships betwee n Newe heritage and Newe land. D ifferent aspects of the history will als o emerge as significant in discussions of water and of mining in Chapters 5 and 6. But the challeng e I have attempted to meet in this chapter is to give the reader a sense of how Western Shoshones of Duckwater and Ely constructed futures for their children who today are doing the same for the next generations. To appreciate these struggles and achievements, we must appreciate the deeper contexts in which they are embedded, and most of us particularly non natives from the U.S. must confront expectations in our own minds that insidiously lead us to wrongheaded interpretations without our realizing it. I draw particular attention to these expectations, these 5 woman was elected to council, but several tribal members found it amusing that in 2012 and 2013, women held almost all of the leadership positi ons in the Tribe.


70 tropes, because I believe them to be at the heart of the tensions in U.S. heritage management, which is the subject of the next chapter.


71 CHAPTER 3 COSMOPOLITICS OF NEWE HERITAGE: PRACTICES OF CHANGE AND CONTINUITY Heritage, Shoshones, and Anthropology In 2009, I conducted a pilot project on oral histories of the Western Shoshone National Council (C hapter 4). I was invited to an annual ceremony held in a remote part of northern Nevada, but the end of semester obligations from my July teaching appointment were such that I arrived in Las Vegas late on the last night of the ceremony, having to wait and make the 6 hour were eating an excellent menudo that his mother had made. The first person I spoke with was a friend from previous trips, one of the first Shos hones lost a tooth, cracked his ribs, been in two car accidents, gained a good bit of weight, and started studying the Bible. He was also considering serving on the Western Shoshone National Council as a representative from his reservation, despite that he was only my age. He asked if I was still going to write about his people as much. As is o ften the case when a main course consists of entrails, some folks seemed a bit embarrassed, afraid that the taibo would be disgusted by the thought of eating menudo. So as not to be an ungracious guest, I headed to the kitchen and ladled myself a bowl, rif lamented that many elders had passed in the las t year and a half or so, and that a lot of traditional knowledge was disappearing. But he added that elders often refused to teach the youth on that


72 disappointm ent was directed toward the elders or the youth. He did explain that the younger microcosm of the same problem, finding little to do later that night other than get a country fried steak at a local diner. The next day, I met with a local elder working in the environmental office. She had long been involved with the treat y rights struggle, and also had a great deal of experience with consultation and heritage management. Hers was a not uncommon story of having been moved g etting a formal education in another state, and later returning to her homelands and getting involved with both heritage and its politics. She spoke fluent Shoshone, and revered those she spoke with deep skepticism toward consultation, and told many stories about butting heads with politicians, federal agents, and CSR anthropologists. Each of the latter were encountered in different contexts, but were described pre tty clearly as all being part of the same system. These three conversations took place outside of the project area for the dissertation. I recount them here because they give a simple illustration of the tensions and excesses of Shoshone heritage as I enc ountered them within a context tightly circumscribed in both time and space. We can seem mishaps of physical and mental well being, intergenerational silences, and paradoxical coextensions of apathy and dejected concern. We can also see the exploration of the power in both Shoshone traditions and Christian beliefs, and the continual centripetal pull of Shoshone homelands as against the centrifugal forces of educational and employment opportunities in distant urban centers. It was after the end of that trip that I began to develop the


73 topic for this dissertation, and looking back over my fieldnotes from the first 24 hours of the trip, it seems to have almost been predestined by circumstance. These tensions and excesses are compelling precisely because they a re poorly described and poorly addressed by current heritage management practices in Shoshone country. It would be manifestly unfair and unrealistic to expect each contracted CRM ethnographer to attempt to champion the Shoshone cause on these issues, or ev en to research the issues themselves according to academic standards. That is not what I am calling for. I am calling attention to the structural disjunctures that often seem to exacerbate community tensions while simultaneously promoting the spread and en trenchment of neoliberal multiculturalisms. I hope to call greater attention to the potential long term effects of the heritage federalization, as such, of the Newe landscape Anthropology is frequently a nd problematically conflated with its objects of inquiry. Tom study them. rather than that it is a discussion of worldly phenomena elicited for anthropologi cal purposes. 6 Such an elision mistakes the anthropological gaze as something transcendentally exterior to its object of study, rather than constructed in the process of studying that object (Latour 2005), and as though it were only the recorder of institu tions, rather than itself an institution in the world (Ntarangwi 2010). In Chapter 5, I elaborate on the example of one EIS for a major multi valley 6 Anthropology is itself, of course, a worldly phenomenon. However, the point is that the world is not always already defined by anthropology. The things anthropologists do in the world become objects and productions of anthropology. It d oes not follow that all things are defined by anthropological inquiry a priori


74 consultation effor primarily a redaction of an ethnographic report whose central focus was identifying new Fe deral Lands Policy and Management Act (1976). Although the affected tribes were quite vocal in their protests of the project for a variety of reasons, including economic, social, and political concerns, their responses were recorded as being meaningful onl y within the context of I have commented elsewhere (Morini 2013) on the problems with this framework. Nevada, which is led by urban develop ers, multinational mining corporations, and the designs of military installations. EISs are predominantly scientific documents, and when juxtaposed with paralla at risk of sounding maudlin or partisan, as values often refer to either a soft hearted inability to deal with hard realities (e.g. of the marketplace, or of national security), or the pushing of an out these days, the anthropological sections are divided into two chapters. The Native American Traditional Values chapter is ethnographic in focus, dominated by an interest in recording traditional cultural properties (TCPs), and on some level suggesting that the correct intermediary for a government to government relationship between sovereign entities is an independent ethnogr apher contracted to do heritage research. The archaeology chapter is nearly always


75 processual in approach, and it rarely, if ever, includes any input from native peoples, despite that it often bears a considerable focus on native heritage. Laurajane Smith (2004: 3) has observed that archaeology, as a privileged form of expertise, occupies a role in the governance than just conflicts over interpretation or differing values, they become embroiled in negotiations over the legitimacy of political and cultural claims made on the basis In response [to Indigenous challenges], archaeology has tended to maintain a discourse that stresses its position as an expert, n eutral and value free practice, despite a number of post modern incursions into the discipline. This response ensures that the power/knowledge strategy that underpins archaeological expertise is maintained in the face of critiques and challenges offered by Indigenous peoples. cultural identity, is to be maintained. those of Steven Simms, whose long and productive career has made him one of the foremost archaeologists of the Great Basin. In his recent synthesis of Great Basin archaeology, he writes (Simms 2008: 11 13, emphasis mine): Two premises anchor my story. The first is that a scientific approach must be the foundation for knowing the past. This is not because science is truth, but because all interpretations of the past, whether they arise from religious conviction, ethnic identity, politics, folklore, or writt en history originating in the blink of the past two centuries, must be evaluated against empirical evidence that actually originated in acknowledgement: Regardless of what one belie ves happened in the past, and no The only way to navigate the diversity of stories and the in evitable contention among while acknowledging the vagaries of the scientific process. The second premise of this book evolves from the first. The main reason for studying the past is because it is relevant now The past is with us in the present. It mirrors are our own selves. Kno wledge about a past that might not conform to our initial perceptions or to our traditional knowledge challenges us to see the modern world differently


76 Simms closes his book with ruminations on the significance of heritage management (Simms 2008: 275 6): More fragile than endangered species, the evidence from the past cannot reproduce tangible record. From that day on, the only way we will know the past is through the biases o f the present the culture wars, the religious and political agendas, and American past will exist only as seductive cultural images made in the present While this is not in itself bad, it is undeniably incomplete. Until the day comes when we destroy the tangible evidence of the past, the ancient peoples will live with us in the present through the archaeology. Knowledge of them based on evidence from their times instead of o urs is a crucial hedge against the temptation to fashion antiquity only in terms of power, dogma, or whim. I have quoted Simms at length because his framing of the book speaks quite directly to the problem that drove this dissertation. The book, Ancient Pe oples of the Great Basin and Colorado Plateau truly is an unparalleled overview of Basin Plateau archaeology. It clarifies a great many issues and invigorates productive debates. It also offers little, if any, consideration of living native peoples. In th is construction, despite his repeated caveats about its contingency and inevitable partiality, Simms asserts that only Binfordian, scientific archaeology can shine light on the truth of the past. Science here is conceded to be quite imperfect, but it is ad vanced as the only way, and its articulation to present concerns will ostensibly be mediated only by unflinching acceptance of its privileged position. a curious construction that evokes a vague and unspecified universal human subject who is probably, but not necessarily, a generalized American citizen. At no point is there significant discussion of the meaning of native heritage to contemporary natives; when any non archaeologist interacts with t he material past in


77 Shoshones, Paiutes, Washoes, Utes, or other Basin Plateau peoples have any greater relation to their ancestral past than any other Americ an citizens have on that same past. And we thus find ourselves confronted with a strange disjuncture. Simms meticulously depicts a rich and variegated human past suffused with cultural and sociopolitical diversity, even yet it is a fragile and finite past, threatened by an infinite but indistinct and quintessentially postmodern present in which reality p trump card to all bias. Should we learn enough about the past, should we study enough lithic scatters and map enough charcoal pits, source enough obsidian and ma era settlements, the weight of the evidence will somehow displace prejudice. If the past is indeed so powerful, one wonders why its relevance to native peoples is not meaningfully considered in consider that the past is itself already imbricated in power, nor that research is as well he argues, in essence, that science will simply discover universal truths if we sift out enough of the social influences that create distortion and bias, and it was extract living people from it. Simms is not necessarily a barometer f or Great Basin anthropology, but his dedication to processual archaeology, and the conceptual barriers he seems to erect against substantive collab oration with native communities are indicative of the general trends within the field. This is especially tru e of CRM archaeology in the Basin, as it is of CRM more generally (Smith 2004; Brewster 2003). CRM companies have conducted entire panels at the biennial Great Basin


78 Anthropology Conference, and CRM practitioners often give papers alongside academic anthro pologists. As such, it is clear that Nevada CRM does not exist in a vacuum outside of academic anthropology. first term creates a strong sense of separation, and the second quite suddenly creates a sense of personal connection. The separation is isomorphic with the chapter divide between Cultural Resources and Native American Traditional Values that I mentioned above. D (King 1998). The underlying reason that living native peoples can be so neatly severed from the his own graduate in no uncertain terms to steer clear of Indians whenever doing archaeological fieldwork. American Indians, I past is only a somewhat more politically correct repetition of the last statement above. And archaeology in Nevada follows from the same logic. I suspect that some of the reading audience for this dissertation will already have anticipated the critique that follows. So, I will hasten to


79 point out that while I am critical of the CRM approach as I have seen it, there is great value in recognizing that the past can surprise us. Indeed, were i t not for his complete refusal to engage with the politics of anthropology or archaeology, and his treatment of all stakeholders as equal attending carefully to minu te changes and regional transformations sufficiently subtle that he potentially important complement to oral tradition. esistant to learning new details about their past from a taibo archaeologist. In fact, they will say as much rather bluntly. This resistance is not because they are incapable of being fascinated by the past, nor because contemporary peoples are caught up i n the contamination of politics, but precisely because the relationship between Basin archaeologists and native peoples is already so politically charged that there is little room for meaningful dialogue. If white Americans are being invited to view materi al traces sharing be seen as anything other than a continuation of the colonial project? Early colonial settlement and expansion never focused on artifacts, but heritage management legislation has since designated artifacts on federal lands as federal property, and archaeologists are complicit in evoking them as constitutive elements of the imagined community of America (sensu Anderson 1992). Archaeology here bec omes a nation building enterprise in which the colonial politics of these exercises in alterity can provide. Simms is not alone in arguing that only the pursuit of empirical objectivity can transcend politics and agendas. Other Basinists (e.g. Bettinger 1991), and anthropologists generally


80 (Kuznar 2008), have made much the same argument, and in the process inadvertently argued for control over heritage. Yet the c ontours of the argument are not limited to scientific approaches. Ian Hodder has been critical of the limits of scientific approaches, and scientific discourse, throughout his career (e.g. Hodder 1982, 1991). He has been critical of the fact that global he ritage management standards under UNESCO elevate science as the arbiter of the value of heritage (Hodder 2010: 862). Yet in the same article, he writes (Hodder 2010: 871): to develop a notion of heritage rights that focuses on social justice (rather than solely on the universal value of the objects and monuments themselves) witho ut the entitlement to that jus tice being based on the assumption of exclusionary descent. A starting definition of cultural heritage rights might then be: Ever yone has a right to participate in and benefit from cultural heritage. The key this definition does is focus on the right that we all have to participate in and benefit f rom cultural heritage. This is the right described in Article 27 of the 1948 UN [Universal Declaration of Human Rights] but it avoids the notion that we the right to des cent. Hodder proposes to move away from a stakeholder model that privileges descent and ownership, and toward a model centered on social justice. It is a worthy idea for debate, which is exactly how he poses it. Yet he wrestles with many of the same issue s as Kuznar (2008) when the latter considers the problems of anthropologists elevating some societies under the supposition that they are underprivileged or harmless while casting aspersion on others for being oppressive or abusive of their power. These ar guments ultimately share a view that the protection of native effectively of heritage that paradoxically put it in danger of being estranged from local populations. Indigenous peoples have already had far too much difficulty defending their heri tage under the long accepted rubric of descent.


81 Before I explore these issues in greater depth, I should do more to unpack the concept of heritage itself. Heritage O ne insight of recent anthropological literature is that heritage needs to be understood t hrough practice, and not simply as a collection of ideas, materials, or even both. It has often been commented that heritage consists of present uses of the past (Lowenthal 1998; Harvey past and denoting a relationship between past and present. Heritage comprises both the roots and rootedness of culture. One might even consider it to be the crux or pivot of the figure ground relationship between culture and history things passed down from previous generations could be duct taped to a car, these words incisively encapsulate the dynamic s of the term. present. It is the continual movement between synchrony and diachrony that structures and sustains historical consciousness. Heritage is the space carved out and reinscribed through inevitable contestation. Anthropology is not simply an outside observer to this contestati on, but always part of it, however small the overt role it may play. When I argue in Chapter 1 that anthropology is an elaborated form of heritage discourse, this is part of what I mean if culture is itself constituted by instantiation through actions, dis cussions, and thoughts, then a discipline centered around recording all three for the purposes of creating new understandings of their implications itself becomes part of that process. The work of anthropologists is never free of politics and never free of implications for peoples of the


82 world. A field that situates itself within social and cultural dynamics needs to engage with the wider world. On this point, I agree with Simms: the realities that anthropologists can describe can offer powerful alternative perspectives. Part of this necessary engagement requires working with communities who have borne the brunt of legacies of exploitation and inequality. Anthropology has always tended to gravitate toward study of the marginalized and displaced, and anthro pologists have long recognized the need to develop reciprocal relationships with the communities they study (e.g. Hymes 1969; Asad 1973; Harrison 1991; Biolsi and Zimmerman 1997; Schmidt 2010), a move that has taken on particular urgency as indigenous scho lars and leaders have increasingly challenged the discipline (e.g. Deloria 1969; Langford 1983; Mihesuah 1996; Smith 1999; Simpson 2007; Atalay 2006, 2012; Yellowhorn 2002; Brewster 2003; Wilcox 2009). American archaeology has been generally slower to res pond to these critiques than has the cultural subfield; Laurajane Smith (2004) demonstrates that as measured against the relationship between Australian archaeologists and aboriginal populations, whose settler colonial context is fairly similar, the U.S. s eems fraught with greater conflict and a greater tendency to litigate to resolve issues 9000+ year old body which was found in Washington state in 1996. Eight archaeologists litigated for the right to analyze the remains, which the Confederated Bands of the Umatilla Indian Reservation wished to reinter. In the end, the 9 th Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in favor of the archaeologists, on the grounds that none of the native peoples involved with the suit could demonstrate unequivocal evidence of ancestry or cultural affiliation that stretched back over 9000 years (Thomas 2000; Owsley and Jantz 2001; TallBear 2007). Again, though this cursory treatment does no justice to the immense complexity of the case, we can see science being pitted


83 initial plans were to tra nsport him to the Smithsonian without any permission so that he could be studied in comfort and Perhaps such tensions are inevitable. Certainly, for some Shoshone elders with whom ns seem natural. But I would suggest that this discourse of inevitability stems from ideological constructions of science, which often pit it against religion or against personal values and we can see both in passages quoted above. Consider these words of a Duckwater tribal official: if our oral traditions go back, according to, you know, according to the Anglo timetable, ten, fifteen thousand years, that should be respected. You know, because we see fights over the Spirit Cave Man, the Kennewick Man, just to name two of was no present day Native American tribe that have cultural affinity with that individual. Now, when the tribes meet the preponderance of evidence, there shou ld what? Just because we prove we have remains, you kno We have history. Ou r history goes back to the beginning of time. See, with the continues. Yeah, we know better than to stop. [Laughter] I argue that the discursive finalities of this statemen t are better understood as strategically absolute reactions to a broken dialogue than they are ingrained ideological oppositions. The dialogue is broken precisely because there has been a long history of silence, neglect, and open hostility. I have not met many Newe who expressed any interest in the sorts of questions that Basin archaeology usually asks. Insofar as Newe are interested in heritage management, it seems largely focused on preservation or avoidance. Yet there are Newe who are quite interested in the study of their history. Despite initial suspicion, I received


84 considerable encouragement from some Newe for this very reason. This encouragement was grounded in documenting what their own elders know, or rediscoveri ng whatever sorts of fragments exist in books and archives. Archaeologists are excluded from these considerations, I suspect, because elders fear the strong potential for co optation. Such concerns are certainly justified. The vast majority of archaeology conducted in Shoshone territory has been undertaken on federal land, paid for either by federal agencies or major corporations, and has resulted in most artifacts being excavated and shipped off to the Nevada State Museum in Carson City, where boxes upon boxes collect dust as they await a hypothetical graduate student to harvest their data and advance the subtleties of anthropological knowledge. Federal officials and anthropologists alike related to me a folkloric fantasy, the El Dorado quest of Nevada CRM in which some brave soul would finally write a comprehensive synthesis of volumes upon volumes of rarely consulted gray literature data. On the other hand, personal memories of archaeologists are usually hard to come by in Newe communities, and when one finds them they are often stories of betrayal. One man in Duckwater recalled becoming friends with an archaeologist when he was a child, accompanying him as he hiked around the reservation, but explained that the man was later ejected from the reservation for surreptitiously removing artifacts or burials. From a Newe perspective, archaeology is usually the harbinger of open pit mines or infrastructure projects such as pipelines or power lines, and it is the tool by which Shoshone people become further disp ossessed of their heritage as mitigation plans tangibly erase them from the landscape. What to Simms and other archaeologists is an invaluable, fragile record of the past, is to some Shoshones an irreplaceable record of the past only insofar as it remains in place. The archaeological view of heritage is thus utilitarian and instrumental: material traces are


85 useful for what we can learn from them. In the views of some Newe, these material traces of past action are themselves as much a part of the landscape a s any other features. As the Duckwater official said later in the abovementioned interview: collect everything on the surface, and proceed from there. So basically, what And thinking of the blood degree is t hat the government is going to... Here we go se. I mean, what if you really look at it what other race of people on this planet The move in this statement from archaeological erasure to racial and legal erasure is telling. Burials, artifacts, and blood are in this sense part of the same networ k of relations, part of the same sense of connection to the landscape. Thus, the story about the archaeologist who was kicked out of Duckwater speaks to a wider issue. One of the central reasons that Newene were slow to trust me and tell me about important places was precisely because they feared that if information about these locations were discovered, burials and artifacts would be removed. Since my first trip to Newe Sogobia in 2008, I have heard a steady stream of tales some vague and fable like, some specific and historical detailing incidents where a Newe elder trusted a taibo and showed him or her the location of something important, only to find later that it had disappeared into a museum or a private collection. I am often told that the traditiona recent discourse that evolved in response to archaeology, it seems more accurate that this is a longstanding disc ourse that has taken new meaning and new emphasis in response to archaeology. It both reflects the power dynamics of heritage management, and demonstrates that


86 anthropology can have an observable effect on the ways that people emphasize and reinterpret lon gstanding aspects of their heritage. My work is not the first to document Newe beliefs that artifacts and burials should remain undisturbed (Miller 1983a, 1983b; Clemmer 1990). But let us consider some of the statements that I encountered. I will draw thes e only from oral history interviews that I conducted and recorded these are representative of many more conversations I have had in and outside of the study area that I did not record. Duckwater asse that the Tribe secured from the National Park Service to visit museums across the country and y, but an advisory council with which heritage issues are often discussed before the tribal council makes a final decision. This Committee also was able, on the funding, to go to museums in other states in the past decade, including the Peabody Museum at H arvard and the Smithsonian in I traveled with Maurice back to New York, to the one of the museums. We went bu t... Colorado. It was a good thing. We usually ended up in the basement, or some and the remains you know, the bones. I was the prayer person. I used to pray. I would take my sage my sage and my cedar, and I always like to pray with my sage and my cedar, you know, [gesturing], doing that... I prayed with the remains of the people. I see them the remains of our people boxed up in boxes, in sad thing to see them there, because they people, you know pray for them, that they would all return home someday. And like, like they used to gather they say that they used t o take the skulls... The bigger the skull, the more money you will get, for the Indian skull. [Laughter] in the museums. So it was good, it was a good thing. Some of the rema ins know if I should tell you all of this some of the remains are very powerful. You scare the re, among the dead bones? [Laughter] But I figure, these are my people. These


87 other bad vibes. In this statement, we can see several paradigmatic themes. First, the belief that bodies are still people, connected to spirits, and that those spirits should remain in their home in the earth where they were laid. Second, that disturbing them can be dangerous, and that even being in the vicinity of an excavated skeleton could have dangerous consequences. And third, that Newene can feel an intimate connection even to the bones of a stranger. Another elder spoke more directly to the issues of excavating burials. This particular elder is a self professed Christian, and does not ident thoughts on the issue. HB: know. Now, we was traveling a something, we bury it in the same place, mo st of the time. RM: Just where they found it? HB: Yeah, where they were. Dug up. We just bury them. And what do you call it, artifacts and things like that. There was one belief th at we had that you bury bury with them. Money, gold, everything. RM: HB: Maybe some around. RM: Were you raised with the belief that it can be dangerous to p ick up even arrowheads or artifacts on the ground, or was that...? HB: RM: So how do you think the tribe needs to deal with the fact that... Well, you know, and


88 tribe to do in terms of dealing with it for future generations, in terms of how to think about dealing with these kinds of things? HB: u know, digging it up over here... Well, mines is gone. To, what do you call it... Make it like it used to be. You know, at the mines. The belief that burials should remain in p lace was more or less constant in these discussions with Newe elders. The issue of artifacts, however, is a slightly grayer area. I will include several statements below and then offer comments at the end: Example 1 CG: In my family, it was okay to get [a rrowheads]. Every once in a while, you would leave an offering. You would, if you had some loose change in your pocket, just, would go to find arrowheads. And arrowheads to us are sacred, because they can of people wear the cross as a symbol of Christianity around their necks. And I think part of our culture that I was taught was the arrowhead had the same RM: Would there be a special reason to go out and get an arrowhead like that, or was that just something that CG: A lot of our arrowhead hunting was just something to do. Because if Grandpa was maybe hunting rabbits, or we were out camping, or we was on our way to go visit somebody, or we would stop for lunch, and then Granny would walk along in found arrowheads. It was something to do. Maybe she wanted to exercise, or But she would always carry a bod o [walking stick]. to bend over, she would just flip them up and walk through and find stuff like tha t. [Different excerpt from same interview:] CG: But [Grandma] used to, she would show us places where they used to gather pinenuts, and where they would hunt for arrowheads. And some of that pinenut gathering areas would still have the rock rims, the circ les where they would gather of the shell and use their winnowing baskets to cull the ones good out. And she showed me where those rock rims was. And also, one time,


89 when we had gone through there I was was still quite young there was a burial pla nted some posts, and put some chicken wire around it, to kind of preserve the grave. But there was deaths. Periodically, that would happen. They were told I remember who was b uried where. RM: CG: Know whose relative, or who got buried there. If it was their aunt, or if it was their cousin, or if it was a relative, they would just know that that person had died, particular one, there was a marker placed. I think it was just a wooden headboard, and then the corner post, and it was surrounded. Example 2 DG: Oh... Well, for me, I used to go hunting for arrowheads. I mean you know, they were spears, heads. And uh, I could neve in a museum where other people can see it. Th RM: DG: No, mm three or four deers and that was his prize. And, you know, sometimes... My dad tol pick it up, put it in the museum, other people can see that. I can understand that. Otherwise, people take them and put it in their homes. It might bring them bad luck LG: DG : Yeah, just keep it. Keep it where it is and let other people look at it, officials know about it so they can decide what to do with it, or the elders of the community can decide on what to do with that. And like I said, it might be from open grave or fr om years of the rain coming down to the creek and, you know. RM: DG: Good.


90 Example 3 RM: Where [did you collect grinding stones]? LS: them where they used to camp. When they move, they just bury it. You have to look somepla to you. It was put there, so you can thank the RM: LS: Yes, you can get hur t. If you pick up something that might belong to someone, you know, a person with a power or something; you always pray to the things. If do. Example 4 RM: As far as artifacts go, were you taught to leave things where they were because they had a place there?... MFC: what, who the individual that messed around w ith it. Maybe you have some bad ju are. RM: MFC: nly because Especially in a rural area like this. You go down into these local ranchers, and see out there poking around all the time, you know? You talk about respecting the law, go down there and go talk to them. Them guys are the lawbreakers. A few common themes merit consideration here. First, in stark contrast to the assumptions of processual ar chaeology, a traditional Newe view of artifacts presumes them all to have biographies. One of the dangers of collecting an artifact is not necessarily the sanctity of the


91 object itself, but the fact that one cannot know if it had been cursed, or if it was buried with someone and then forces of nature exposed the object and transported it to an unassuming location. I think it is reasonable to state that most non natives who find a projectile point see it as a functional object, and envision its connection to people in only as personal a way as functional and structural functional approaches afford. In contrast, it appears to be a default perspective for produce are veste d in continuities of tradition and social relationships, rather than in the alterity and difference that Simms and other archaeologists would advocate. We can also see that despite the proscriptions, many Newe remember collecting artifacts with no more j ustification than the happenstance of encountering them on a walk across the landscape. Yet one elder suggested that the danger might be less in an official capacity for public view, but could be magnified by keeping the objects in a private collection, pe rhaps encouraging the spirits connected to it to drop in and visit. I have heard stories of spirits doing just that after a grinding stones. The elder who recall s having to pray over grinding stones before digging them up for use is over 80 years old, and it is not insignificant that she remembers being raised with that belief as a child. Food is seen as a very dangerous domain in Newe tradition. Elders are carefu sense that particular care might have been taken in acquiring objects that would be used to prepare food (cf Rucks 1995 on grinding stones among the Washoe of Nevada). What we see in these quotations, as I have seen throughout my experiences in Newe Sogobia, is a potentially conflicting combination of programmatic statements forbidding the disturbance of cultural items, an openness to curiosity and the collect ing behaviors that


92 fascination can engender. I am reminded of the words of processual archaeologist William legitimate reason to do archaeology is a genuine curiosity approaches cannot just be programmatically inserted into Newe life, it is clear that there is sufficient common ground for a conversation. I would suggest this as further support that it is not inherent and irreconcila ble differences between anthropologists and Newene that render anthropology so distasteful, but the deeper politics and colonial entanglements within which the Bas in archaeology, nowhere does he address any of these concerns that Newe elders articulate. Dealing with archaeologists could readily seem a zero sum scenario under these circumstances, in that native peoples in general often have good reason to fear that if they give an inch, they lose a mile. The approach to archaeology in EISs, which excludes native voices that the only voice that matters in understanding the past is that of science. And while anthropology has been firmly legislated into a mandated role in environmental assessment and resource management, most of the legislative protections of Native American cultural sites are weak and uncertain. When it comes to the environmental impacts of development projects, anthropology is assured of its place at the table, but native peoples are only assured of the right which judges are then reluctant to question. Except in the case of burials, the only definite (Chapter 5).


93 Legal Frameworks and Sovereignty A commonsense understanding of heritage management policy, and the role of Environmental Impact Statements, seems to be that they are designed to protect natural and cultural resources. This understanding is not entirely incorrect, but it obscures the dynamics and limitations of that p rotection. With a rare exceptions (e.g. in the case of NAGPRA; see below), heritage management laws and environmental policies are procedural They do not mandate any particular course of action or kind of protection for any given resource, regardless of w hat distinctions the site may have e.g. nomination to the National Register of Historic Places, or even World Heritage Site designation. Instead, they mandate that the federal agency overseeing any given development project should gather all relevant infor mation, listen to any individuals and communities who might potentially be affected by the project, and then make the best decision in terms of approving, modifying, or denying the project. The problem is that all of the important aspects of that process are only enforceable through basic audit procedures that constitute a potentially sterile checklist (cf Strathern 2000). In fact, checklists and spreadsheets are a commonplace feature of contemporary EISs. Communications and interactions with any and all T ribes are dutifully logged as separate, dated messages left on answering machines, emails, snail mail letters, presentations, conversations, and so forth. Public let ters received as comments on the draft EIS are bundled into one or more appendices, and the lead agency then responds to each in turn using a spreadsheet to economize its answers. Ostensibly regardless of the content of the letter, any evidence that the ag ency recognizes that content and consulted it before making its decision suffices as compliance. On one major project in eastern Nevada (Chapter 5), the Te Moak Shoshone Tribe elected to abstain from participation in the EIA, stating both that they wished to defer to the


94 Tribes that were closer to the Area of Projected Effects (APE), and that out of opposition to the project they chose not to participate. Fabiana Li (2009) has documented similar actions in Peru, finding that the EIA process functioned to b reak down opposition to mining projects into manageable pieces that could then be serially answered by experts. In response, some of the protesters she met abstained from the EIA process entirely, as they believed that non participation was the only viable strategy for resistance. While in Duckwater, I was struck by the rapacity of the processes of inclusion and accretion that characterize heritage management. A Duckwater official stated: Consultation is when we have a group of individuals that are decision makers and nate the comes into play. And you assign them with that task. And they assign their little guys with the task. And we go do what the objective what we want to reach as a tribe a all try to reach the same goal at the same time. And from there, the tribe can decide whether they want to approve or disapprove a project. But, along the way, we stay in constan consultation is decision makers sitting at the council table. public meetings, public comments, and other documents of procedure by which diverse stakeholders are encouraged to pa rticipate in the process. And this standard is applied despite at a local community center where one reads a short statement in front of agency representative s so that it can be transcribed and then included in the spreadsheet of recorded comments. makers on the federal end, beyond dutifully cataloguing the comment, but it contr ibutes another entry on the


95 list of participants that demonstrate that the federal agency did, indeed, recruit participants and properly keep a list of them. However, it is facile at best to blame the federal agencies directly or solely for the situation as the problem is fundamentally systemic. A creative bureaucrat committed to social justice usually has to choose between being a bureaucrat or being so committed. Besides, heritage management in the U.S. is rooted in a broad assemblage of laws, policies and executive orders, and both the letter and the spirit of the laws are contested. A reader interested in examining these laws in greater detail might consult any of several robust handbooks on the subject (e.g. King 2008; Hardesty and Little 2010). The interest here is particularly on two points. First, how do law and policy construct the object of their instrumentalization how heritage is constructed through the ongoing articulations between policies and practices? And second, what are the forms of dis cursive power that these policies both authorize and afford? Understanding the interaction between these is key to understanding the ways that Newe heritage intersects with heritage management. The two charter documents of heritage management in the U.S. are the National Historic Preservation Act, or NHPA (1966), and the National Environmental Policy Act, or NEPA (1969). NHPA authorized the creation of the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation, as well as the National Register of Historic Places (NRHP) NEPA mandated the EIA process, and transformed the internal culture of many federal agencies, as they were forced to begin employing scientific specialists and formally instituting rational decision making procedures (cf. Skillen 2009; Espeland 1998). I will highlight a few other laws in the space below. I will follow a basic chronological order for the sake of simplicity.


96 Antiquities Act (1906) : This act forbade the general public from excavating or taking artifacts from federal lands, authorized the pr esident to declare national landmarks and monuments, and authorized the Secretaries of the Interior, Agriculture, and War to grant permits for scientific excavation on federal lands. By the 1970s, the Antiquities Act was recognized as being too difficult t o enforce, leading to ARPA in 1979 (see below). National Historic Preservation Act (1966) : This act was famously promulgated by First With Heritage So Rich (U.S. Conference of Mayors 1965) that called for a more comprehensive program to mitigate the effects of national growth on the older parts of the built environment (cf. overviews in King 2008; Stipe 2003). It called for the creation of the Advisory Counc il on Historic Preservation (ACHP), and created the National Register of Historic Places (NRHP) so as to create a centralized inventory of places designated as NRHP eligible. It is of particular importance to note that as regards protection and mitigation, the treatment of sites officially nominated to the NRHP versus those which are simply found to be eligible can, in fact, be negligible. Two sections of NHPA are of the greatest relevance to anthropologists. The famous Section 106 mandates two basic action potential effects on historic properties that any pending actions might have; and second, they must allow sufficient time for the ACHP to comment on those actions. King (2008: 109) notes icate project review process has grown from these two requirements over the last federal agencies must create historic preservation plans, and that they must m anage their historic places data such that it will be usable to any scholars who are interested and qualified. Section


97 110 also requires federal agencies to develop their own internal procedures to ensure the even and systematic application of NHPA to thei r review processes. National Environmental Policy Act (1969) : It is not hard to see the mark of the 1960s U.S. environmental movement on this legislation, as Section 2 declares that it has four basic purposes: improving the human relationship with the envi ronment, promoting better environmental practices, promoting greater understanding of ecosystems and the national environment, and establishing a regulatory body for these purposes (the Council of preserve important historic, cu ltural, and natural as pects of our nation al herit age, and maintain, wherever pos sible, an environment which supports diversity and variety of individual choice Act spells out the guidelines for what would later become Environmental Impact Statements. Executive Order 11593 (1972) : eligible properties as though they were listed in the register, and ordered [the National Park Service] to esta this executive order, federal agencies were prone to avoid the headaches of consultation by making it difficult for eligible sites to be nominated. If the site did not successfully make it onto the NRHP, then it could be ignored. After E.O. 11593, the focus shifted from quibbling over whether any sites qualified, to deciding how to manage the sites in a given area. American Indian Religious Freedom Act (1978) : Th policy of the United States to protect and preserve for American Indians their inherent right of


98 the fact that it nee ds to declare a new policy of defending inherent rights that should already have been protected by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, since American Indians have been including bu t not limited to access to sites, use and possession of sacred objects, and the freedom to worship through ceremonials and traditional rit objects stolen or destroyed (e.g. by missionary organi zations), and against being barred access to sites will see an exam ple of this in Chapter 6, when a court ruled that a mining company was only required to ensure that Shoshones could access a cultural site, but not that any protections were to be granted to the lands surrounding it. Archaeological Resources Protection Act (1979) This act is in some sense an update of the Antiquities Act; its most basic purpose is the same. ARPA declares that it is illegal to remove artifacts, deface properties, or conduct excavations without a permit, and it specifies penalties and procedu res for enforcement. Notably, semantic effects here. The first is that, as Australian aboriginal commentators have pointed out the materials in question in the same general category as many other parts of the landscape e.g. mineral resources, water resources, etc. This move facilitates the commensurability upon which fo rmal rational decision making is founded (Espeland 1998). The second point is that it makes eliding the fact that it is the converse of


99 common sense. We might all understand and anticipate that archaeology depends on artifacts; but here, the Act establishes formally that all artifacts on federal lands depend on archaeology. This creates a new power relation that privileges sanctioned (i.e. federally permitted) scientific inquiry over other forms of engageme nt, and it also subtly makes all artifacts or other materials of archaeological interest on federal lands federal property. In the process, federal agencies become the arbiters of legitimate versus illegitimate practice; in the language of the Act, the dif Section 9 goes on to authorize control of information as well as materials, forbidding the re liminality of the so archaeologists to access these reports. In the situation of rural Nevada tribes that tend to boast few PhDs even today, these reports sometimes remain inaccessible for extended periods. Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (1990) : Volumes have been written about this law, debating context and content, intentions an d effects. In particular, we should note that the law came about as a long term result of American Indian Movement protests of archaeological sites, and that it was the culmination of a variety of actions and strategies by native peoples in a variety of ca pacities. The legislation took some of its specific shape in the 1980s as some anthropologists began to contribute to the project albeit while others were vocally protesting it (cf Thomas 2000). Here, I would like to focus on a few simple points. First, th e purpose of this act was largely to allow native peoples of the U.S., including Hawaii, the right to protect Indian burials and grave goods, and the right to reclaim and rebury burials or grave goods which were

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100 previously excavated and stored at museums. In tandem, it delineates basic guidelines for museums to put its mandates into practice. We should note that the Act was forced as all laws are up in cases such as that o the limiting factors of this law. It has also come up regarding the differences between federally recognized tribal entities, unrecognized entities, and individual native people. In a s ettler colonial context where native peoples have had to fight to maintain control over their identities, this is another instance where every shade of gray risks problematic legal loopholes. Perhaps of greatest significance is that NAGPRA is arguably the only law protecting matched by any laws purportedly protecting other cultural practices. NAGPRA is also significant because while other laws such as ARPA have in fact institutionalized anthropology and granted it a necessary, if narrow, role in governance, NAGPRA sets limits on that role, and privileges the rights of native utilitarian values that are prioritized, but rather those of descent, relatedness, and religious ethics. As such, the passing of NAGPRA has been a particular focal point of archa eologists in recent a phenomenon that Paiute archaeologist National Register of Historic Places Bulletin 38 Guidelines for Evaluating and Documenting Traditional Cultural Properties (1990) : The concept of Traditional Cultural Properties, or TCPs, was popularized by a NRHP bulletin (Parker and King 1998) written in 1990, amended in 1992 and 1998. TCPs are defined as a subset of historic places wherein

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101 ignificance [is] derived from the role the property plays in a comm unity's historically rooted field which largely arose to protect architectural landmarks such a s the homes of George Washington or Thomas Jefferson, buildings such as Independence Hall in Philadelphia, etc. (Hosmer 1965; Stipe 2003; Page and Mason 2004). NHPA was not written to exclude Indian sacred places, but it also was not written in a way that addresses them very robustly, and many properties that should indeed have qualified (Parker and King 1998). What is striking is that this bulletin has become somet hing of a quasi policy document despite that it is neither a law nor a regulation. One response to it by many federal agencies has been to create their own terminology for implementing NHPA (as mandated in Section 110); so, for instance, the Bureau of Lan d Management eschews the term TCP when possible, preferring its own in house term, Places of Cultural or Religious Importance (PCRI). Discussion We can see a few general trends in these laws. First, the protections conferred by ARPA and AIRFA are largely freedom. Insofar as these rights protect the freedoms of native peoples, they do so l argely on the terms of freedoms that are accorded to other American citizens indeed, it is inconceivable what purpose AIRFA serves other than as a simple throttle on racist practices of a colonial society, as it confers no freedoms that should not already have been recognized, and offers little in the way of addressing the unique circumstances of particular native peoples. We can also see the basic circumstances through which anthropology has taken a

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102 federal property, and federal agencies are beholden to control not just the resources but also the information and documentation regarding them. Anthropology becomes a vector for the gatekeeping of knowledge and the custody of objects which have been defined as coterminous during its inception, m uch of the focus was on two points: 1) how to prevent the wanton destruction of the archaeological record without so much as the least documentation, and 2) how to effectively counterbalance the need for rigorous professional archaeology with the budgetary and temporal limitations of the development projects threatening any given site (cf. Jennings 1963; Lipe 1974; Lipe and Lindsay 1974; McGimsey and Davis 1977). Today, while those points remain active subjects of debate (e.g. Sebastian and Lipe 2010), new concerns have arisen as well. For instance, early CRM was practiced largely by academic anthropologists, but by the making consulting ofessionalized, employing procedures and jargon certainly not necessarily superior to non academic anthropology, but the point is not which is better, but rather tha t some authors argue that there has been an increasingly entrenched separation between academic anthropologists and those working in private sectors. The growing problem that has most stood out to me is that of accumulation. I will draw a loose analogy wi th Western expansion. Many of the laws of Western states were clearly shaped by a context that sought to create the most favorable conditions for settlement. Efforts to reform water laws (Dunning 1997; Targ 1997) and the notorious mining law of 1872 (Leshy 1988, 2002), for instance, have been championed by critics who argue that the standing laws outlived their usefulness, now favoring powerful interests at the expense of the populations they were

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103 initially meant to empower. Or in other words, laws designed to attract people might not be the sorts of laws that enable them to resolve disputes equitably after they have settled in. If we look in particular at NHPA, NEPA, and agency specific laws such as the Federal Land Policy and Management Act (FLPMA) of 197 6, which pertained specifically to the BLM, we see that the laws were designed to address massive gaps in knowledge. Federal agencies were enjoined through each of these laws to perpetually update and increase their inventories of known places on the lands they administer. As I will illustrate in Chapter 5, this well intentioned directive can, if followed mechanically, make EIA feel like a sterile exercise in best audit procedures that fails to follow from either the letter or the spirit of the law, as fede ral agencies may reduce the focus of ethnographic consultation to little more than the expansion of their TCP inventories. In other words, federal agencies, wittingly or not, can end up subverting the EIA process so as to fulfill their own federal mandate of inventory growth without meaningfully It is widely understood that when native elders share cultural information with outsiders, their actions are usually either a sign of trust or a desperate m easure precipitated by duress. In the case of my own project, I have learned things gradually, as elders came to be comfortable The corollary to this approach is that I have often learned things in a manner that would seem unfocused to conventional project design, and often at a pace set by any given elder, such that it took time for the significance of what they told me to sink in Attempts on my part to direct this sort of learning were usually thwarted through redirection or unresponsiveness. It is a form of learning through which one learns simultaneously and inextricably about both tradition and the person sharing it.

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104 I have spoken with CRM ethnographers who not only understand these principles, but have experienced the same process firsthand and yet they are often required, by project constraints, to attempt to create immediate and transactional professional relationships to elicit data that is invariably shallower from people who feel coerced into speaking. Linda Tuhiwai Smith has commented on the importance of beginning all research projects in indigenous communities by asking questions about how the project will impact the community, and how the who approach these questions with some cynicism, as if they are a test merely of political a role in reinforcing such dispositions, as in research projects on public lands backed by massive corporate or federal funding, the questions can be flattened into veneers of political correctness. Under the duress of a major project that will soon dest roy important sites, elders have sometimes been pressed to share knowledge with people whom they did not trust, contract anthropologists they may never have met before, or federal agency officials whose motives they find suspect. Rarely, if ever, would kno wledgeable Newene actively want to sit down with a federal agency or anyone else and identify on a map all of the significant locations they could think of within a given landscape. Yet that dubious hypothetical scenario is what the current heritage manage ment system seems to desire. Shoshones have excellent reasons to be reserved in their trust of federal agencies that go beyond historical factors, or any form of programmatic distrust of authority. We have seen that heritage management legislation requir es that federal agencies accumulate more and more knowledge, and that they are also required to control access to that knowledge. More than once, I have heard stories of elders participating in EIA ethnographic projects for which neither they nor

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105 their Tri bes were able to receive the resulting report. The Tribes have often had greater difficulty accessing the archaeological reports compiled through EIA. W hile I was in Duckwater, two EISs came out requiring comments, and the tribe was unable to get the archa eological reports for either one until close to the end of the commenting period (Chapter 5). Under federal mandate, then, agencies are continually accumulating information which they are then reluctant to share with those who do not qualify as experts. Some Tribes and Nations have met this challenge by creating cultural resources offices for instance, Navajo (Carmean 2003, Two Bears 1996), Hopi (Kuwanwisiwma 2008), Choctaw (Watkins 2000), and others. Smaller tribes like Duckwater and Ely do not necessari ly have the resources to maintain cultural offices with any sort of comprehensive infrastructure. Duckwater has one full time cultural resources staff member, though he is stationed in an Environmental department that largely addresses reservation concerns such as invasive weed control, trash and sanitation, etc. Ely does not even have that much; when the Tribal Council receives notices regarding an upcoming project, tribal officials are either given the opportunity to take the lead, or to let Duckwater tak e the lead on the consultation. There are several people who have had experience working within the EIA framework, but no permanent position or office is assigned to deal with cultural resources. In the past, when the Tribes have attempted to obtain these reports, they had to attempt to arrange a Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) with the lead agency on the EIA. I saw a draft copy of a proposed MOU, which included rhetoric such as: The Tribe agrees to maintain the confidentiality of records containing the cultural resource and other information received under this Memorandum and by ensuring they are kept in a centralized secure location, with access limited to the Tribal Chair or designated Tribal representative. The information provided by the BLM will not be duplicated or shared outside of the Tribe and will not be used for any purpose other than consultation with the BLM.

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106 resources data would be stored, and only one tri bal member would be permitted to have possession of the key to it. When I asked BLM officials about this policy, the most reasonable justification given was that these practices were preventive measures against looting, not just for fear that regular trib al members (i.e. non officials) might get hold of it, but also that confidential information might be exposed to the general public. One aspect of this fear was that the documents might get lost and turn up in the wrong places and while this fear might see m racist or paternalistic, and it might well be, it nonetheless bears mention that specialized information and a lack of institutional infrastructure to manage it does keep the scenario from being entirely unrealistic. It when there is nowhere in particular to place it. Part of the conflict, then, is over the mismatch of knowledge systems and infrastructure. However, it remains inevitably paternalistic that the BLM or other Nevada federal agencies would presume to unilatera will not be duplicated or shared outside of the Tribe and will not be used for any purpose other than c onsultation with the BLM information also federal property, such that the Tribes have no right to it, and no sovereign right to use it for other purposes? If the Tribe found it necessary to litigate, would the admissibility of the c ultural resources information be called into question due to this clause? The corollary aspect of the lack of cultural resources infrastructure in these relatively small Tribes is that what capacity they do have to deal with EIA issues overall is quickly overwhelmed by the constant streams of letters, EAs, EISs, calls for site visits, etc. Without

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107 infrastructure, it is difficult for the Tribes to keep up with these issues, much less address them all squarely on both procedural and analytical terms. In 2012 Duckwater executed a statewide data sharing agreement that should facilitate access to these documents; we will see how this changes the situation. The sharing of this information is crucial to Tribal decision making on projects, at least as far as cult ural resources are concerned. We have already considered the nature and extent of colonial dispossession in Chapter 2. We must also consider the fact that most Newe sacred sites are family matters; they will not necessarily have been shared outside of the extended family. To the best of my knowledge, they are usually relatively secluded places that for one or another reason are special. They stand out from the landscape once one becomes familiar with them, but they are not necessarily conspicuous from afar. Given the massacres, the murders, the forced and voluntary migrations, and other forms of dispossession and displacement, it should seem rather predictable that there would be sacred sites that have been lost from living memory. Nonetheless, some such sit es have identifiable markers, often small features that indicate prayer and other ritual activities. It would be truly foolish to believe that when such sites are located, they are of no importance to the Newe living in the area today, simply because all o killed or driven away long ago. However, Newe elders have told me more than once that even in the paradox of having to try to convince federal agencies to share information with the Tribes about native heritage sites, one Newe man commented to me: the problem is, guess taibos

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108 it was from tribal people. Just Consultation often seems to operate like a sort of cu ltural competency examination: if participants are not able to blindly identify the same locations that archaeologists find, then they are not privy to that information. I suggested this several times to Newene who had participated in consultation intervie ws, and they emphatically agreed. The underlying suggestion seems to be technical reports without ever having read them. After having survived multiple cross cutting efforts by the settler colony to stamp out their culture, indigenous peoples are now expected to demonstrate unerring continuity with the past, without any changes that offend the tastes of Euro American romanticism (cf. Povinelli 2003). As Shannon Dawdy (2009: 134) has put it, ful, if The following chapters will explore some of the complexities of putting these laws and policies into practice. Their central emphasis is on the aspects of Newe heritage that are not well addressed by heritage management practices. By illustrating some of the messiness and complexity on the back end of heritage, I hope to clarify just why so many Newene h ave found heritage management disillusioning.

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109 CHAPTER 4 HERITAGE AND LAND Treaty Rights and Consultation A poignant irony of Newe history is that Western Shoshone treaty rights issues were gaining important international recognition a decade ago, ev en as the movements were rapidly losing much of their grassroots support. In the first decade of the new millennium, international human rights bodies of the United Nations and the Inter American Commission found that Treaty of Ruby Valley (cf. epilogue to Blackhawk 2006). Never before had the case been so clearly supported by an independent authority. Had these international victories been won several decades earlier they might have been celebrated throughout Shoshone country, and might have galvanized political action. Instead, they seem to have passed almost unnoticed amongst Newe communities in the early 2000s. Although the decisions appear to have had some effect on multinational corporations (Chapter 6), there have been few obvious effects on Newe politics or lifeways. Nonetheless, the Treaty of Ruby Valley continues to arise as an important issue in heritage management discourses through ethnographic interview s and comments submitted by individual Tribal members in response to EIS documents. To non natives working in heritage management, these rhetorical applications often seem misplaced and misguided. enough ial,

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110 regardless of their own intentions. The EIS i s not a forum in which laws can be adjudicated or court rulings can be challenged. Precedent precludes federal or state agencies from operating according to the terms of the Treaty. 1 I am unaware of any instance in which a project was significantly altered due to treaty rights discourse in the EIA process. I have come to understand that the Shoshones who recite the Treaty rights objections on EISs are doing so in accordance with the formalities and procedures of audit culture. Many Shoshones who are famil iar with the EIA process seem to be inured to their comments being ignored or otherwise rendered ineffectual. The purpose of reciting the same information about the Treaty that has been recited countless times before is, to have put on record that they sta ted that it was relevant to the present situation. That way, it cannot be claimed by lawyers, or corporate executives, or anyone else, that the Treaty was not mentioned in consultation and thus no longer held meaning for Western Shoshones. I have often bee n told by Newene about the importance of having the comments on the record, and my experiences were no different in Duckwater and Ely. The Tribe might not expect federal agencies or project proponents to make many changes, but at least if it came up in cou rt, there would be a record of the objection. In this way, Shoshones have come to terms with the genre of the EIS. The federal agencies executing the EIA have to fill the EIS with legal and pseudo legal boilerplate to cover their interests and liabilities, reciting largely unchanging formulae because it might be held against them in court if they failed to do so. It should come as no surprise that Newene have appropriated these discursive strategies. 1 specify any other treaties directly.

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111 The deeper question remains: why has the Treaty been su ch a focal point of heritage discourse? The active treaty rights activists today comprise a small minority of Newene. A s I will discuss below, there has been a great deal of contention within Newe communities over the meaning and relevance of the Treaty, a nd these disputes run back to the early 20th century if not before. It might be said that no issue has more bitterly divided Newe communities than that of the Treaty of Ruby Valley. It has in one fashion or another been connected to nearly all of the major disputes and political events in Newe Sogobia. There is no programmatic answer to what the Treaty means for Shoshones today, but as Newene have variously answered the questions that it poses, at the core of their efforts they have shaped understandings of what Shoshone heritage is, and what it means to be Shoshone. The EIA process gives us a glimpse into the role that traditional lands will play in the lives of future generations of Newene, as heritage management is the vanguard of the development efforts through which the landscape becomes reshaped, renamed, and redefined. Because the Treaty can be such a contentious matter, this chapter presents difficulties in e tough like that, Shoshones always fight. No matter how you write the history, about half the introduction that Newe communities have long been misrepresented by outsiders who were hunting only for a particular kind of story, happy to hear it from only a handful of Newene, I was thinking of the Treaty. It is through the Treaty struggle that some Newe have become internationally renowned activists and public spe akers, while many others feel silenced within their shadows. It was around the Treaty that Newene challenged U.S. settler colonialism by

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112 organizing in ways that resonated with non native audiences in America and elsewhere. Individual Newe lives have not n ecessarily been dominated by the Treaty, but the Treaty returns again and again in formal politics The lived meanings of the Treaty of Ruby Valley have in this sense become a total social fact. Marcel Mauss (1966:76 78) defined total social facts as which ar considering them as wholes that [one can] see their essence, their operation and their living aspect, and to catch the fleeting moment when the society and its members take emotional stock little interest in the Treaty, or that they did not hear about it growing up. However, social facts operate on a macro level, and this chapter wi ll demonstrate that the Treaty has had profound effects in structuring Newe heritage after the manner described by Mauss. For most Newe ne, discussion of the Treaty is nearly always deeply entangled with family histories, personal rivalries, political phil osophies, and beliefs about Newe heritage. Are Shoshones a nation? What did it mean to be a traditional leader? What are the defining elements their obligations? Most notably, there is the recurring issue of land ownership rights over the land, as such. As Chapter 2 illustrates, Newe history was characterized largely by the Newene being overlooked or ignored in the realm of national politics, and as a result, mos t Newe reservations are as small as one might expect of politically expedient afterthoughts. The Duckwater Reservation hosts over 100 residents, and around 400 total members, within a land base that was formerly comprised of three settler ranches. There is not sufficient land on the Reservation for

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113 round, much less enough for any major economic reservations. One might expect the sm aller size of the reservations near towns to be offset by the increased economic prospects of the location, but the outskirts of small Nevada towns such as Ely, Battle Mountain, and Wells do not necessarily offer such opportunities. To move into a more i n depth discussion, let us consider a particular moment in Shoshone history that seems to be little remembered in some Newe circles, and quite divergently remembered in others. It could have been a pivotal historical moment, though its effects are now res tricted only to social memory. And in retelling this event, we can perhaps see the reasons for both the hope and the bitterness that one finds in Newe Sogobia today. A Possible Settlement In the mid 1980s, a U.S. federal government delegation sat down with the Western Shoshone National Council in Denver, Colorado and offered the Western Shoshone Nation three million acres of federally administered public land in addition to a multi million dollar settlement for lost land that had already been allocated and was only awaiting disbursement. The Shoshone leaders were given a map and told to indicate the available areas of their preference. After some discussion, the leaders informed Bruce Babbitt that they needed more land they had standing title to 62 mil lion acres, and could not then simply accept 3 million with no further discussion. I have been told that at that point, Babbitt and his retinue rolled up the map, gathered their things, and left without a word. This is one of the key events in the treaty rights struggle that divided Newe i nto the today seem unaware of this episode; of those who do, some see it as evidence of the U.S. engage in real government to government negotiations, while

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114 others see it as evidence of failed leadership on the part of the National Council. In the latter version of the story, it is said that the National Council demanded the entire 62 million acres, a nd Babbitt and company walked out offended. The first version was told to me by a National Council official who was at the table at that time, corroborated by other WSNC members and supporters; the second has been told to me only by those who appear to hav e heard it secondhand. Regardless of which account is more historically accurate, the thematic interplay between both narratives is significant for understanding the Treaty in Newe social memory. Even if the National Council did not demand the full territ ory, it seems clear that the U.S. wanted to remain in total control of land negotiations, and avoid any actions that might have given any impression that it was recognizing aboriginal title rather than offering a restorative settlement. For the U.S. to com promise, it would not simply have been negotiating with one hitherto unrecognized sovereign entity about a particular area of land, but it would risk renegotiating the finalities of the entire settler colonial project. Within the polarization of the deb ate in Newe communities, the event became further cadre of Sho shones who arrogated the power to speak for, and over, the rest of their people. Around these viewpoints one finds a vast array of intertwined narratives about government conspiracies, secret and alternate versions of the Treaty of Ruby Valley, prophesies about the land and money, and conspiracy theories about Shoshone activists becoming secretly rich off of the land rights struggle. Not all of these are my stories to tell, but I will share what I can below. The Western Shoshone treaty struggle has been an international phenomenon for decades now, creating or reinforcing transnational activist alliances, and challenging the U.S. in human rights

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115 forums and tribunals. Newene have traveled to the UN since the mid 1980s to plead their case, eventually winning a decision at UN CERD in 2006. The process has led to greater visibility of Shoshones and the question of their rights, but it also generated new forms of power relations in terms of representation and visibility some Shoshone voices were preferentially ele vated at the expense of others. Many community members came increasingly to resent that phenomenon, particularly within an already bitterly divided debate over land and money. Here, I offer my own perspective on the treaty rights struggle, which is roote d in examination of the relevant documents as well as formal and informal discussions with a wide variety of Newene. My purpose is to add a fresh perspective to this already well known debate, and also to consider the politics and economics of Newe land in management have not only been a forum for the defense of tradition and Newe ability to practice it, but also a space for offici al statements in which Newe elders, like the BLM, perform recitative rituals declaring their rights and their beliefs on the documentary record. 7 Newe heritage is inextricably entangled with these revolving questions of land and money, which are in turn di rectly related to the federalization of the landscape. After tracing some of these entanglements both through historical context and ethnographic complexity, we can examine more specific examples in the following chapters of the ways that these entanglemen ts play out in practice. I will begin by describing the historical context of the Treaty itself. 7 It is important to understand that in using the term traditional ist which is a word of self designation for many treaty rights supporters, I am not suggesting that Newe who favored the monetary distribution could not also be well versed and well steeped in tradition. So in my usage there is a significant difference between traditional and traditionalist.

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116 Rights Over Land As we saw in Chapter 2, Newe leaders took the signing of the treaties very seriously. The 1855 treaty between Nemetekkate and Jacob Holeman a ppears to have been of great significance to the Newene involved, though it was never ratified. A similar meeting between Tu tu wa and some government officials is said to hav e taken place near Reese River. Newe oral tradition records this as another unrat ified treaty, though there is no known documentary record of it (Crum 1994a). These treaties were precipitated by conflict between the Newene and the taibos who were traversing their lands, at a time when those lands had already been depleted of a great ma ny of their resources, but before many taibos attempted much in the way of permanent settlement in what would become Nevada. These treaties seem, both in the documentary record and in the social memories adumbrated to me, to be remembered as having been in good faith (cf ITCN 1976; Crum 1994a). In terms that Newe traditionalists might use, the unratified treaties record demonstrates that their signing was still a c oncession to, and legitimation of, colonial intrusion. The situation rapidly changed, in part likely because of the breach of good faith by the federal government in its dealings with the Newe. Conflict between Newe and taibos intensified as the colonial presence grew and traditional resources were depleted. Western Nevada saw boomtowns cluster around silver deposits, such that by 1861 Nevada became a separate territory. Nevada became a state in 1864, only a year after the signing of the Treaty of Ruby Val ley, and four years before the Treaty was ratified. In the time leading up to the signing of the Treaty in October of 1863, the Newene had faced massacres and persecution under the severe military policies of Colonel Patrick Connor (Clemmer 2009a), and see n settlements develop almost

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117 instantaneously in response to the growth of Virginia City (Zanjani 2002). It would be another decade at least before the acceleration of these boomtowns would slow. The signing of the Treaty of Ruby Valley became a focal poin t for a deeply ambivalent heritage. Though the rhetoric of the Treaty is that of Peace and Friendship, Newe leaders signing it were no doubt aware that one of the men present was Patrick Connor, the military leader who had ordered much of the recent bloods hed not only in Western Shoshone country, but also Northwestern Shoshone country, including the Bear River Massacre (Madsen 1985). It is unfortunately impossible to reconstruct the exact dialogue, or even the basic intentions, of the Newe leaders who negot iated the Treaty. However, on the basis of transcripts of other treaty signatures that is, X marks as a metaphor for the way that Indians have fought to survive set tler colonialism by making present concessions so as to provide for future generations. I have heard no direct discussion of this sort of narrative from Newene regarding the Treaty, though there are reasons to suspect that oral histories have preserved some of this information within families (e.g. McKinney 2012). Descendant families of the Treaty signatories or other leaders pass knowledge of that descendancy on to the younger generations, and I often learn from elders that they are desc ended from one or another such leader. However, the best known and oft referenced Newe account of the Treaty describes a situation in which the Newe leaders were forced to both sign the treaty and eat human flesh at gunpoint. Frank Temoke, who was known by account on April 24, 1965, which I have excerpted for brevity: So it was that the white people and the representatives of the United States Government put out the word that they were anxious to meet with the chiefs and the people of the Western Shoshone Indian Nation for the purpose of signing [a peace] treaty. So a date was set and the word was passed by runners and on

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118 horseback that there would also be a feast with plenty to eat and then the peace treaty would be signed by both parties, Indians and Whites and that there would be no more fighting. And that the Indians were to come unarmed because they would not need their guns. And so it was that at the appointed time the Indians together with the chiefs did come to this place in Ruby Valley and they came unarmed and the soldiers together with the government representatives also came but the soldiers had rifles which they stacked in bunches. So when the Indians had all gathered, t he soldiers grabbed the rifles and killed an Indian which they had previously captured and brought with them. Then they cut the Indian up and put him in a huge iron pot which they had in those days and they cooked him and then the soldiers aimed their rifl es at the heads of the people and forced the people to eat some of this man they had killed. Men, women and children were all forced to eat some of this human flesh while the soldiers held their guns on the people. And it was after this terrible thing whi ch the white man did to our people that the Treaty of 1863 was signed. So it is hard for us of the Western Shoshone people to understand why the white man doesn't wish to keep this Treaty. And why the government insist through its agents and attorneys that this Treaty is no good. We think that our Treaty has been paid for in blood. And the White man will have to live by this Treaty. All of his conniving and scheming will be for nothing, he will have to live by this Treaty. And like the Coyote whom the whit e man also has tried to exterminate he also cannot exterminate the Indians. We will continue to hold our Treaty and our lands and no part of our heritage, our birthright to this Mother Earth is for sale. On a driving tour of the Ruby Valley area, a Newe man once pointed to a spot by the side of the road and indicated the place where the iron pot in question used to sit. In different variations of the story, the treaty was either written or signed in the blood of the slaughtered man, or it is stained with his blood. I have been told that the latter narrative was corroborated when some Newene who traveled to Washington, D.C. in recent decades actually viewed the original Treaty, and saw what appeared to be blood stains on it. The one constant across all acco unts is that Newene were made to eat the flesh of a Newe man before the Treaty was signed. Clemmer (1996: 217) reports an alternative oral account in which the principal signatory was not Te Moak, but Tutuwa, and this treaty was alleged to have more favor able conditions for Newe, including split profits on all ventures in Newe territory. I myself have heard other

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119 taibos ink, or that there are secret messages of a sort h idden within the treaty. Hopefully, future scholarship will do a more thorough job of tracking changes in the treaty stories throughout time. Frank Temoke, Sr. was widely, though not unanimously, billed as as was his father Muchach Temoke, and his father Te Moak (Crum 1994a; Steward 1938: 149 50). However the account was passed down through those generations is beyond me to reconstruct. Other Newene have over the years asserted that one of their grand or gr eat grand relatives had also been present at the Treaty signing and witnessed the coerced cannibalism firsthand (e.g. Richard Clemmer, personal communication). The meanings of both the signing of the Treaty, and the document itself, are inextricable from t he belief in alternate versions through the use of metaphor and narrative to preserve historical details of alternate treaties and alternate possibilities. between their menta l or perceptual meaning and the physical realities of the world. I do not subscribe to such dichotomies, as social memory has long been recognized as more dynamic than 01). There is a liminality to the truth of social memory that is akin to what Todorov (1984) labeled i.e. a narrative that never resolves its own reality, but rather hovers between the for this discussion, between the possible and the impossible. It is my impression that some of these narratives are often repeated neither as gospel nor apocrypha, but as possibility that is interwoven with past and present realities. In some sense, it ma y thus be an example of Newe ne engaging in controlled equivocation

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120 preserving space for lifeways that would otherwise be extinguished (de Castro 2004; see Chapter 3). I thus second Clemmer in observing that while disputing the historical facts of these n arratives might be important, what is much more important is the historical and social fact of their narrativity. People continue to tell these stories, and to find meaning in them that galvanizes or reinforces their actions. Clemmer has argued that this s tory about the signing of the Treaty enables the imagining of a national community of Western Shoshones (to echo Anderson 1991). Shoshoni, it has become an mmer 1996: 217). However, I would expand his The actions of the whites in the story are clearly unnatural and treacherous, and they recall similar such stories across the world, including white vampire legends of East African colonialism (White 2000), zombie stories intertwined with South African labor relations (Comaroff and C omaroff 2002), the fat vampires known variously as kharasiri and pishtacos amongst Andean peoples (Wachtel 1994; Weismantel 2001), and so on. But there is little Treaty tsaan to describe a basic principle of good conduct and bearing: good thoughts, good feelings, going forth in a good way, etc. However, there is little in the content of this n arrative that demonstrates any of these qualities or principles. It seems less a tale of good and evil than a tale of betrayal that overtly links wanton cruelty and bloodshed by an invading force to the technologies of literacy that underwrite the settler colonial project. Moreover, it demonstrates in gruesome detail that the

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121 structural conditions of settler colonialism implicate and infiltrate Newe agency. The future of the Shoshone Nation ever after the Treaty signing is inevitably bound up with the fortu nes of the invaders. I might add here that at times, Newene have repeated stories to me about Muchach Temoke being forced by the cavalry to execute his own people while they were forcibly marched out of their homelands and onto different reservations. Such executions may or may not ever have taken place, but the stories speak to the same ambivalence as the cannibalism that inaugurated the future of Newe politics. And here I will speculate productively, I hope. Newe traditional cosmology is, as are many ind igenous cosmologies, founded on principles of relationism and intersubjectivity (cf Miller 1983a, 1983b; Clemmer 1990; Stoffle and Arnold 2003). All the things of the world are spiritually alive. Contact, presence, and interaction have lasting consequences Thus, although I significant that the treaty is awash in Newe blood, and signed by the hands of Newe leaders who presumably did come to the treaty signing in a good way, hoping to achieve good ends. We should remember that in the much more amicable 1855 treaty signed with Jacob Holeman, the Newe told him that they received his gifts with great medicine, and they held a grand celebration. can see the gravitas which the signing of a treaty held for Newe. Yet the face of desperate times, they sat in council, in a good way, with the nearest leaders of these invaders, and in good faith had negotiated what seemed to be an understanding. Failing to meet these promises and what may have seemed like a lack of effort in so much as attempting to meet them may have seemed not only a political, but a moral and spiritual insult to the Newe.

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122 How could the bloodshed following the signing of the first treaty be forgotten in hearing out the alleged promises in the second? The story of the treaty also codifies the savagery of the invading taibos in the efforts of wha conquest with the first permanent entry by Newe leaders into official settler colonial rituals of statecraft. The slaughtered man is in a sense as Clemmer also sugge sts a sacrificed man, whose blood becomes the blood of the people, soaked into the document that offers them the foundation for whatever rights and protection they can claim thereafter. Certainly, this account of the treaty rather deftly deconstructs its text, and in particular its inaugurated through the lettered technologies of settler colonial nationalism, in the presence of a military leader who ordered the sl aughter over 250 men, women, and children at Bear River, and who had responded to the Gravelly Ford massacre in northern Nevada by ordering troops to kill every male Indian in the area on sight (Madsen 1985, 1990; Fleisher 2004)? As we saw in Chapter 2, th e years leading up to the signing of the treaty saw rapid degradation of Newe lands, exhaustion and in some cases permanent depletion of Newe resources, and intensified conflicts that led to wholesale slaughter. Peace agreements before the Treaty nearly al ways required that Newe leaders produce alleged raiders, killers, or thieves for execution The title of the treaty is thus indicative of its role as an instrument of governance, describing the new political order that it mandates. Political mandates of t hat fashion may also have seemed an affront to diplomacy in the eyes of the Newe. Many Newe have told me that traditional governance was by consent. People would sit in council until all agreed on the course of action; failing that, they would agree to go

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123 separate ways. This represents an idealized model to be sure, but the core of the ideal is of council, dialogue, and communal inclusion. By contrast, there is no indication that the Treaty of Ruby Valley was anything other than a heavy handed attempt to ma ke it easier for colonists to go about the business of colonizing. It was one of five such treaties signed in quick succession amongst Shoshonean peoples, inaugurated by violence and never honored. One of the most common things I hear from Newe today abou t the treaty is that it has never been honored. This assertion crosscuts any distinction between supporters and detractors of the various efforts to pursue land claims. Likewise, many Shoshones will assert, perhaps echoing the Supreme Court decision in U.S v. Dann will begin by explaining the legal basis of the treaty rights struggle, then move into the histor y and politics of that struggle in the dialectic between Shoshone communities and outside supporters, and from there take a broader view of the context of these debates and their relation to heritage. The Legal Basis of the Treaty Claim Here, I will simpl y sketch out the basics of the legal arguments regarding Western Shoshone land vis vis the Treaty of Ruby Valley. The remainder of the chapter will help to illustrate these points and the internal debates that Newe communities have engaged in surrounding them. I will be sparing with the citation of sources in this section, but refer the reader to any number of excellent overviews exist that cover these same points from which I draw in considerable overlap (e.g. ITCN 1976; WSSLA 1980 ; Thorpe 1982; Crum 199 4a; Sho Sho

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124 of titl e. The Treaty does specify that the U.S. President could order Shoshones to move to designated reservations (Crum 1994a is careful to stress the plural), but does not delimit the number or specify that such action constitutes any form of title transfer. B Deloria 1975: 18; ITCN 1976 ). The five treaties signed in 18 63 were expedient measures to help the U.S. maintain safe passage for emigrants whose gold mining activities would provide badly needed funds during the Civil War. There is every indication that the details of acquiring land title were seen as an encumbran ce to the timeliness of the proceedings. Indian Agent Jacob Lockhart, who was present at the negotiations of the Treaty of Toole Valley signed eleven days after the Treaty of Ruby Valley, reported to the Reese River Reveille in aty is in no instance considered as extinguishing the Indian title to the form and intent. romise on the part of Shoshones to cease raiding emigrants, to permit non Shoshones to travel through or settle on Shoshone lands, and so forth. The treaty also specifies that the government will set aside multiple reservations, and that Shoshones were to be compensated with $5000 worth of goods annually for 20 years. The annuity payments were never actually paid to Shoshones. In those instances when payments were allocated, it seems that white middlemen would keep the goods or sell them off for personal pr ofit (Crum 1994a). passage and their exploitation of resources that would provide much needed capital to the Union.

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125 The promise by the Newe to stop raiding mail stations and caravans was coupled with a promise by the U.S. to provide goods that would offset the devastation of the old Newe lifeways. As we saw in Chapter 2, U.S. officials and Mormon leaders had quickly recognized the connection between these two conditions. We also saw that after signing the Treaty, many Newe leaders were active in attempting to secure reservation land in the areas where their people lived, and that these activities continued into the 20 th century. These annuity payments may well have seemed a buyoff to Congress, but to Newe leaders it was seed money both literally and figuratively for empowering communities that had lost almost everything they previously had. Newe oral tradition pr eserved knowledge of the Treaty. Clemmer (2009b) cites inform ation from a 1932 Congressional hearing that clearly demonstrates the significant role many Newene found the Treaty to play in terms of securing their rights to land and its use. Younger Newe who had been to the Indian boarding schools and learned to read and write often sent letters to lawyers or federal officials protesting the lack of recognition of their treaty rights e.g. rights for Newe to hunt and fish on their traditional lands, instead of having to answer to the Nevada game wardens (see below; also cf Crum 1994a). Newe also organized meetings to discuss their treaty rights in places such as Elko and Austin particularly in and after the 1920s (Crum 1994a). Beginning in 1932 Newene sought to press recognition of their land rights in court. They first went to Elko lawyer Milton Badt, who agreed to represent their land claim case, but refused to press the claim that they still had any title to what he saw as Nevada land. His i ntention was to insist on the loss of land and collect compensation that could be used to purchase trust lands for Shoshones. His efforts never succeeded, as pressing land claims required getting Congress to pass a bill authorizing the case to be tried in the Court of Claims; nine separate bills were

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126 introduced in the 1930s, and none were passed (Crum 1994a: 114 5). Such difficulties were not uncommon for Indian tribes and nations throughout the U.S. In response to this situation, the Indian Claims Commiss ion Act (1946) created a quasi judicial body that would facilitate the claims process. In theory, this would have been a vast improvement, as Congress had long since tired of having to vote repeatedly on various Indian land claims bills, and Indian tribes and nations that had clearly lost land but never been compensated now had a streamlined process for pressing their claims. Taking a closer look at the Congressional rhetoric surrounding the Act, as well as some of its provisions and stipulations, suggests that much of the motivation in passing it was assimilationist in nature its expediency was described by the Supreme Court in U.S. v. Dann The ICC was set up such that Indians who had lost land could pursue, and be awarded, compensation. It could not adjudicate title, and it could not restore land. A much scrutinized clause in the Act stated that after compensation was paid, native title to the compensated land could never again be contested. Another stipulat ion was that the lawyers for the claims cases would get 10% of the settlements. Badt handed the Shoshone claims case over to his partner Orville Wilson in the 1940s. Wilson began working the case with Ernest L. Wilkinson of Utah. Eventually, the case pass ed to the firm of Wilkinson, Kragun, and Barker so that they could take it to the ICC. It bears mention that Ernest Wilkinson had helped to write the language of the Indian Claims Commission Act. Steven Crum, who is a Newe historian from the Duck Valley R eservation, has done the most thoroughgoing job in detailing the tortuous history of the internal debates of Newe communities regarding the prospects of the land claims (see Crum 1994a). In brief, even as early

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127 as the first Shoshone ICC meetings in 1947, s ome Newe saw the ICC as an opportunity to get badly needed resources that they could use to reinvest in land or reservation infrastructure. Other Newe saw the ICC as a scheme that would cheat them out of their rights to traditional land. This debate was pr ofoundly polarizing, and both sides became increasingly entrenched over time. The role of territorial and familial affiliations in this factionalization is complicated, but I will consider it in greater detail below. Authorization to push an ICC claim req uired a majority vote in support of the action by the Indian tribe or nation involved. Wilson and Wilkinson obtained such majority support in a meeting held in Elko, though many traditionalists walked out of that to demonstrate their disapproval before the vote was held. This was a widely used tactic throughout Indian country lson and Wilkinson pursuing the claim. However, there were many Newene who did hope to pursue the monetary settlement. At this point, deciding which comprised the majority is akin to counting shifting sands. Both strategies boasted considerable support, a nd both featured their own leaders. Moreover, it is not merely a question of how many, but also of whom some of the elders in both groups were respected enough that their presence was more significant than their contribution to any demographic enumeration. In 1962, the ICC made its ruling on the case, finding that Western Shoshones had lost is ridiculously arbitrary. First, the oft as a legal concept. Moreover, since the Treaty was signed in 1863, and not officially proclaimed

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128 until 1869, the ICC apparently considered a nine would have been extinguished a mer e three years after the Treaty was recognized to be in full effect. Second, the date of 1872 is itself entirely arbitrary, in that no event of any import took place that might mark or denote anything significant about colonial settlement in Nevada. Most s ignificantly, the ICC did not describe any constitutional means of title having been transferred. No matter how unjust or coercive its dealings with American Indians, the United States is and has been bound by the Constitution such that it can only acquire title to land through specific means and explicit acts. The ICC was satisfied instead with a vague sense of accretion that essentially suggests that the Newene lost their claims to the Sogobia because whites squatted on the land. Or, from another perspect ive, one might claim that because the Treaty granted non Newe the right to mine and to settle, that this feature constituted a form of built in obsolescence, such that the Treaty was designed to negate itself through actions in keeping with its terms. Neit her scenario meets the specific conditions required for acquisition of title. We might also note that since Nevada as a state is comprised of well over 80% federal lands, it is not as if a permanent population has covered most of the lands in question. Th e traditionalists became increasingly organized in their opposition to the ICC case, even getting the Te U.S. government had hired the firm, technically no Shoshone government ha d standing to fire the lawyers. Traditionalist Newe attempted litigation, arguing that they had not been fairly represented, but their efforts were thwarted because, the judge argued, too much time had gone by and too much progress had been made on the cla ims case. In 1979, funds were allocated in compensation by the Court of Claims.

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129 However, the attempt to litigate found new life when Newe sisters Mary and Carrie Dann of Beowawe resisted attempts by the Bureau of Land Management to make them pay grazing fees for their livestock that were ranging on what the BLM insisted were public la nds, and the Dann sisters insisted were Treaty lands. Newe traditionalists saw this case as an opportunity to force a court ruling. In 1985, the Supreme Court ruled in U.S. v. Dann that it could not re evaluate the decision of the ICC, and upheld the date of taking at 1872. Despite the Supreme Court ruling, as late as the early 1990s, there was strong support among Newe communities to pursue land rights. In fact, though individual tribal councils moved back and forth on the issue at different times, the Ne wene were understood by the outside world as collectively refusing to accept the claims payment over several decades. However, even as some Newe continued struggling for recognition of treaty rights, others were attempting to get Nevada legislators to intr oduce a bill to Congress to push the distribution through and finally release the funds. This was a necessary measure because after the disbanding of the ICC, an act of Congress was required to effect the distribution. In the meantime, the accounts simply sat and accrued interest. Beginning in the mid 1990s, one distribution effort took shape with the Western Shoshone Steering Committee, which was a group of Newene that held straw polls in an attempt to determine what the majority position was. An overwhelm ing majority consistently voted in support of the distribution. In large part because of the WSSC, a 2003 bill introduced by Senator Harry Reid became the Western Shoshone Distribution Act, which was signed into law by President George W. Bush in 2004. In 2011 and 2012, per capita payments were issued to all individuals who could

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130 different ICC case. 8 In fact, in the beginning, many traditionalists struggled for or seriously considered pursuing both the monetary settlement and recognition of land rights. Most often, it has been depicted in the literature and in film (cf Freedman 1975, 1989; Gage and Gag e 2008) as an ideological debate, as if the terms of the ICC settlement were predicated upon the difference between assimilation and sovereignty. Legally speaking, those might well have been the salient issues, but in terms of social memory and lived reali ties, the debates have had a far more complex history in the heterogeneous Newe argument was legally correct. Legally speaking, the United States broke its own l aws, and the ICC and later the Supreme Court turned successive blind eyes to the matter. However, that legal truth has remained unchanged since 1863. T he question of what meanings it has taken on in that time as Newe communities have been torn apart and re built, dissolved and transformed, is a deeply significant question that has rarely been asked in most of the literature. Perceptual Eclipses: Land vs. Money The Western Shoshone treaty struggle has become internationally famous. Amongst its Newe supporter s, it is a freedom struggle, and the last chance to protect the Mother Earth, Newe Newe idealists. 9 8 The impetus for using blood quantum as a requirement was as complicated as one might expect, given research on similar issues in other contexts (Sturm 2002; Klopotek 2011). However, the BIA and various Shoshones supported it, while other Shoshones opposed it. The debates over how the money should have been distributed are too complex to explore in the space of this chapter. 9 y Newe with unerring frequency in this context. In part, this is a commentary on the sorts of (usually white) non natives who have been most likely to support Newe political organizing or attend

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131 These issues themselves have indeed been divisive, but I ha ve seen indication that most Newe were inclined to support the strategy that would actually achieve results. When the Western Shoshone National Council enter ed into negotiations for a land settlement in the 1980s, and then in the 1990s when they received a s izable Administration for Native Americans grant to develop a consensus on the treaty issues, they had considerably more support. Few, if any, Newe would argue that Shoshone reservations in Nevada have sufficient land bases for their needs, and a great man y would look forward to the mining royalties they could collect if reservation lands overlapped with more of the mineral rich territory in northern Nevada. And on the other hand, a great many of the traditionalists ended up accepting the Distribution when it did finally pay out. never so much against the money as they wer e against getting bilked and cheated out of rights that money could not replace. The following quotations from interviews should illustrate these debates: RM: So what did you guys do in [Western Shoshone] Sacred Lands [Association]? 10 LS: We have meetings. RM: The money, you mean? LS: The money, yes. They, we were fighting not to get the money. We want to sa ve the land. push everybody off! Just want to get paid for what they took. People treat the natives so b spiritual or political gatherings, many of whom are drawn by Nevada Test Site, and they emerged from the lodge naked, unrepentantly urinating in open view on nearby ground. 10 WSSLA was a traditionalist organization that predated the WSNC. It seems to have arisen in the mid 1970s, and then dissolved into other groups as WSNC and WSDP became more prominent.

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132 what can you do about it? [Laughter] Yeah, it was hard, but... we were there until the last. DG: Yeah, I remember I was asked whether I wanted the land or the money. And most the people w land. I mean, go to store, in Ely, b uy our groceries. I am aware of only a handful of traditionalists who actually refused the Distribution almost fable like stories regarding the Distribution. I was once told that two Shoshone men received their first per capita checks and got drunk and started publicly burning individual bills story goes, they found they ha d burned all their money. This is a relatively typical fable about greedy Indians who do not know how to manage their money, but look at it only as a source of bacchanalia. Before the Distribution went through, I often heard from traditionalists that the p This assessment spoke metaphorically to the larger issue, which was that traditionalists believed, and many continue to believe, that the payments were scanty in comparison to the land that should be theirs. Though no s ystematic data exists on how it was spent, many Newene seem to have invested it, or bought new (hence, reliable) cars with it, or put expansions on their houses, etc. In another case, I was told of a man who processed his paperwork but, when the check ar and turn into an artifact rather than money. Here we have monetary fungibility frozen into artifactual uniqueness, thus rendering the check, normally a flim sy placeholder of actual value, a literally invaluable object with a biography. In contrast to other work that has shown how money

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133 can be used to bolster sovereignty (Cattelino 2008), this is an example where the meanings of the money were too entangled to enable its uses to be free of all values except universal economics. When I first headed to Newe Sogobia, I, like many a well meaning taibo before me, was str ongly that the legal argument of the traditionalists is unquestionably correct. The United States cheated the Newene and disregarded its treaty obligations, and it did so throughout the 20 th century and into the 21 st In view of the legal strength of their argument, some Newe leaders of of being foolish, or duped, or tricked. In other words, rather than pursuing alternative strategies, they were depicted as bec oming uncritical tools of the settler colonial system. Consider the following statements that were made by the widely remembered Newe leader Glenn Holley at a meeting held in Austin, NV in 1977: He [a BIA official or lawyer hired by the BIA] causes all the dissension among tribes. You criticize your own people over here, so in turn, he criticizes you. The Bureau likes that. That way, he can control you. He can control you any move that e strong have a talk over her retain that land, because that land something. From that land alone, yo government for these little IGA checks, senne checks, or whatever. Those type of

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134 why we hell to accept that dollar and five cents an acre, ten years l What we must carefull y consider here is how readily this sort of rhetoric, and the most basic lineaments of the Treaty struggle, are easily appropriated by wider society through cherished conceptions of the noble savage. In the process, non Newe supporters often seem to see t Shoshones, and to focus their attention solely on them. Rather than interacting with complex Newe communities, many such supporters have sought an imagined counter community of American nationhood; it becomes the story of the Noble Savage taking a stand for the last Broken Treaty at Battle Mountain (1975) shows elders from throughout Newe Sogobia as they mobilize against the ICC decision. Many of these elders are from the Battle Mountain Band of central Nevada, including Glenn Holley, Eunice Silva, and Aggie Jackson who reportedly lived to be over 115 years old. Playing a re latively minor role in the proceedings are the sisters Mary and Carrie Dann, who are depicted as two among many of the vocal traditionalists in the film. To Protect Mother Earth (1989), centers on the traditionalists U.S. v. Dann at the Supreme Court. This case was the final appeal for the Dann sisters regarding their Treaty rights as Western Shoshones that would preclude the need to pay grazing fees to the BLM for the

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135 elders and leaders, including surviving elders from the first film, as well as WSNC leaders such as Jerry Millett of Duckwater and Raymond Yowel l of South Fork. The Danns played an understandably larger role in this film, but in many respects the star remained the Treaty itself. In the recent film American Outrage (Gage and Gage 2008) focuses almost entirely on the Dann sisters, particularly Carr ie. 11 The film includes compelling moments, such as the breaking news of the victory at UN CERD, the devastation of the Cortez mine on the traditional lands in Crescent Valley near Mount Tenabo and the Dann ranch (Chapter funeral. Howeve American Indian Quarterly (2010: 126 8) elucidates my overall point: outrageous acts of evil and cruelty in one way or another. But the perspective becomes more and more non a reflection of white supremacy and th sure of Natives in America, an enduring, methodical proces Instead, the lawyers and filmmakers act as a quasi Greek chorus (or maybe more like back up sin gers) to this terrible show a lawyer blaming something as impenetrable as the U.S. Congress? audience from any sense of re sponsibility. Nobody in this film says out loud the clarifying truth: when it comes to Natives, the hat it was built to do, and every non Native in Nowhere in this or other films like it is there an alternative approach, an op tion, an inkling that people like the Danns or whoever is viewing this film can, and if sanity coun ts for anything should, imagine their world, THE WORLD, without this absence of justice in what is called the justice system. What we have is white guilt dressed up like middle of the road solidarity. 11 Mary Dann died on the ranch in an accide nt with her four wheeler before the documentary was completed. Nonetheless, Carrie was always notorious for being the vocal sister, while Mary was known for being knowledgeable, strong, but quiet.

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136 The trajectory of the documentary films parallels overall representations of the Newe Treaty rights struggle, which began with a focus on leaders and communities at a time when they stood to possibly challenge the foundations of the legal system, and by the late 2000s was often reduced to the palatable forms of symbolic resistance that risk serving as an opiate to the masses the Rail Newe history for generations to come, and the sisters themselves remain an inspiration to many Newene. In the process, however, the Dann sisters have become synecdochal referents for Newe Treaty rights, doubly eclipsing both the other traditionalists who have contributed to the struggle, and the Newene who have pursued alternative strategies to community building. Any broad perusal of the literatu re will demonstrate this general effect (e.g. Ober 2003; Solnit 1994; Kuletz 1998; Fishel 2007; Dussias 1999), where the Dann sisters have been taken by non Newe as spokeswomen for their people, rather than as strong women who grew up within a specific pla ce and amongst specific traditions. The Dann sisters are surely Newene, but they are not the Newene. The Danns have lived throughout their lives on the Dann Ranch in Crescent Valley, which their father Dewey Dann obtained from his cousins Jimmy and Alice Jackson in the early 20 th century. Mary and Carrie have never been members of a federally recognized tribe. The ranch has never been large enough to support more than their family alone, but it is generally understood to have provided more income opportuni ties than were available to many other Newene who were crowded onto reservations. 12 Whether this assessment is valid or not, it is not 12 I do not have income figures for the ranch; in fact, the relative poverty or affluence of the Danns is another hotly contested topic in Newe communities.

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137 concerns of the Newe people as a whole. While tribal governments have had to reckon with providing health care and infrastructural services, the Danns have been focused on their ranch. While some reservation communities had diminished access to traditional foods and medicines, or to her needs to be understood within the context from which it emerged; it is in t hat way more meaningful and more rewarding. However, the so because they felt overshadowed and discursively overpowered by them. Time and again, I have Newe to represent all Western Shoshones. The perception became that through their activist efforts, Carrie Dann in particular and the traditionalists in g in other words, that, like lawyers, they wanted to perpetuate the conflict because they could collect on grant money and donations. This testimony from one of the founders of the Steering Committee (WSSC) demonstrates that it was not only Newene making these allegations (Robison 2013): just a little bit before I retired [from the BLM] I was asked to come into the State Director's office. His name was Bill Templeton And he said, "Betty, are you familiar w ith the Western Shoshone Claims?" And I said, "Well, I went to one meeting, and I heard about it, my grandfather used to talk about it, and you hear the Indian people talking about it. So, that way I know about the Shoshone claims." He said, "Do you know a bout these two sisters? Their name is Carrie and Mary Dann?" And I said, "Yes, I He said, "Do you know that they're making money off of the Shoshone people?" I said, "No." He said, "Yes, they're making money off of the Shos hones. Why don't you, when you retire, find an educated Shoshone?" At that time, it was hard to find an educated Shoshone. He said, "Don't go to a lawyer. A lawyer will only make money off of your people. When you retire, find an educated Shoshone who woul d be interested in the Shoshone Claims. We have been given the authorization to oversee that money. And," he said, "we would like to give it to the people that deserve it. And so you

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138 find an educated Shoshone that will speak for the p eople, for the Shoshon e people not a lawyer." The traditionalists were seen by many Newe at that time as blocking the will of the people, and So the focus above regarding the need to find an edu cated Shoshone, and to eschew lawyers, speaks to a more general narrative popularly told by Newene today in which outsiders had taken advantage of the people because they lacked the resources and education to fight back on the same terms. A number of Newen e believe that a small cadre of Shoshones got rich, as did lawyers fighting endless battles that they would never win, while the bulk of the people were left in a lurch. There are even rumors, for instance, about Carrie Dann having a secret, opulent ranch house hidden back in the mountains, away from her rather unassuming trailer house in which she accepts guests. It is true that the National Council and the Defense Project obtained a considerable number of grants throughout the years to do their work, pur chasing equipment and funding international travel. The general Newe public was usually meant to be included or involved, but over time rifts seem to have grown such that most Newene were unaware of the particulars of the leadin g to suspicions that they had somehow personally profited from these outside resources. One of the commonly remembered moments of the push for the Distribution Bill was a meeting in Elko in the 1990s, when Nancy Stewart, a Newe woman from Fallon, held up a sheet of paper that she had printed from the Western Shoshone Defense Project website. It was a request for donations of items ranging from cash to blankets to computers and other technology. Stewart asked the audience if they had ever seen that list befo re. In the packed room, few hands went up. She then asked the audience to raise their hands if any of them owned a computer or had the internet. Once more, few hands went up. This is a cogent narrative in

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139 speaking to the divide that grew between the more p ublic activists and the other members of reservation communities. Many Newe had begun to feel increasingly silenced by the celebrity of the Dann sisters, spiritual leader Corbin Harney, and members of the Western Shoshone National Council. Lived Meanings of the Treaty that they countermand a dominant trope of American nationalism: the idea that Indians always already lost their land and have all but disappeared. In discussing Western Shoshone land claims, Richard Clemmer (2009b) has used the trope of settler colonialism by which the native is defined by loss. Rather than demonstrating that there was ever a legal transfer of the title for Shoshone lands, the United States has repeatedly evaded the question of land title by appealing to the a priori understanding that since Indians have lost their land, the question of Shoshones losing it is not if but when In the last chapter, I discussed some of the basic premises of this sense of loss, but in some important respects the loss triumphant settler colonial circumstance, having ceased to be a dependency of a colonising autonomy, and having successfully integrated various migratory waves, has also ceased being A naturalized tie to the land offers a strong foundation for the national imaginary ( Anderson 1991, Kaplan and Kelly 2001 ) and as Roland Barthes long ago observed (Blackhawk 2006:), myth is a vehicle for naturalizing history. The mythos of savagery noble or ignoble ultimately onl y subtends this central ideological accounting. That is to say that in the dominant ideology of the United States, Shoshones qua Shoshones exist only in the past, and so does the

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140 legitimacy of any claim they might raise against contemporary political or ec onomic practices. Consider, for instance, the following excerpts from a letter to the editor submitted to the Elko Daily Free Press on March 24, 2012 (Stenovich 2012): Mr. Manuel Couchum and all members of the Western Bands of the Shoshone Nation of Indian complaints? In my opinion, ye s, but not about some of the things you are causing the treaty, and have well benefited from it. It is time for you to accept that and get on with your better lives. Robin L. Steno vich Elko The letter represents the words of an individual, but the sentiment seems to be more broadly reflected throughout Nevada, and more generally the U.S. Many times, Newe have described having arguments with taibos or even other Newe regarding this s ame logic of conquest. For Newene, conquest can never really be naturalized on a deep structural level; indeed, it can only be unnatural. Even the Newe language encodes indigeneity as a state of belonging to the land: as in many other languages, their ter m of self 13 Hence, while taibo usually conjures the image of a white person, an African American is tuutaibo toyataibo roaming the mountains. In Shoshone language, there are the people of the land, and th en there are the outsiders of various guises. 14 13 taibo and emphasized those qualities in describing its mea ning. 14 Exceptions to this tendency are direct loan words from English, such as tsippani (Spaniard), tsinamani (Chinese, tsappanimani (Japanese).

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141 The ways in which coexistence and change are accommodated and understood by the Newene are quite diverse. Some Newe see the disappearance of tradition as inevitable as it is unnatural and I was somewhat surpr ised to learn that this does not seem to be a hegemonic formation, instilled in textbook Gramscian fashion by colonial propaganda, but an indigenous view of historical trajectories. There are Newene who speak reverently of their traditions, but fully expec t them to disappear. This was a sobering revelation for me, seeing a grandparent say Other Newene argue quite strongly for the inevitable persistence of tradition. For these folks, no amoun t of building or development or technological expertise will ever supercede indigenous connections to the land. The structure, meaning, and form of that connection remain not only a continual subject of internal debate, but as is the nature of culture an u nending rediscovery, both personal and communal, of deeper and wider meanings. These latter perspectives on tradition thus enable a resiliency that can transcend any individual loss of or damage to the land, but at the same time they can never be fully ind ependent of it. The diversity of perspectives that I am describing must be understood as intrinsic to heritage, not as in group selection, but rather how these perspectives, situated in dynamic contexts, reshape the contours of heritage as they perpetually draw on it and are constituted by it. A number of reservations opened to Western Shoshones between 1880 and the 1970s, and a few others were promised but eith er never came about or were actively rescinded. At

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142 various times, the U.S. government attempted to have all Western Shoshones relocate to those reservations that had already been established, but Newene were often steadfast in their refusal to move from th eir home territory, and insisted on remaining in valleys that they knew well. This is no doubt an artifact of the seasonal rounds of Newe tradition, in which subsistence, religion, entertainment, and achievement were all intricately interwoven with the lan changes and austere vicissitudes. It was undoubtedly a survival skill of the utmost imperative to In other cases, we have seen that Newe relocated through combinations of forced removal and pursuit of better opportunities under colonial conditions. We should also not discount the effect of the boarding schools in the early 20 th century, as these brought Newe children into contact with Indians from other areas, and exposed them to a variety of Euro Amer ican ideals Western education also empowered Newe with literacy and potentially critical insight into the rationalities of U.S. law and policy. Several boarding school educated Newe became vocal about Treaty rights. Beginning in 1908, James Pabawena of Wells sent let ters to officials including Theodore Roosevelt protesting the actions of game wardens in regulating Shoshone hunting. On December 15, 1912, Bill Gibson, Pabawena, and other Newe organized a treaty rights meeting in Elko that appears to have drawn a large c rowd (Crum 1994a: 67 8). Beginning at least as early as 1896, Shoshones began to combine the traditional position of taikwani or American democratic practice of voting, when Harry Preacher of Wells was ele

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143 1994a: 75). In many cases, the authority of any given elected chief may have been disputed Newe commun ities in these augmentations of traditional leadership institutions was to improve their dealings with the federal government. 15 Implications for Imagined Communities One powerful difference between the traditionalist government of the WSNC and the federa lly recognized tribal councils is their land base. Each Tribe or Band or Colony holds land in trust on which a significant portion of its members live, and where the government is housed. The National Council usually meets in the courthouse in Austin, Neva da. Its landholdings are scattered throughout Nevada, including a small home in Beatty, and some properties in Cactus Springs, near Las Vegas, which were restored to Shoshone control by Texas philanthropist Genevieve Vaughn when she purchased land on which to build a pan Pagan goddess feminist temple in honor of the Egyptian goddess Sekhmet (Vaughn 2011). This strange alliance was an act of solidarity amidst colonial destruction; Vaughn wanted to counteract what she perceived as an overly negative male aggr ession epitomized by the nuclear tests at the Nevada Test Site, and so part of her strategy entailed the creation of a spiritually female space, and part of it entailed ers. Thus, an out of context cat statue sits inside a temple just northwest of Las Vegas, beneath a massive latticework lotus flower made out of metal with a crystal core to resonate and amplify New Age prayers, amidst lands that are recognized as active t erritory of the Western Shoshone Nation. Such are the alternatives to working through the U.S. system of federal recognition. 15 I am not aware of any women serving as chief or taikwani among the Newe in these or earl ier times.

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144 The National Council is designed to represent all Newene and provide a nexus for all Newe communities, but is not itself comprise d of a community in the ways that the Tribes are. The Tribes have thus had to wrangle with economic prosperity, law enforcement and jurisdiction, health care, education, and other issues of governance that have never become permanently actualized as aspect s of the National Council. The most popular rhetoric of the traditionalists, as it has resonated with non Newe, has played upon tropes of native innocence in the face of corporate (substitute: white, Western) greed. It is a morally respectable idealism, but it lacks answers to questions about how to provide for Newe children and their futures, or how to make health care available for the elderly. As this their w ords have resonated with non Newe and shaped the space for continued discourse, it has become increasingly disembodied, relating more to the ideals of Indianness than to the actual incar that is, the environmental harmony that may be at dissonance with lived realities. It is not hard to sympathize with anti mining activists, for instance, but there is a thin line in such circumstances between meaningful solidarity and facile sloganeering. However, the idealism of the claims does not invalidate their validity, nor their authenticity. Heritage is invariably the foundational resource of the imagined community, as it relationships. These contestations are thus ulti mately about the value of the lands, of Newe Sogobia, as heritage. The land is thus not a simple, prefabricated construct, but rather a range of

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145 actor networks that can be enlisted as a powerful actor unto itself, to borrow terms from Latour (2004, 2005). The question is not whether Newene, or any other indigenous people, have a unique relationship to the land, but how they forge, reforge, and actualize relations with the land in constructing their political and social identities. The literature on America sovereignty is an emergent property of negotiation and substantiated assertion that sovereignty is rooted in what Indian governments do, rather than just what they inherently are. When it has come to traditional Shoshone territory, the Tribes and the National Council have both been repeatedly spurned by the U.S. in their attempts to assert or negotiate. In that process, Newene have lost control, and all attendant mineral rights, of what has proven to be some of the richest land in the United States. Instead, they are struggling to develop independent sources of economic prosperity on remote reservations in a remote state whose major industries are gambling tourism and open pit mining. If one takes t he treaty rights argument seriously and on legal grounds, one must then there is a clear and direct connection between the unconstitutional dispossession of Newene historically, and the economic trammels that Newe Tribes and Bands are caught within today. The point is more than Shoshones have been dealt with unfairly, or some other too simple objection to colonialism at large. Federally recognized Shoshone reservations are too small to support viable ranching communities, and their land bases are usually fa r too small to contain the massive open pit mines that drive the northern Nevadan economy. Duckwater is in this regard an excellent example. When Duckwater tribal members have traveled to Washington, D.C., they have been told several times by BIA official s and others that the Tribe is seen as one of the most progressive in Nevada. Duckwater has taken excellent

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146 advantage of the Indian Self Determination and Education Assistance Act (1975), also known as PL 93 638. Through 638 contracts Tribes are able to b id on grants that fund necessary institutions on the reservation, thus making it possible for Tribes to employ their own members and run their own administrative affairs. Previous to 638, Tribes usually had to let the BIA handle the money and run matters. Despite being a small reservation in a particularly isolated area, Duckwater has its own health clinic with a full time doctor, and the only tribally controlled K 8 elementary school in ry Officer of the Year Award in 2012 (IACP 2012). The Tribe is also the largest employer for resident tribal members. Thus Duckwater runs off of federal funds though it is important to understand that these are not they apply for, and contracts that they competitively bid on, just as other firms and agencies federal funding Much of the recent literature on native sovereignty focuses on Tribes and Nations that have lucrative mineral rights or successful enterprises generating independent income ( Simpson 2003 ; Lambert 2007; Dennison 2012; Fayard 2011; Cattelino 2008). Tribal ideological position on capital accumulation. Duckwater has been developing strategies to address economic issues. The Duckwater Economic Development Corporation (DEDC) runs a small store in the middle of the reservation that has been quite successful, though because its main customers are tribal residents, the potential for growth in that location is limited. DEDC also runs a small trucking company, but it is stru ggling. T he wear and tear from the dirt roads, and the long distances the trucks have to

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147 travel rack up high maintenance costs on the used trucks and equipment that the company started with. Other ventures have been proposed or attempted over the years, in cluding Tribal ownership advantageous locations. One of the more promising projects is a potential wind farm that the Tribe is negotiating. The investors would build the turbines, but Duckwater would collect the royalties, and title of the needs, reducing one of its expenses. The main problem is finding the proper place to site it. Since the late 1970s, Duckwater has been attempting to negotiate a land expansion. The land in question has varied from over 400,000 acres to about 280,000 an d consists of uninhabited public land today that the Tribe has used as its grazing lands since the inception of land expansion efforts had the formal support of the local BLM ranchers in Railroad Valley, the City Council of Eureka, and the Ely City Council The only support they lack is from Harry Reid have been consistentl y rebuffed. During the most recent trip to Washington, Duckwater officials were told by Senator acre needed to be accounted for, and that the proposal at was told that he suggested that a land expansion was certainly doable, but that the Tribe should reduce its request to a few thousand acres.

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148 Ely recently passed through such a process. After years of pursuing its ow n land expansion, the Ely Shoshone Tribe officially acquired title in 2012 to over 3400 acres of land primarily located near Ward Mountain south of the reservation. Significantly, some of the land abuts the highway, making it economically valuable for trav el centers or other ventures. We small in terms of land are a for Nevada. In the various drafts of their proposals, both Tribes stressed not only economic need but the importance of protecting their heritage inclusive of plants and animals, particularly important locations, artifacts and sites of previous habitati on, and the need for places to hold ceremonies and gatherings. During the Congressional hearings on the Western Shoshone Distribution Bill, Sen. Reid openly acknowledged that Western Shoshones did not have enough land. In order to facilitate passing the Bill, he insisted that land expansions would not be precluded by the acceptance of the ICC Judgment Fund. For instance, Wells Band chairman Willie Johnny requested that large tracts of public land be restored to the Wells Band. Reid responded (U.S. Senate 2003: 24): I believe that the record is very clear that everyone believes the rights, whether they are valid or invalid, are not changed as a result of distributing the money. That is what I have heard here today. I understand Willie Johnny, you only have 80 acres in Wells. My math may not be absolutely right but he wants 1.5 million acres. To me at first glance, that sounds like a lot of land but a long time ago, you had a lot more land than that. These are things we can take a look at but the money should be distributed as said by Chairman Ike and Ms. Stewart. It is clear that people are dying every week who should have had the benefit of this money after all this many years. I would hope we could move quickly and get these people their money and have this committee look at any other inequities that are in existence.

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149 However, I find it noticeable that irrespective of the different areas and proposed uses of the size that Duckwater was told to reduce theirs to as well. One wonders what bureaucratic criteria are being set for evaluating the suitability of these tracts. These small, 3000 acre tracts are minuscule in comparison to the 3,000,000 that were once offe red the National Council. They are even minuscule in comparison to most open pit mines. The effect of this process, whether intentional or not, is the attempted control of the Shoshone people by playing upon tropes of gifting and welfare. Whether it is a c onscious strategy or not is immaterial to the point: the reinforcement of settler colonial ideology relies on these land expansions being viewed as gifts, or as transfers subject to use value audit, rather than being the products of direct and open dialogu e. sites are just another dimension of the land, and Shoshone claims to them are politically inexpedient. Newene cannot lay claim to any piece of that heritage if it i s on federal lands. One Newe man who is originally from Duckwater told me that he feels BLM breaks its own heritage management laws they let the mines come through all the time and so much as one artifact from a CRM site, they can expect to be threatened with the full weight of the federal laws; circumventing that process requires extensive negotiation that, as with the land expansion, accounts for every specific use and need (Morini 2011). The Chapters 5 and 6 will illustrate this principle in action.

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150 CHAPTER 5 NEW SKIRMISHES IN THE WATER WARS The Tortuous Consultation Process In 2004, the Southern Nevada Water Authority (SNWA) a pplied for the right to pump up to 200,000 acre/feet of water annually from five rural valleys into the Las Vegas Metropolitan Area. 16 The project became known as the SNWA Groundwater Development Project (GwDP). The rural valleys in question are up to 200 m iles north of Las Vegas, but are home to unique ecological areas, and have long been significant heritage areas for local native peoples, who are today represented by the Ely Shoshone Tribe, the Duckwater Shoshone Tribe, and the Confederated Tribes of Gosh ute on the Nevada Utah border What this chapter offers us is the opportunity to see how convoluted, disenfranchising, located on land that is subject to the terms of the Treaty of Ruby Valley, but is not located on presently recognized Tribal land, nor have its watersheds been demonstrated to connect with those of the Tribes As such, the jurisdiction that the Tribes have is predictably reduced, and the force of the heritage management authorities such as NHPA, NEPA, and AIRFA is considerably less. While the reader may see this as a logical consequence of conquest, it is arguably a continuation of conquest, and even particularly significant areas are afforded relativ ely little protection. A central focus of this chapter will be to consider the fate of a sacred site in this process. But this chapter also demonstrates the slipperiness of consultation in the EIA process when a massive and well funded project is proposed for a rural area that is not densely settled. 16 Vegas proper is only one of the incorporated cities that also include Henderson, Boulder City, and North Las Vegas.

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151 Because of the procedural focus of heritage management laws and policies, and the ambiguity of find specific crit icisms of vague statements whose ambiguity is upheld by law. This effect was exacerbated by the fact that the EIA for the SNWA GwDP is tiered, which means that the first EIS simply evaluates the potential impacts within a bounded corridor of actions whose exact location will be determined later, within which subsequent EISs will evaluate specific proposed actions. Moreover, the BLM, as the lead federal agency in the EIA process, found itself with its jurisdiction circumscribed such that it could only decide on whether or not to grant the right of way for the GwDP. The question of water rights, and thus the weight of the project, would have to be adjudicated by the Nevada State Engineer. In such a complex situation, regarding such a massive project, one migh t expect a particularly ambitious plan for consultation that would involve working closely with the Tribes, maintaining strong communication and wide ranging discussion of issues and plans. Instead, the Tribes formally rejected the ethnographic report that was intended to represent their concerns, and repeatedly objected that there had been no meaningful consultation on the project. The their objections as evidenc e of the success of the process. Place, Space, and Water Rights If one drives on Highway 50 eastward out of Ely, after about 40 miles s/he will come to a northward bend where the road begins to exit Spring Valley by winding around the Snake Mountains. To the north and west of the road will be a small stand of trees out on the flats of Spring Valley. Given the distance, and the size of the viewshed it may seem a rather unassuming stand, unless the driver realizes that they are not the usual cottonwoods tha t crop up along the valley floor.

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152 Swamp Cedars. Capt. J.H. Simpson may have been the first Euro American to write about the site during his 1859 expedition to find a more di rect westward route to California (McLane 1970: July 19, Camp 21, go we ah range reat deal of it red top), 2 or 3 miles wide, [which] extends for a distance of 8 or 10 miles northwardly, and probably further, and intermingled with it are extensive groves of tall cedars, which thus far on our routes, existing, as these groves do, in the bottom The Swamp Cedars are simultaneously an ecologically unique landmark, a traditional Shoshone site for food, habitation, and ceremonies, the location of two different massacres, and a nearby landmark for several lynchings of Shoshones in the 19 th century. Now the resting place of and Shoshones of the strength and beauty of their traditions. The Swamp Cedars have not yet been systematically studied by ecologists (Lanner 2006), perhaps because they are relatively remote, and their anomalous position on the valley floor isolates them from the nearby Great Basin National Park. The trees are botanically ide ntifiable as Rocky Mountain Juniper ( Juniperus scopulorum ), and they are suspected to be a genetically unique ecotype restricted to Spring Valley and White River Valley in eastern Nevada (Maxey and Eakin 1949: 26; McLane 1970), though no conclusive genetic studies have yet been conducted (Lanner 2006). What is unique about this proposed ecotype is that J. scopulorum is typically restricted to higher elevations and rocky slopes; Lanner (2006) observes that across the globe, only one other species of juniper is reported to grow in swamps. As Lanner observes,

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153 in one valley Spring and some were at least 300 years old when he took measurements between the 1960s and 1980s. Their height is thus also anomalous, as junipers in Nevada rarely grow so tall 17 In 1859, because most explorers were sparing of kind words for the Great Basin, and esp ecially Nevada. For generations, Newene recognized the Swamp Cedars area for its beauty and the local abundance of food and resources. Today, Goshute and Shoshone elders have emphasized the paramount importance of this aspect of the site (Lahrens 2010). De spite the violent events that are well remembered in oral tradition, these elders insist that the site is most important as a good place, a place of beauty and of gathering. As one elder said to me (Spilsbury 2013): ul tree. The rareness of it is what impresses me, because how many places in Nevada is there a forest at the bottom of the valley? None that I know of other than that. And the trees are different from ect as it is in the sacredness of important. T historical and ecological meanings. T Shoshones and the Confederated Tribes of the Goshute Reservation is clearly demonstrated in a confidential ethnographic report (Lahren 2010). Because some of the information in the report is sensi and Goshutes without spelling out all of the details in the report itself. The reader will have to 17 In contrast, McL describe their survey methods.

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154 proceed, understanding that there are further narratives in the repo rt which are not mine to share. I am attempting to create an account that not only complements the report, but give an understanding of how much further the stories go. Before I begin in earnest, we must take a moment to consider the politics of represent ation here. In June 2013, I met for coffee with a Shoshone man who was raised in the traditional way, and had been involved with heritage management activities at the Swamp Cedars. We sat down, I described some aspects of my work, and then he began telling me stories in intricate detail about his firsthand experiences with the Swamp Cedars site. They are powerful stories, to say the least. But as the conversation wound down, he explained that he believed I may have been in his dreams, that he felt that he k new me even though we had never met. And although I think we both already knew that I understood, he reminded me that most of what he had told me was said in confidence that I would not repeat it. The account that I give here will instead be based on info rmation that is already publicly available be it through published literature or legal documents. But even so, I must walk a middle ground. When we discussed how I might write about the site, he told me that although he knew that others would have other op aspects at all. He feared that it might inspire adventure seeking taibos to go to the site just to test the stories, to see if they could provoke spirits or otherwise witness the power of the plac e. I explained that some aspects of that spiritual power have already been discussed as matters of public record. Our best consensus, finally, was that he could look it over before I published my ac count, and that I woul d try to avoid describing any more t han I had to. In that conversation, he said something in particular that illustrates the challenge. We were discussing archaeologists, heritage management officials, federal agencies, and project

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155 proponents in other words, the various incarnations of macr oscale non native interlopers on Shoshone lands ire or arrogance; it was just a simple, forthright critique of the heritage claims within broader American heritage overall. Put bluntly, Shoshones and other native peoples are often required to violate their traditions by sharing confidential information in an uncertain attempt to save their traditions. And he i s right. If Newene wish to share information about a place, they should be able to share it on their own terms, rather than having to submit it to invasive bureaucratic and technical procedures that create reports that often end up getting misfiled, often become difficult for tribal members to access, and almost always end up being filtered into public docume nts on the terms of whichever federal agency is preparing a given EIS. But it leaves me with a sizable challenge. The stories he told me, as with related stories told to me by Shoshones and non natives alike, are compelling and illustrative. The argument that he offered to me in their place is a value ethics proposition that requires nearly wholesale moral agreement, and offers little in the way of illustration to convince skeptics. This chapter is thus meant to walk a middle ground between the evidence it needs and the silences it must maintain. This account will hopefully speak to the power of the Swamp Cedars even as it shields some of the details from view. So the account that I will give here is truthful, written in good faith, and will be accurate in its particulars. However, it will also use guided speculation, generalization, and judicious substitution where necessary so as to remain true to the ethical commitments described above. In

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156 a sense, it is less the true story than a mask of it and in this sense, I evoke the mask not as a symbol of falsehood, but as a ritual object of power. This account speaks to the power of the Swamp Cedars even as it hopefully shields the main details from view. Massacres and Colonial Violence In his classic monograph, Julian Steward records information about the groups near the Swamp Cedars, though he does not mention the cedars themselves. The full entry reads (Steward 1938: 127, emphasis mine): 12. Basonip: (ba, water+sonip:, grass), a creek with a village site near t he present highway, about 7 miles (?) south of Cleveland ranch. About seven families; all were killed by the white soldiers nut trips and festivals when he ld locally. In lieu of local festivals, Basonip: people sometimes went to Deep Creek or Steptoe Valley to visit (and n o doubt also to Biabaunwund). Rabbit drives were held locally unde In as dense a text as Basin Plateau t he vague and unobtrusive reference to a massacre is readily overlooked. This is not necessarily a fault of the author, but it certainly indicates a bias toward normative aspects of social relations while largely overlooking possible historical impacts. The re is some uncertainty regarding exactly which massacre is described in this passage, as I will explain below. Steward does reference what may have been the same massacre Valley in Valley massacre Steward references occurred in 1863, when a contingent of soldiers killed over 20 Newe near Duck Creek in Steptoe Valley, and then headed into Spring Valley and reportedly killed between 20 and 30 more in the Swamp Cedars (e.g. Angel 1881; Wren 1904; Egan 1917 ).

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157 I am not sure where the 1865 d ate comes from; it seems to be an approximation of what Steward regarded as the general end of native resistance movements in Nevada. We should consider the origins of the information that Steward was working with. His reference to the Steptoe Valley mass acre is probably pulled from the historical literature I have cited above, though he does not cite a particular work in reference to it. But the ethnographic information is another matter. When Steward and his wife Jane headed through Ely in 1935, they hi red six Newe three men and three women to tell them about the surrounding areas. The entirety of what Steward was able to record about Spring Valley came from these interviews. nd noted that they had a 140). Harry Johnny was their apparent leader, as he insisted on being the translator for each interview, despite that the Stewards found his English to be poorer than that of t he other informants (Kerns 2010). What effect this process may have had on the information that Steward collected is hard to evaluate. He later assessed very knowledge limite d; some guessing was evident. The list S Ely is not only incomplete but worth of interviewing. Late in the day, perhaps when Steward pushed too hard for an answer by 2010: 147). Annie Riley was only in her forties, and thus her knowledge was surely less detailed

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158 than that of her deceased grandfather whose memories she was rel aying; nonetheless, it seems would have been acutely aware of the politicized nature of Newe tradition, as leaders such as Harry Stanton and Harry Johnny were active at that time in fighting for recognition of treaty rights and Newe sovereignty. Harry Stanton had already passed away before the Stewards arrived, but Harry Johnny owned books discussing the violations of the Treaty of Ruby Valley (Kerns 2010: 140). As discussed in chapter 2, Harry Johnny played an instrumental role in the federal recognition of the Ely Colony just four years earlier (Crum 1994: 74), and thre e years earlier he had been elected to a treaty rights council at a meeting in Elko that served as a clear precursor to the later Western Shoshone National Council (Crum 1994: 84). ed the peoples of Spring Valley to Julian Steward. Because of the then current convention of ethnographic were, but it seems clear that Spring Valley and the neigh boring Snake Valley constituted aboriginal borderlands. Steward argued that the population of the valleys was primarily Paiutes, and that Snake Valley included some ove distinguished Gosiutes geographically from Sp

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159 Given the degree of intermarriage in the area suggested by Steward, as well as John Wesley Powell (Fowler and Fowler 1971: 111), it seems that Spring Valley was an especially multilingual, intercultural nexus. This interchange is observable even today, in that many members of the Confederated Tribes of Goshute have Western Shoshone ancestors from Ruby Valley and elsewhere, while many W estern Shoshones can trace their relations back to CTGR or the Skull Valley Goshute of Utah. These are not recent intermarriages, but rather intermarriages from several generations ago. I am not aware of any systematic study of these kinship relations, but better understanding them through collaborative oral history might help to reconstruct the cultural and social dynamics of Spring and Snake Valley in greater detail. Oral tradition throughout Newe Sogobia and Goshute country has preserved memories of vio lence in Spring Valley. Most narratives that I have read clearly describe the incidents of 1863, though in some cases it is hard to tell if others refer to, or have incorporated, elements of the so known mass acre that probably occurred in the 1890s (Robison 2006). Steward does not seem to have elicited any of these details in his interviews, beyond the mention of 7 families being killed by soldiers though one should note ll previous generations o elders and ancestors, often used the term for soldiers or cavalry, duu kwasu ( ne who inflicted violence on Newene, whether they were cavalry, a local militia, or a lynch mob ( Crum 1994a; ITCN 1976 ). Roughly forty years later, when the Inter Tribal Council of Nevada put together grants to preserve oral narratives from various native elders in the state, many Newene recounted different variations of the same basic story, most often re ferencing Duck Creek first and then the Swamp Cedars. The individual details tend to vary, including whether the group was Goshute or Shoshone, the exact causes that set off the chain of events, and even

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160 the racial identity of Hank Butterfield, who was the Indian agent who had served as the interpreter for the Treaty of Ruby Valley, and been put into the service of Fort Ruby For instance, Agnes Penoli, an elder from Duckwater, told one version to Dan Allen in 1974 with Duckwater elder Danny Millett interp reting. I have not yet been able to locate the original audio, but : The only ones they figh t with were armies, whtie man her grandma told her that a long time ago they killed the Indians, they fight wi th Indians, they do bad to the Indians also they killed the, they cut their penises off (Bah gah um bow zah = Penis) and place it in their mouths of the dead men. Among the Shoshone there was a spirit called Nah bah gahn be no zee e = B ullet pack all the b ulletts with blue soldier climbed up a Cedar tree and he killed them all. Two young girls kept Num be gah no see with them after he killed the soldier. The man and the two girls escaped. And they went South to Bottom my tha know what it means). They ca me down Cherry Creek Sumit They were glad when they came to Duckwater. They saw all the Indian h unting rabbitts. The Indians hutn ing rabbitts [sic] said their enemies were coming and they ran and hid on Ishagoy (a big mountain by Currant). In the morning they saw an army coming making big noise. Her gradmother told her that story. Then an Indian named Hank Buttlerfield told the soldiers to leave the Indians alone. Then the soldiers went to and they (the soldiers) were afraid and ran away. There was a good looking girl with the soldiers and showed baskets to the two men who had the store. Th en the soldiers got a Indi an spy called (Duke wah rye). would have killed the Indians. I am not aware of many, if any, massacre accounts that take place in the mountains, so the cedar tree and other narrative points of agreement suggest strongly that this story is describing the at I have heard from others in Duckwater and Ely, including that some Newene fled and watched from the mountains as the cavalry passed, and the details about the mutilations of the men. As it is well documented that during the Bear River massacre only mont ), and as this cavalry

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161 contingent was under the command of the same colonel, such mutilations and other atrocities are far from improbable. Henry Butterfield was apparently not an Indian at all though he seems to have spoken the Newe language (Madsen 1985; Crum 1994a). 18 described in the literature, but it is clear that it was significant. His positi on as agent for the Butterfield Overland Mail company, a successor to the short lived Pony Express, brought him to Nevada by the 1860s (ITCN 1976: 54). Butterfield was appointed as an Indian agent in 1863, first serving as interpreter at the signing of the Treaty of Ruby Valley, and then tasked with helping to survey and establish the Ruby Valley Reservation that never ended up materializing (Crum 1994a ). The Inter for the [Overland] mai Butterfield, Moore, and Hay had surveyed the land, in 1864 Agent Lockhart reported that the Duckw ater that became known as Butterfield Springs, before moving on to settle on a salt claim that supplied households and miners in the then bustling towns of Troy and Tybo (McCracken and Howerton 1996: 92). I have not yet found satisfactory explanations as t o how Butterfield narrative suggests that he may have been seen by Newene near Duckwater as being well intentioned. This is somewhat surprising, given that Butterfi eld appears to have directed the Swamp Cedars (Davis 1913: 156). 18 Given the numb er of filters, and the fact that the interview is not exactly transcribed, it is hard to tell if Ms. Penoli in fact asserted that Butterfield was native, or if that was an inference begotten by the chain of translation.

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162 Another elder who was originally from Duckwater described the Swamp Cedars massacre (Johnson 19 74): At Spring Valley, the soldiers killed Shoshone Indians while they were having a dance. Their Indian doctor told them that he had a vision where the soldiers were coming to kill them and told them to run and hide in the hills. Some of the I n dians belie ved him and did what he told them to do and the ones who stayed were killed. The soldiers then went to Duck Creek, White Pine County, and made a camp with their wagons circled. They made fires in the circle on which they cooked their meal and their music c ould be heard. Some of the Indians were coming down the valley and an Indian man came riding by, he had braids, and he told them to hide under the sagebrush and not to get up until the soldiers left as they would be killed. When the soldiers left he rode b ehind them possibly to observe where they would be going next and to warn other Indians. An elder from the South Fork reservation (Yowell 1974) described what may have been the massacre at Duck Creek that preceded the attack at the Swamp Cedars: The Indian guide who took the soldiers to the other Indian camps was promised that his people at Ruby Valley would be spared from being killed which was why he becam e a scout to save his people. A band of Shoshones were camped by a river near McGill which was named Toll Creek. They usually camped there to hunt and eat ducks. The Indian scout from Ruby Valley came to them and persuaded them to hold a dance saying that friends should get together and dance, implying that his people would join them. The people started the dance and were dancing when the soldiers arrived. Most of them were massacred but two escaped and went to warn the other Indians in another listen and were also killed. The soldiers gave a red cloth to the Indians at Cherry Cree know that the cloth was full of smallpo x germs. They all came down with sickness and died except for one old lady. They were buri ed by the town of Cherry Creek. ater near McGill that bears being called a river would be Duck Creek. Cherry Creek is a small town north of McGill, that sits on the western side of Steptoe Valley. The theme of the Indian scout appears in a Goshute narrative as well (Bonamont and Bonamont 1976): Over on this side of McGill, at Duck Creek where the water ends at a place named Blue Hill which is Hump shaped, many Indians were killed there by the soldiers, one old man was killed because he was not fast enough to keep up with the others.

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163 one w oman and her younger sister ran and hid with their chil dren in the McGill mountains. done differently, but that one Indian led them (soldiers) knew where the Indian country was; It was early in the morning when the Indians started their morning fire at Black Rock Hill the soldiers arrived and attacked the Indians while t hey were having their dances. My mother said her mother saw what happened while she was on Baker mountain. It was all over in a short while before noon, there was just som e smoke and some dust she said. which states that the soldiers crept up on the Swamp Cedars at daybreak (Angel 1881: 181), though the locations are unclear. One could oversee the Swamp Cedars from Baker Peak, but it does not appear possible to have seen Black Rock Hill from that location Nonetheless, Newene in Duckwater have often described a simil ar situation in which their great grandparents described being hidden in the mountains, and seeing the clouds of dust in the valleys as the cavalry came through, slaughtering or driving out any natives they could find. In some cases, these narratives have referred to other movements by the same troops as they moved down Steptoe Valley, into Spring Valley, and then south of Duckwater before turning and moving back north again (e.g. Sanchez 2012). Some of the salient themes in these narratives resonate with the blood narratives described in Chapter 4. For instance, Newe history becomes entangled with colonial conquest through the theme of the Indian scout who is trying to protect his own people in Ruby Valley, and illuminates internal community divisions thr slaughter but is ignored. Several of the narratives also observe that the group at the Swamp Cedars was not a war party, but a Gathering or a dance of the sort that would later become 1994a); as such, they emphasize the injustice and brutality of

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164 the attacks. An elder from Ely described the massacre in similar fashion, and added a detail that tipped arrows but the group attacked at the Swamp Cedars in 1863 had no such arrows because it was a gathering at which women and children were present (e.g. interview with Laura Rainey 2013; see also Lahren 2010). The specific historical impact of this massacre is h ard to assess. Most of the literature suggests that between Duck Creek and Spring Valley, 50 to 60 Shoshones and/or Goshutes were killed, though most of these are alleged to have been men (Angel 1881; Wren 1904; Davis 1913; Richard Clemmer, personal commun ication). One account suggests that over 300 Newe were massacred in the same area, close to the same time, after a very similar alleged triggering incident involving a Newe raid on a wagon train going through Egan Canyon near Schell Creek Station (Wilson 1 910), but there is little corroborating evidence of it, and the dates and locations do not match up (cf Lahren 2010). We can see from the above Newe accounts, however, that the incident was well remembered throughout Newe Sogobia; it is unclear whether the survivors of the incident relocated, or exactly how social relations in the valley changed after that time. It is known that a number of Newene Shoshones and Goshutes worked as ranch hands, and the women as laundresses or domestic workers, in Spring Vall ey in the 19 th century (Crum 2005). Spring Valley was a particularly desirable location for settlement because it was relatively well watered, collecting the bulk of the rainfall from the towering Snake Mountains on its eastern edge. As a local historian d far the best grazing land in the country. A stream of water gushed from nearly every little know of no

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165 Newe place name using the number 1,000. Nonetheless, even if the Indian name is in fact a taibo the valley. The origin of abundance of such water sources; he named a Steptoe Valley site Spring Caon because it harbored five springs within it (Carlson 1974: 2 21). We can see the ambivalence that settlers felt toward their native Spring Valley ranch hands and domestic workers in another episode of violence from 1875. A Goshute man known as Toby led a white miner named James Toland to a supposed ore deposit for a fee, only to be rebuffed and refused payment when the miner found the deposit to be either superficial or nonexistent. Allegedly, Toby then killed the miner. That same week, editorials appeared not only in the local Pioche Daily Record but major papers l ike the Salt Lake Daily Tribune and the San Fransisco Chronicle These accounts exhorted military intervention and swift colonial repression of a supposed uprising, contending 19 had quit their ranch jobs and heade d eastward to accounts also alleged that the town of Cherry Creek, in the northern part of Steptoe Valley, was besieged by Newe war parties (Crum 1991: 288). The residents of the town of Baker, which s its on the Utah/Nevada border just east of Spring Valley, even went so far as to build some sort of moat to keep potential marauders at bay (Crum 2005: 359). There were stated suspicions that Mormons may have fomented the uprising. As happened in many cas es during the colonization of Indian country, Shoshones who were heading to the mountains to go pine nut picking were suspected of fleeing ranches to form 19 Near the present day Yomba Shoshon e Reservation, west of Duckwater

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166 which th ey likely found consistent with their traditional seasonal rounds, met with antipathy within a Judeo Christian view of work and Euro American expectations of stability in settlement. Given that the ranch hands likely left to pick pine nuts every fall, it i s difficult to chalk these incidents of white panic up to mere cultural misunderstanding. It seems more likely that the alterity of their traditions and lifestyle, the recency of the 1860s raiding 20 and a settler colonial need to establish uncontested cont rol of land and property met in a heterogeneous blend of white avarice, fear, and ambition. It was not long before vigilantes emerged from the local ranchers, accosting and killing three Indians in separate incidents when they were unable or unwilling to d Antelope Jack brought Toby to the location of a mob at the Lehman Ranch. arrived from the town of Eureka, and Lt. George Jaeger was dispatched from Fort Halleck in northeastern Nevada to play the role of peacekeeper. Both were present when Toby was brought in. Agent Levi Gheen, who resided in White River but at this time was a volunteer Ind ian agent defuse the situation. Roughly 40 50 ranchers questioned a group of about 100 Goshutes from the demographic differential alone, we can safely assume that th e ranchers were well armed during which time they made the demand that the natives clear out of Spring Valley and remove themselves to the Deep Creek Goshute reservation (Crum 2005: 360). When Gheen went to gather more troops and ensure a fair trial for To by, Jaeger handed him over after making the lynch mob sign a petition stating their names and that they assumed responsibility for their actions. Toby was then hanged (Crum 1991: 292). 20 Southern Paiutes also conducted raids and were massacred in the 1860s in the same general area (Lahren 2010); other incidents of Indian resistance occurred throughout the west in that time.

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167 Ironically, months after these incidents concluded, the White Pine Ne ws wrote on Jan 8, 1876, Yet as Steven Crum has pointed out, the actions freed up coveted grazing land in both Snake and Spring Valleys. Moreover, in 1877 rumors circulated that Indians were being trained and armed by would be Mormon conquerors, and these, too, turned out to be f alse. Lt. Edwin V. Sumner talked to Jaeger and ranchers and Whether there was any noticeable regret or compa ssion felt by the colonists in Spring Valley or the surrounding areas may well be summed up by the Pioche Daily Record m 1991: 288n7). By later chroniclers, the incident was remembered largely as a joke, the murders, land seizures, and near massacre notwithstanding (Angel 1881; Wren 1904 ; Davis 1913 ). The final incident in the area is the least known. It is a massacre des cribed in Sylvester published history of the Swallow family (Robison 2006). These sources, and any other reference to them of which I am aware, are based on oral history alone, as no written records seem to have been left. In this instance a descendant of the only two survivors is the bearer of the tale. The following is the account told by Lillian Stark, which was told to her by her grandmother, Mary Joseph (Robison 2006: 13): In the mid 1890s, a small band of Indians coming from Utah passed through the Goshute Reservation on their journey into the Snake Valley region of Nevada. They crossed Sacramento Pass and proceeded down into Spring Valley where there was water and a thick stand of Swamp Cedars tha t would afford them shelter and

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168 protection from being spotted by the US Cavalry that had been following this band of Indians for some time. The band was getting something to eat when the Cavalry descended upon the Indians slaughtering all but two small gi rls (about age 10) that escaped using a big ditch that led to a big mountain (to the east). The two girls stayed in that mountain area for about a week. They decided to go in separate directions, one girl (known as Annie Jack in her adult life) went back t o the Goshute Reservation to live, and the (south) Spring Valley where she came upon the Swallow Ranch (at Shoshone, Nevada). The Swallows took the girl into their home and raised her until she was about 16 years ol d. The Swallows named her Mamie Swallow. in law when she married Joe Joseph, which is presumably how she learned about the story. The incident is placed in or around 1897 g roup of white men with guns. Robison was unable to find any mention of the incident in local newspapers, and even believes that the Swallows avoided discussing the story with their children, though he reports (Robison 2006: 14 15): Fred Carpenter, Laura S tark Rainey has since di is a Newe elder c urrently living in Ely, and is the today; I have been told that Annie Jack also has some descendants in the area, and at least one elder remembered her living in El y in the early 20 th century, though he said that no one knew she had lived through the massacre until years later. Valley, where she was a popular basket maker in the area (Crum 2005: 363). The Indian camp in

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169 Baker persisted into the 1930s, but Spring Valley seems to have lost nearly all of its inhabitants. As Crum (2005: 362) writes: The post 1880 Indian populations of these valleys remained so small and invisible that a later generation of whites in eastern Nevada wondered if Indians had ever lived there. In 1908, the editor of the Ely R ecord Spring Valley Peopled by a Pre Valley had a sizable Shoshone speaking population up to the third quar ter of the nineteenth century. What we see here is an erasure o f history, and a silencing of the sort critiqued by Michel Rolph Trouillot (1995). Newene living in the area today know full well that their ancestors lived in Spring Valley. However, the fact remains that entire families appear to have been killed in Spri ng Valley, and others were likely destroyed or affrayed to the extent that their specific traditions, including cultural and sacred places, were lost to living memory as survivors joined with other groups in other areas. If this proposition is correct, the n it is not contradicted by the salience of the Swamp Cedars in contemporary traditions. The Swamp Cedars site was, following Steward, a widely known gathering site; it has also been recorded in writing and remembered in oral tradition as the site of two s eparate massacres. I propose that it has taken on a metonymic significance for the surrounding areas, because it was widely known and remains a remarkable historical and ecological location. In contrast, Newe sacred sites tend to be small, secluded, and so metimes relatively unobtrusive; if the observer does not know what to look for, a site might be hard to find or understand. While a knowledgeable Newe observer may often identify prayer altars and other features, the uniqueness and idiosyncrasies of some s acred sites might be hard to interpret. Decades later covered with loess, eroded by wind and snowmelt, or grown over with brush in the absence of their caretakers, they might be unobservable entirely. In keeping with the conversation I described at the be ginning of this chapter, I will leave the reader to imagine what sorts of power, what meanings and realities, are presently vested in

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170 the Swamp Cedars site for Newe today. It should suffice to say that it is taken seriously. Some elders remember families p ointedly avoiding it, taking pains never to set foot on the site. Others remember hunting rabbits or conducting other activities there when they were growing up. For instance, the daughters of Dorothy Stark, sister of Lillian Stark, recall their parents br inging them there for picnics and other activities, though they were reticent about Newe spiritual practices (Spilsbury 2013): RM: Did [Dorothy Stark] practice, did your parents practice any of the Shoshone that much? DS: RM: So just things you got used to being part of, but nothing overt, or nothing like that. DS: was just part of our lives. RM: So when was the first time you went out to those Swamp Cedars out there? DS: First time I went out to Baker to visit my uncle. [Laughter] Yeah, we used to stop there a lot. RM: What kinds of things would they say or do? DS: probably just played until they got back. RM: here, but not all the way. DS: Well, usually, you know, it would be all four of us, and maybe one of the parents because no one ever really mentioned how significant it was. It w in life that I realized the significance. I knew that it was something special, because it was so different from anywhere else. And it just had that feel. But I RM: Did you like going out there as a kid? DS: Oh yeah. Yeah. I liked going anywhere as a kid. RM: Well, so when did you first hear the story of the massacre out there?

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171 DS: RM: That must have been really startling for the p ieces to kind of come together like that. DS: it was before computers. And not many people wanted to talk about it. Not many of the elders. RM: And your mother never talked about that at all. DS: No. Just my Aunt Lillian. And that was later, after we were m ature people, before she told us. In other conversations, Delaine speculated that the trips may have had a literally unspoken spiritual significance to her mother and aunt, based on certain subtle solemnities that she can vaguely recall, but the certaintie s are as obscured as the two women presumably wanted them to be. The depth of sedimented meanings in these senses of place are not readily represented, much less safeguarded, in the consultation process as it exists today. We will consider three reasons f or this below. First, the EIA process is essentially a form of aggrandized audit culture: in audit, the unspoken or undocumentable is the unaccounted for, and thus the excluded. Second, ion And lastly, the process of commensuration is highly compatible with neoliberal expectations of resource extraction, against which ther e are few safeguards in an arid, mineral rich state like Nevada.

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172 Wrestling With the EIS in Duckwater It is September 2012. I am sitting in the Duckwater Environmental Department office, where Maurice and I have been poring over the SNWA GwDP draft EIS (DEIS) all day. That string of acronyms and clarificatory acronyms rather neatly sums up the experience. Maurice, the unofficial supervisor of my unofficial internship, asks me what comments I have to offer. I concede uncertainty, as the whole thing is som ewhat overwhelming. quest is to scour the dense and multilayered repetition of policy and quasi common knowledge for the narrow, often tortuous spaces within which the actual substance of the study can be found. I had looked at EISs before in fact, as Maurice asked the question, I had a folder open on my computer containing over a dozen other EISs in .pdf format but never with much prospect of my comments being of any particular use. Or in other words, never in a particularly relevant context. The question I wrestled with that day was how to identify issues within the EIS that wou ld speak to both its techno rational logics and the concerns that Shoshones in Duckwater had expressed to me. 21 were embedded therein. First, the project itself basically p roposed to desiccate ancestral lands so that Las Vegas could double in size. Second, even within this monstrous project, Duckwater and the other affected Tribes had not been meaningfully consulted by the BLM. I have listed these in the order of importance by which I perceive them, but we will consider them in reverse order, focusing first on the interface between the Tribes and the federal government, and then 21 I stress that my object was t o speak to those concerns, not to speak for the people. We were going through the EIS to find issues which could then be reviewed and discussed by the tribal council and others.

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173 considering the shortcomings of that interface within the context of the enormity of the SNWA GwDP The EIS began when SNWA submitted a right of way (ROW) application to the BLM on August 19, 2004 (BLM 2012a: ES 4). On the first page of the FEIS that was produced over the specific impacts of ROW construction and pipeline operation and provides a programmatic analysis of the potential impacts of future lateral lines, groundwater production facilities, including wells and collector lines, and drawdown from pumping groundwater on environmental federal agencies, state offices, count y offices, and even SNWA itself pooled data and research to create the EIS, which is put forth as a thoroughgoing attempt to analyze the potential impacts of BLM could only make a decision on whether or not to grant the ROW. Water rights would instead be adjudicated by the Nevada State Engineer (NSE), as indeed they were in 2011. The EIA was thus conducted for multiple purposes, as data from it was used in the NSE heari ng, but the impacts that the BLM itself had to evaluate to make its decision were solely those regarding the construction of the pipe itself and the power stations, the physical structures of pumps and wells, and other such features. Their decision making power was further limited by the fact that the GwDP EIS was 16), which is alluded to in the passage above potential acti ons, within which each segment of the pipeline pertaining to each individual valley

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174 would have to be assessed through further EIA. Because exact sites have not been chosen, the mitigate potential impacts to properties of tribal importance would be developed in accordance with the 21). This is a description of the proposed mitigation plan for Alternatives E and F; it consists, as does most of the FEIS, of little more than promises to follow hypothetical best practices. The EIS was thus extremely difficult to comment on in substantive fashion. Other than reiterating the point that it propo ses no specific action, there is little about it to be said. Within the discursive formations of audit culture, how can one attack a series of statements that aver, ual These problems carried over directly into the government to government consultation, which BLM initiated in 2007 when the two ethnographers assigned to the project made phone comprehensiv meetings held with tribal councils, was provided with the FEIS as Appendix F3.17, including everything from letters sent to all tribes, phone calls made to specific tribes, and the occasional face to face meetings held with Tribal administrators or Tribal council members. Again, it comes tabulating disparate actions and creating a multi page document whose length is itself one o f its primary arguments. However, Ely and Duckwater have both asserted multiple times that the consultation on the project was insufficient. As the FEIS documents, the Duckwater Shoshone Tribal council passed Resolution 2010 D

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175 by the CRM ethnographers on the project. Judging by Appendix F3.17 and from what I was told in Duckwater and Ely, these ethnographers were the principal contacts in consultation. Between that fact and the way that th of the EIS, there seems to be an underlying assumption that native peoples are somehow more and filtered by the ethnographers, and sequest ered in a chapter whose purpose speaks to classical anthropological concerns about heritage. The situation might have been different if the ethnographers worked closely with the affected Tribes on a project and thus became a logical choice for fostering better dialogue, but in fact the primary purpose of the ethnography is clearly stated as little more than the expansion of an inventory of significant cultural sites. The assumption is supported, however, by chap ters 7.0 and 8.0 of the draft ethnographic assessment, about water d rawdown, the spiritual meaning of water, and the potential impacts to trail systems apolitical assumptions about anthropology. Perhaps is not surprising that federally mandated anthropology attempts to situate itself i n a politically neutral discourse. But we must provisionally accept the theoretical basis of the GwDP EIS as a social fact, and social facts beg careful consideration of their consequences and implications.

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176 ation of native artifacts could possibly be unrelated to an ethnographic assessment that forms the basis for a chapter in the EIS entitled wherein native traditions and values are somehow removed from, and have no place within, ion of tribal monitors during all aspects of the construction phase of the project again, scarcely unrelated. concerns are centered on the rejection of the ethnographic report by the Duckwater, Ely, and Te purposes an assertion that likely reflects the Tri be necessary to oppose the project, and thus they would need the best documentation possible to support their case. Te and the ethnogr 2). Te Moak also allied itself with Duckwater in stating that the Tribes should be able to provide their f tribal tribes as the ethnographic assessment is being prepared, not after the document has been The Tribes seem ed to feel as if they were taken along for a ride and that clich took on a literal meaning when an individual from Duckwater described the ethnography as consisting

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177 par ticipants through a chosen portion of project area and asked questions as they went. The Newene who got involved with the project clearly felt that they should have had more input on the project design from the beginning, and that the narrow and interrogat ory approach to ethnographic assessment failed to address their concerns. In the FEIS, after discussing in detail the misgivings of both the Confederated Tribes of the Goshute Reservation and the Duckwater Shoshone Tribe regarding the ethnographic assessm 15), we learn of th e details sent the final ethnographic assessment, in which tribal comments had been addressed, to the tribes listed in Table 3.17 1. Due to the sensitive and con fidential nature of the information included in the ethnographic assessment, the document will not be available to the public and Certainly, the ethnographic reports should be confidential. They do contain inform ation that the Tribes do not want to share with the general public, although in some cases Shoshones were surprised that I might have a hard time obtaining such reports, as they still expected them to be a matter of public record. But that succinct paragra ph illustrates the problem of confidentiality perfectly. The understandable need for confidentiality creates a power relation, and uses sensitivity to the needs of native peoples to authorize a political apparatus that is oftentimes not sensitive to the ne eds of native peoples. In this instance, it is impossible for the general public to

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178 As near as I can tell, that statement simply means that BLM acknowledged th at the Tribes had made comments, and edited the text of the document so that it would be clear that the Tribes had made comments. I do not know of any substantive way in which BLM actually engaged with the ther that I will quote in full (BLM 2012a: 3.17 16): On March 24, 2011, the Duckwater Shoshone Tribe sent another resolution (Resolution 2011 D 11) regarding the final ethnographic assessment report to the nal ethnographic assessment ment be conducted participate in choosing the study team. Maurice originally proposed the idea of creating a native interviewing team, an idea which was informed by his experi others assembled at the Nevada Test Site around potential impacts of the proposed Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository (Stoffle et al. 1990, 2001). The purpose of the AIWS was to en able the various Great Basin and Southwest tribal representatives participating in the project to collaborate on generating documents in their own words, from their own points of view. Maurice held several meetings with other tribes in attempts to get his plan off the ground, and Duckwater, Goshute, and Ely all applied for their alternative ethnographic assessment should be funded through a self determination contract (P.L. 93 638). Their applications were denied. Perhaps one can make a sound budgetary arg ument for the impossibility of funding two separate ethnographic assessments though if ever there were a case that begged exception, it would be a monstrous groundwater pipeline which even in the EIS is expected to cause at least 10 feet of subsidence in m any parts of the landscape over the next 200 years, and to have such a heavy impact on groundwater levels that equilibrium would still not be reached by that time.

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1 79 But these efforts and their persistent denial speak again to the power relations of these e thnographic encounters. Newene were unable to participate in project design, felt as though the fieldwork was inadequate and minimal, and then found that voicing their objections achieved no end within the EIS process than enabling the BLM to demonstrate t One of the responses to that which I heard multiple times in Duckwater, but which the BLM answered only with vague language and spreadsheets as described above, was that government to government consultation would require tha makers be able to sit at the same table as BLM decision makers, and the two sides then engage in a dialogue to develop involved lower level BLM o fficials or the contract ethnographers. I was also told that many of the meetings which the BLM recorded as consultation were explicitly described at the time as not being consultation because they were simply informational meetings meetings in which the T ribes witnessed Powerpoint presentations, but not in which their input had substantive effect on methods or project design. T his project should instead have been an exemplar of excellent consultation. T he Swamp Cedars are simultaneously an ecologically un ique landmark; a traditional Shoshone site for food, habitation, and ceremonies; the location of two different massacres and a nearby landmark for several lynchings of Shoshones in the 19 th century; because of the latter, the resting place of many spirits; symbol to many Goshutes and Shoshones of the strength and beauty of their traditions. The next chapter will discuss an irony with regard to mining. Unlike the SNWA GwDP, which was pushed forward by a powerful project proponent with little diplomacy, it is sometimes the larger mining companies which can pay for the more thoroughgoing consultation, though in

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180 some cases the smaller companies are better positioned to establish good relationships with the Tribes.

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181 CHAPTER 6 CORPORATE GOVERNANCE AND DIALOGICAL FORMALITIES : MINING, LABOR, ACTIVISM, TRADITION Breaks in Reciprocity There are two complementary axioms of traditional Newe thought which have been shared with me time and again. They can be expressed in a unitary statement that one often he reciprocity of the statement suggests an innate equation may become still clearer. On spiritual, physical, social, emotional, and nearly any other terms, the strength of Newene is traditionally understood as coming from the earth, and thus not to take care of it is a violation of a social obligation to the non human actors that enable the Today, when the eco nomic prospects of most of Newe Sogobia are contingent on the fortunes of open pit mines, the axioms are not necessarily reciprocal. Many Newe anti mining activists have embraced the notion of taking care of the Mother Earth, arguing that the destruction a nd pollution caused by mining are incompatible with Newe tradition. However, other Newene have explained to me that they feel it follows tradition to work with the mines, because at this time it is through the economic prosperity of the mines that the eart h can provide for the people. Within Shoshone communities, the debate often centers on which approach is the should be clear that enactment of the axioms ha doxa of reciprocity to the explicit debates of orthodoxy and heterodoxy. In plainer terms, where once a simple statement could describe an encompassing vista of social relations, now the two principles readily operate in conflict.

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182 industry, one can get the impression that mining and being native are two mutally exclusive domains as if mining is an ineluctably Occidental activity, whi le being native puts diametrically opposite requirements on principle and conduct (e.g. Solnit 1994; Lannan 2014; Wolf 2013). For instance, consider the following passage quoted from a Motion for Preliminary Injunction against a Molybdenum mine that I will discuss in this chapter (Wolf 2013): The Western Shoshone that toured the Mount Hope site in 2007 all agreed that the impacts to the water resources, loss of mature pion/juniper forest, and destruction of cultural sites to too high of a price for this mi Shoshone Defense Project. During the tour Western Shoshone Elder Bernice Lalo Pauline is important is what is here now ... that spring is our ancestor, it is a cultural site. Bernice Lalo and Pauline Estevez are in particular both widely respected for their kn owledge of Newe tradition. My point is that we must consider the way their rhetoric is being quoted and referenced, focusing on the destructiveness of mining and the importance of preserving things as they are. So while both elders probably posed a number of meaningful statements intended to influence other Newe communities, what I am suggesting is that we consider the cumulative effects of the repetition of such statements on non native readers. As is the case with other issues affecting Indian country, no n natives can too easily and unwittingly collapse these sentiments to neatly fit stereotypes of comments are, unto themselves, valid and invaluable, but it is not my point or purpose to discredit them or refute their statements. My point is illustrated perfectly by the title of the from communities distant to the mountain in ques tion, are being cited in short snippets as purported representatives of Western Shoshones as a whole. The article makes no mention of the

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183 fact that the Duckwater Shoshone Reservation, which is the Shoshone reservation geographically closest to the mine, of ficially endorsed the molybdenum mine in a Tribal Resolution, nor that none of the elders quoted in the article are from Duckwater. In truth, I read the article two months after having spent the fall of 2012 in Duckwater, and I was startled to hear of it; not all Duckwater community members were in personal support of the mine, as many were concerned about the same environmental impacts discussed above, but as a collective the Tribe had not only endorsed it, but seemed to enjoy a relatively good relationshi called locally. The motion was filed by the Western Shoshone Defense Project, an activist group that has some supporters in Shoshone country even today, but which few, if any, Shoshones would argue actually speaks democrati cally and unequivocally for all Western Shoshones. recent decades, and it s coinage and currency can give us an indication of how the general public has tended to treat the most vocal Shoshones as official mouthpieces for the people, without much regard for the deeper context. The confusion, the distorted expectations entangled with legitimate concerns, and the never ending disputes over representation that we see above surrounding the Moly mine offer a microcosm of the overall mining debate for Newene. For many Newe communities, mining is powerfully entangled with prosperity; p eople who grew up in Ely were unanimous in describing the 1970s, when Kennecott Copper Corporation closed down operations amidst a crash in the Census records, a s the population of White Pine County, of which Ely is the seat, dropped from 10,150 in 1970 to 8167 in 1980, the lowest population count recorded for the county since 1910.

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184 Elders in Duckwater remembered Ely being an exciting town to go shopping in around Christmastime b ecause of the department stores. T oday, it is more commonly derided for high prices and poor selection. While some of the disparity may result from a shift in perceptions related to a greater availability of large retailers in Elko and Las Vegas, to which some residents location. In the 1950s, Ely was a successful mining town on US 50, which was a popular highway amongst tourists. The Hotel Nevada in Ely, 6 stories high, was the largest building in Nevada when it was built in the 1930s, being too posh for Julian and Jane Steward to stay there during their fieldwork (Kerns 2010). The hotel still has pictures on the walls of famous movie stars, and se veral rooms named after stars who regularly stayed in them, because it was once a popular stopping point for Hollywood stars and film crews who were traveling to various filming sites. The upper level of the hotel even had a luxury suite on the top floor r eserved for Kennecott Executives. However, during my fieldwork I preferred to stay at the Hotel Nevada when I needed a room in Ely because its prices on regular weeknights are competitive with the cheapest motels in the area. Mining has a tremendous influ ence on northern Nevada politics and economics. The major newspaper of northern and central Nevada, the Elko Daily Free Press even includes a former residents prided themselves that it was built on ranching (e.g. Similar things can be said of many other small Nevada towns, including Ely and Tonopah. His comment, of course, is not simply that all money is mining money, but that mining is a deeply

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185 intertwined part of the economic base and infrastructure of north ern Nevada. Mining can scarcely be viewed as an inevitable condition of Nevada life; however, under present conditions, it is probably an inescapable condition until economically viable alternatives develop. As mentioned in Chapter 3, heritage law and pol icy today favor larger mining corporations, many of whom tend to be multinational. The EIA process is expensive, as are the state permitting processes and other obligations that a mining firm must meet before being able to do so much as break ground. Furth ermore, the heritage management procedures that most anthropologists would support on ethical grounds can also be expensive to implement with all of their morally upright bells and whistles. For instance, General Moly, the owner of the Moly mine, has foste red a good overall relationship with Duckwater. Again, this is not to say that the community as a whole is not ambivalent about the impacts of the mine itself, but that the leadership of General Moly have come out to Duckwater multiple times to make presen tations and foster discussion with the community. They have been regarded as forthright about their needs and their intentions, and the consultation seemed to be viewed as fair and meaningful even by those who were deeply conflicted about the mine. Yet, as I will explain in further detail below, the mitigation plan for the Moly mine was less thoroughgoing than those that multinationals like Barrick Gold or Newmont tend to implement. The irony is that these multinationals have had a relationship with the New ene that was far more contentious, openly ambivalent when not adversarial though as we will also see, that relationship has become far more complicated in the case of Barrick. We are left with an observation that might sit uneasily with most readers: somet imes, being ethical costs money that only larger corporations can afford. Indeed, Holly Ober (2001: 145 8) was told the same thing when she interviewed various federal officials about EIA compliance. They preferred working with the multinational giants, la rgely

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186 permitting or procedure. As one US Forest Service archaeologist described the situation (Ober 2001: 148): In general, the big companies are very compliant. Section 106 of the National Archaeological Resources Protection Act. 1 The big find a conflict between a drill hole and a site, the geologist will just m ove the hole to avoid impact. The big companies also hire their own archaeologists so I simply g companies have their own archaeologists, and they do it themselves. The small dered Sagetown Mine 2 a dream to work with, because the mine adhered to its operating plan, obeyed the environmental laws, and generally tried to keep good working relations with the agencies. The mine had its own job is to keep the permitting process ahead of valley of Nevada that was built specifically for mine workers a company town of the 21 st century, located in the same came from. While small mining companies struggle through the permitting process, larger corporations can design and build entire towns, and hire temp workers for federal agencies to free up t he full time agents for field visits that expedite project progress (Ober 2001: 149). We 1 2

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187 Moving Beyond a Reified West In recent years, anthropologists have d eveloped increasing interest in theorizing phenomena such as money and corporations that have often been taken as given or assumed. Much as we can critique the notion of globalization and modernity being unequivocally Western and even in distribution (Rofe l 1999; Tsing 2005), we need to think more carefully about the realities the imaginaries, the materialities, the relationalities of the moving parts that produce modernities and globalizing influence. Some scholars have argued (e.g. Benson and Kirsch 2010) that the current popularity of Foucaldian theories of governmentality has led to a focus on subject state relations at the expense of theorizing not just corporate influence, but the situatedness of corporations that drive many state and subject forming p rocesses. At the 2013 AAA annual meetings in Chicago, I was one of several presenters 3 in a roundtable session for the Anthropology of Corporations working group T he discussion prompt provoke a more thoughtful response than the commonly automatic assumption that corporations s invisible hand. As Greg Urban pointed out in the session, Karl Marx originally viewed corporations, a new concept in his time, as a potential boon to class struggle because they offered new potential for solidarity. Likewise, Jessica Cattelino (2008) h as argued that the fungibility of money has empowered Florida Seminoles as a sovereign people. The casino revenues that they have been able to collect in south Florida funded their purchase of Hard Rock International for nearly $1 billion in 2007. Cattelin o argues that Tribal sovereignty must be asserted and exercised rather 3 The original intent was for informal presentations to foment an opening dialogue for the group. Due to considerably greater attendance than was expected, we ended up having to give short presentations after the manner of a semi impromptu symposium.

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188 than simply assumed or proclaimed (cf. Lambert 2007; Dennison 2012; Simpson 2003). In the case of Florida Seminoles, their financial autonomy has enabled them to provide better health c are and housing for Tribal members, create effective cultural preservation programs, and in Shoshones who have visited the Florida Seminoles, and they were general ly impressed with the quality of their Tribal programs. native traditions and the global economy are inherently opposite forces, and that any engagement in business or marketing by native peoples is at the expense of their native authenticity. Such arguments are not necessarily new in the literature, but they remain pervasive within anthropology, let alone in the wider sociopolitical discourse of American nationalism. Certainly, these tropes have been applied in public discourse on Western Shoshone tradition and land rights and in this sense, there can be considerable difference between a knowledgeable Newe elder decrying the effects of money on Newe tradition, and a w ell meaning non native who has just watched a single documentary and is now arguing that Shoshones need to stop being corrupted by the influence of mining. That moment of difference occurs, perhaps, when any ific and complex social and historical relations emplaced in the landscape, and instead become overshadowed by generic tropes of indigeneity. Just as Chapter 4 demonstrated a complex relationship between Newene and money, in this chapter we need to build on those ideas to consider the complexities of Newe entanglement with corporations. Mining is a predominantly corporate endeavor in the contemporary West, and those corporations enable much of the infrastructure of northern Nevada. It is not simply their d irect revenues that are so essential, but the revenue streams that mines create, assembling

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189 networks of contractors, building and other supplies, road improvement, truck maintenance, etc., as well as the influence of their workers on motel and food service s industries, entertainment industry (e.g. casinos), and so on. Over the years, mining interests have made significant contributions to Nevada universities, including the University of Nevada, Reno, at which one finds the Mackay School of Earth Sciences an d Engineering, formerly the Mackay School of Mines and also the Great Basin College, formerly the Great Basin Community College, in Elko. In the discourse on mining amongst Newe communities in Nevada, there are widely diverging perspectives. It is very i mportant to recognize that there are many Newe who speak out strongly against the excesses of the mining industry, if not against the industry overall. We will consider some of their arguments later in this chapter. But I wish to begin here with the many n arratives I have heard that treat mining as a fact of life in rural Nevada. It is not necessarily that Newene and other Nevadans naturalize its presence, though perhaps some do, but that they recognize that within current political, legal, and economic str uctures, and given what current technology presently exists, mines will operate in Nevada, and they will extract minerals for what profits they can make. I wish to make it clear that I am not portraying these assertions as of their argumentative basis. The question for Newene who see mining as a fact of current Nevada life then becomes how to coexist with it, and how to gain some of the benefits of infrast ructure and development that have been such a boon to Nevada towns and institutions. Many of the Newene who have had the most involvement with shaping or influencing the direction of the Shoshone Dialogues with Barrick Gold have told me things more or less along those lines. They see their role as bringing a

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190 rights activists, who see their new role not so much as forsaking their prior ideals as adapting to new po litical and social circumstances. These sentiments on infrastructure and development articulate powerfully with ideologies that are common within the Corporate Social Responsibility movement, which often promote the idea that corporations are better than governments as agents of development. Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) is a concept that, variously defined, either overlaps or contrasts with corporate citizenship, corporate accountability, and other issues and theories of corporate governance. Howe ver, a basic description would be that while classical economic thinking would direct corporations to maximize benefits for their shareholders CSR purports to maximize the benefts to all stakeholders (for an overview, see Bendell 2004). The idea is that t he corporation does not solely focus on increasing profits, but on improving the lives that it affects and, no doubt, doing so in a way that maximizes tax breaks and minimizes expensive litigation or other tensions with impacted communities that can slow t he progress of any given project. CSR has created a new opportunities for Newene to forge relationships with mining companies. Being an extractivist industry, heavy element mining is inherently transient. It occurs where ore can be found, and it ceases or moves elsewhere when the invariably finite supply of ore is gone. Thus, ceteris paribus there is no incentive for a mining company to worry about the long term effects of its operations, or at least no longer than the tenure of those operations themselve s. Mines in Nevada, as in other parts of the American West, were often simply abandoned at the end of their use throughout the 19 th and 20 th centuries meaning that shafts or pits were left open, chemicals were left to run off, and few if any measures were taken toward the safety or welfare of the local public. Abandoned mine shafts abound in rural Nevada today, and are both prized as heritage and protested as hazards. One elder from Duckwater nearly died

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191 playing near the abandoned mine shafts at Round Moun tain in Smoky Valley when she was a child (Robison 2013): Where the mines did their excavating and mining, drilling for mines, they left those mine holes open. And according to what Doris tells me, I almost fell into one of those mine shafts. If it wasn't for some of the Mikes that were there -their kids were a little bit older than Doris and I -and our two siblings, they all got together and held hands and pulled me out. I slipped, the ground gave away, and we were looking down those mine shafts, the groun d gave away, and I fell. And luckily, there was a little area where it didn't go straight down, and I was right there, ready to fall in when they all grabbed hold of me and pulled me out. They were all, I guess we were all crying, and went home crying. Bec ause that was a near mishap. I wish Doris had never told me, because that gives me the chills today! I had forgotten that, thank goodness, but she reminded me of it. And I vaguely remember that. But can you imagine open mine shafts? People could fall in th ere and never be seen or heard from again. But they were all over those foothills in Round Mountain there. Another elder from Ely also remembered playing around mine shafts, in this case near Tonopah where her family moved to follow work for her father (Sp ilsbury 2013): DS: nd whatever and climb up those head frames, and then I got up to the top and was scared to come down. [Laughter] Stuff like that. But I did come got in a big batch of trouble with my mot her when she found out what we were doing. Usually, we RM: I can imagine. DS: mom. Besides the physical danger of the mine shafts themselves, a number of harmful chemicals and elements were left to drain into the soil or local water supplies, such as mercury used in processing ore and lead that was mixed in with the ore in areas like Eureka (Sewall 1999, Hulse 2009). Reclamation, or essentially t he cleaning up of a mine after operations cease, became an increasingly popular alternative to the laissez faire program of total abandonment. Federal regulations began to encourage and enforce reclamation procedures, citing both aesthetic and

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192 environmenta l rationales. The NEPA process also presumably had an impact, as it is now common practice for an EIS to feature a description of anticipated reclamation to be implemented after the closing of the proposed mine However, as was the case in Ely in the 1970 s, the closing of a mine could have a crippling impact on local economies. When Kennecott left at that time, they took with them not only the jobs themselves, but training opportunities that provided skills that locals could apply to other jobs. For exampl e, one elder from Duckwater was trained as a truck mechanic at Kennecott, and it became a trade that kept him gainfully employed until retirement. Without such opportunities, it would have been harder for locals, be they native or not, to leave town and fi nd comparable jobs without prior training. communities to derive more lasting benefits from the presence of mines, and to suffer fewer negative impacts from mining opera tions. On the latter point in particular, however, some anthropologists have been openly critical; Stuart Kirsch (2010) has described the idea of Kirsch 2010b). Kir co doublethink to reference the power of certain phrases to contain inherent, and int entional, contradictions that disrupt critical evaluation. Kirsch has worked with peoples affected by the Ok Tedi mine in New Guinea that notoriously destroyed ecosystems by dumping tailings directly into the Ok Tedi river for years (Kirsch 2006). As a res ult, the Ok Tedi is largely a dead river today, and even the trees surrounding it have died in some places.

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193 Mines do not put their tailings piles in rivers in Nevada; they often instead create literally mountain gold, which involves the use of sodium cyanide to leach microscopic amounts of gold out of cyanide to gold bearing ore all ows the economic extraction of gold in concentrations as little as 0.02 0.04 troy ounces per ton of rock. Thus it can take 2.8 tons of ore to produce enough gold for a single wedding ring. In essence this can result in trading an entire mountain for a pick up truck exposed to the sky because sunlight breaks down cyanide naturally. The size of the open pits, which can exceed a mile in diameter and 1000 feet in dept h requires extensive dewatering procedures, because the pits often go far below the water table. Often, the water is then pumped directly out onto the valley floor in an area, which critics point out could contaminate the water with heavy elements or radi oactive fallout from the aboveground Nevada nuclear tests of the 1950s and 1960s, could fail to actually constitute re entry into the ecosystem at all, and so on ( Hulse 2009 ). Even the most extensive reclamation procedures do not restore the previous cond ition of the landscape; tailings piles are not reclaimed as backfill in large mines. Rather, they are reclaimed by landscaping and planting native vegetation on top of them. Moreover, cultural sites and wildlife are often displaced or destroyed through the massive operations areas of mines, which including the pits can cover hundreds of thousands of acres. The cultural sites usually can never be restored, and the wildlife may never recover its former conditions. In Newe communities, there is debate as to wh ether the mines are incorrigible polluters and destroyers,

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194 but there is no debate regarding their level of disruption. No Newe who I have met denies that the mines change landscapes on a massive scale. Dialogue amidst Adversarialism The first Shoshone Dia logues were held by Placer Dome, which was based in Vancouver; I was told by several people in Duckwater that these dated to roughly 2004, though many details remain unclear. Barrick made takeover bids for Placer Dome in 2005, which resulted in a $10.4 bil lion US transaction that was completed in 2006 (Barrick 2005; CBC News 2005). At that time, Barrick took over the Dialogues started by Placer Dome. 2006 was also the year that members of the Western Shoshone Defense Project (WSDP), who were officially oper ating under the aegis of the Western Shoshone National Council (WSNC), won a decision at the United Nations Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (CERD) based on testimony from August 2005 in Geneva. This has been described as the first decision that CERD ever made against the U.S. on behalf of indigenous peoples (Fishel 2007). It was not for want of effort, however. The WSNC had been sending Newe delegates to Geneva since the 1980s. Virginia Sanchez and Kathy Adams Blackeye from Duckwa ter were two of these early delegates, and they remembered being instructed to stay in groups because the from testifying. Their testimony at that time produced few direct results, but the travel created opportunities for networking and forging ties of solidarity, so the WSNC persisted in its efforts. In the 1990s, WSNC members even succeeded in traveling from Canada to Geneva on Western Shoshone Nation passports (Harney 1995). CERD responded to Newe claims at least as early as 2001, when it requested a response from the U.S. regarding the indigenous rights issues tied up in the Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository, the sale of treaty lands at auction, and othe r issues relating to treaty rights (CERD 2001: 400).

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195 Two of the leading Newe activists at CERD were Mary and Carrie Dann, who had previously gone to the Supreme Court over Treaty rights, and who had won a decision from the Inter American Commission on Hum an Rights in 2002, where they were represented by Stephen Tullberg and Robert Coulter of the Indian Law Resource Center. The IACHR stated that while it was unequipped to evaluate Newe land claims themselves, it found that the U.S. had clearly failed to fol of equality contrary to Articles II, XVIII and XXIII of the American Declarati on in connection with their claims to property rights in the Western Shoshone ancestr ). The IACHR decision was then cited in urgent action requests submitted to CERD, describing the ations of the Inter American Commission of Human Rights to respect the rights of Western Shoshone people in relation to the American The CERD cited the IACHR ruling as support for its conclusio question of land title was an inadequate measure by reasonable human rights standards for D also cited the failure of the U.S. to respond to its queries regarding the Western Shoshone situation, first in 2001 and again in 2005. I will now quote at length portions from the remainder of the document (CERD 2006: 2 3, emphasis mine): expresses particular concern about: (a) Reported legislative efforts to privatize Western Shoshone ancestral lands for transfer to multinational extractive industries and energy developers. (b) Information according to which destructive activities are conducted and/or planned on areas of spiritual and cultural significance to the Western Shoshone

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196 peoples, who are denied access to, and use of, such areas. It notes in particular the reinvigorat ed federal efforts to open a nuclear waste repository at the Yucca Mountain; the alleged use of explosives and open pit gold mining activities on Mont [sic] Tenabo and Horse Canyon (d) The conduct and / or planning of all such activities without consultat ion with and despite protests of the Western Shoshone peoples (f) The difficulties encountered by Western Shoshone peoples in appropriately challenging all such actions before national courts and in obtaining adjudication on the merits of their claims, du e in particular to domestic technicalities. C. Recommendations 8. The Committee recommends to the State party that it respect and protect the human rights of the Western Shoshone peoples, without discrimination based on race, colour, or national or ethnic origin, in accordance with the Convention. The State party is urged to pay particular attention to the right to health and cultural rights of the Western Shoshone people, which may be infringed upon by activities threatening their environment and/or disreg arding the spiritual and cultural significance they give to their ancestral lands 9. The Committee urges the State party to take immediate action to initiate a dialogue with the representatives of the Western Shoshone peoples in order to find a solution a cceptable to them, and which complies with their rights under, in plan to privatize Western Shoshone ancestral lands fo r transfer to multinational extractive traditional lands. We can see tha t concerns about mining played a crucial role in the CERD decision. These concerns were linked directly to issues of land title and treaty rights, heritage management, and questions about the adequacy of consultation and dialogue. The CERD decision has had little noticeable impact on U.S. relations with Shoshone tribes or individuals. One Newe man told me that when he asked about it, a BLM agent explained to him that it would effectively be illegal for

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197 federal agents to operate in response to the UN documen t without particular authorization. any BLM agents who might take it upon themselves to recognize international authorities over and above federal ones. Howe ver, it is worth considering what impact the CERD decision had on multinational mining companies such as Barrick Gold and Newmont, as they operate mines in countries that cannot so easily disregard UN rulings. It is also worthy of note that CERD directed t he U.S. to suggesting that Barrick took specific direction from the CERD document per se; we have seen that the Shoshone Dialogues were already underway at this time. But we have also seen that larger mining companies often employ their own specialists to augment or obviate federal agency staff and their shorthandedness. It is reasonable to propose that after this decision and some subsequent conflicts that I wil l relate below, Barrick shifted the Dialogues to serve an Dialogues, or what kinds of unspoken motivations there may be. But regardless of whether we vie w them as a groundbreaking ethical business practice or corporate co optation of sovereignty, the Dialogues are structurally situated to address the concerns raised and recommendations extended by UN CERD. They are an alternative forum for heritage consult ation and unlike federal consultation, which often fails to bring federal decision makers to the same table as tribal decision makers, the Barrick Dialogues do bring the leadership of Barrick North America 4 to the same table as Shoshone tribal leaders and interested community members. 4 Of course, the leaders of Barrick North America are not the management of Barrick overall, nor do members of the Board of Directors come to actual decision makers.

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198 There are some particularly important ways that corporations are not like people. In particular, corporations can implement multiple, contradictory strategies in hopes of dialec tically pursuing intended ends. On its website, ultimately we are focused o n value creation for our shareholders through higher returns. We can see the obvious potential for contradiction between any of these four priorities. In particular, the commitment to stakeholder sharing under Corporate Responsibility faces a trump card i n that Shareholder are presented in an ostensibly egalitarian, side by side fashion, which visually belies the reasonable argument that there is an inevitable hierarchy within these four priorities, ev en if they are interdependent. One might argue that the art of corporate success in this instance would hinge on properly threading all four needles. I am arguing that the potential for conflict is always there, and certain issues are foreordained by corpo rate needs to win out over others. We can see supporting evidence of this assertion in some mission of the Dialogues. The references to Horse Canyon and Mount T enabo in the CERD decision pertain Crescent Valley in the immediate vicinity of the Dann Ranch. Some supporters of the Danns see home of Mary and Carrie Dann as being a symbolic siege. Whether there is an underlying schaccic strategy at work or not, the Cortez mine has been quite lucrative. a nd reports its proven and probable gold reserves to be 15,100,000 ounces (Barrick 2014: Cortez). It

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199 is reasonable to assert that such a valued asset would put shareholder value before stakeholder value if a choice between the two were forced, and indeed so mething like that did happen. The Tenabo Controversy It is an unfortunate tension between scholarly disciplines and Newe mores that controversy and debate produce the best, most honest, and most meaningful research and scholarship, they are also often sou rces of deep discomfort for Newe communities. In 2010, I made official requests to the Te Moak Tribe and the Ely Shoshone Tribe to do research within those communities on the historical relationships between Newe and mining. I proposed to gather as many di sparate perspectives as I could, but Ely officially declined to work with me on the project, while Te Moak never formally responded. I was thinking of longer term historical relation ships when I wrote the proposal. I had failed to consider the fact that so me Tribes were then engaged in attempting to get an injunction against the Cortez mine, while others were pushing for it to open because they wanted the jobs and economic benefits. The issue was powerfully divisive in Newe Sogobia, and there is evidence th at Barrick was also considerably shaken by the events of that time. Some Newene have suggested to me that Barrick rather adeptly played Newe Tribes against each other in the debate. Whether it was intentional or not, the decision of some Newe to officially support Barrick exacerbated the already tense situation. I will attempt to discuss the controversy in a good way. 5 This means that while in some instances I will cite court transcripts or direct testimony, in others I will leave out names that are matter s of public knowledge, or obscure the exact origins of particular statements related to me, because it would likely only single people out without adding much of significance to this 5

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200 discussion. Some of the tensions from this period have abated, and there is no point in inflaming them once again. In 2005, Cortez Gold Mines (owned by Barrick) filed to expand their existing Cortez Hills mine. The opening of the original mine elicited some protest, but the expansion proposed to excavate a significant portion of Mount Tenabo, with a pit threatening to come close to the White Cliffs and their petroglyphs of deep importance to a number of Newene in the region. Because of their cultural significance, the peak of Mount Tenabo, the White Cliffs, and nearby Horse Can yon were already acknowledged as being suitable for nomination to the National Register of Historic Places by a BLM study a year earlier (Dixon and McGonagle 2004). The BLM executed the Environmental Assessment in 2005, and after the final EIS came out in September of 2008, they finalized the Record of Decision in November of the same year, approving the project with some minor alterations under one of the proposed alternatives evaluated in the EIS. Newe opponents of the project acted quickly to obtain an injunction against the mine on the grounds that it violated NEPA, FLPMA, and various laws and policies protecting religious freedom. The injunction hearing took place in January 2009 in District Court. The effort was officially led by the South Fork Band c ouncil, though they were joined by the Te Moak Tribe, the Timbisha Shoshone Tribe, the Western Shoshone Defense Project, and the Great Basin Resource Watch, a non native NGO. The efforts wer e effectively led by the WSDP. A t least one member of the South Fo rk Band council also served on the Te Moak Tribe at that time, and the Timbisha Shoshone Tribe leadership was affiliated with the WSDP. It was most likely because WSDP gatherings were held near Tenabo that active members of the Timbisha council felt a

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201 stro ng connection to such a distant mountain. I am mapping the relationships that elucidate the situation. entire effort was spearheaded by Carrie Dann and her activist foll owers. That accusation was simply not true. It seems overwhelmingly clear from conversations with a number of people that Mt. Tenabo has long been known as a highly significant place, and some open political opponents of Carrie Dann participated in the eth nographic consultation for the site in recognition cultural significance, and their descriptions ranged from cultural activities like pinenut picking to personal unfortunately, these legitimate claims were organized around the argument that Tenabo was a ational solidarity. I cannot evaluate the factual accuracy of the claim, though I have heard comments that would suggest some possible truth to it, but the wording and the implication run counter to Shoshone tradition. Religion and sense of p lace are local ized for Newene. M any folks from other Barrick called several witnesses, including two anthropologists called as expert witnesses, and five Newene who supported the mine. Donald Hardesty, a historical archaeologist who specializes in Nevada mining, was called to testify that Tenabo had been mined since the 19 th century which, while true, overlooks the fact that pi ck and shovel mining did not threaten Shoshone tradition on a scale equal to open pit mining. Lynne Sebastian, an archaeologist and former SHPO of New Mexico, had been employed by Barrick to evaluate the literature on

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202 Shoshone religion. She implied that th e claim of sacredness was spurious because the literature indicated that Shoshone religion did not have a marked attachment to place, and she impugned the work of Penny Rucks, a CRM ethnographer whose reports were the most extensive in documenting the cult ural and spiritual significance of Tenabo. Then came testimony by Newene in support of the mine. One man, who was employed by Barrick, argued that because of the reclamation process, mining was compatible with Newe tradition. The others, most of whom were from Duckwater or Ely, testified that Tenabo was not sacred to them, and they had never been taught that it was a central, sacred place for all Shoshones. Again, given the nature of Shoshone place making, their arguments should probably not be surprising, but the fact that they testified for Barrick was considered particularly upsetting to many Newe traditionalists the more so because much of the testimony came from two reservations far outside of the project area. This was an example that some Newene indi cated as reservations who were not even peripheral to the area of operations. These alliances were reinforced economically; the Duckwater testimony came from tribal members who were consulting with Barrick and another who had a contract with Barrick for raising greenhouse plants for reclamation practices insisting that it was not me ntioned in any of the published literature on Western Shoshone history and culture. The court also engaged in a debate about how to properly delineate the sacred part of Tenabo. The judge at one point asked if they could draw a circle around some part of t he peak. Newe responses tended to speak to relational understandings of place and meaning,

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203 It was exceedingly difficult for Newene to explain that dewater ing could impair the power of parts of the mountain that would not be touched by machinery, and that places that were not What is particularly interesting abou t the extent of the debate over culture is that it had entirely, and although the 9 th Circuit Court did grant an injunction on appeal in December 2009, the de cision read (South Fork Band v. DOI: 15839 40): we agree with the district court that the Tribes have not established a likelihood of success on the merits of their FLPMA claims, but hold they have established a cause there was inadequate study of the serious effects of processing refractory ore and exhausting scarce water resources. The likelihood of irreparable environmental injury without adequate study of the adverse effects and possible mitigation is high. A lthough some newspapers and activist blogs trumpeted this decision as a success for indigenous rights, they either selectively quoted the decision or generalized about it without much analysis. In effect, it was just a procedural decision stating that the BLM had not carried out the NEPA process by failing to thoroughly evaluate truck emissions and several other technical aspects of the project. Though the decision references dewatering, BLM was under no obligation to prevent any degree of dewatering, but o nly to evaluate the impacts of the proposed actions. None of the cultural evidence weighed into the final decision. A fter the BLM fulfilled its duty to consider the potential impacts specified by the court, the injunction was lifted T he Cortez mine is now one of The Tenabo case raises the question about why there was so much interest in culture when the cultural arguments were unable to significantly articulate with the law. It is possible that Barrick was simply attemptin any weaknesses. It is also possible that Barrick us ed the courtroom as a stage to present evidence

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204 arguments of Carrie Dann and the WSDP, who had by then become famous international symbols of Shoshone rights and culture. A The web page has been taken down in the last yea r or two, but it was in jarring discord with the stridently defensive insisting that Barrick did not violate Shoshone human rights, that its operations were in accordance with U.S. law, and referring to the Danns Appendix 2 of the official response from the U.S. on the CERD decision. CSR and Dialogue One of the most significant breakthroughs in the Dialogues has been the establishment of scholarshi ps for Newe college and trade school students. While the Tribes have tended to be circumspect about signing on to the non binding Collaborative Agreement that authorizes participation in the Dialogues, the offer of scholarships is extremely hard to turn do wn. revenues. Thus, when the injunction hearings began, Barrick informed the Tribes that if the Cortez mine was closed, then the scholarships would dry up. Since that time, the Tribes fought so that now the scholarship fund will never be tied to the fortune of any one mine, but that does not change the rather openly manipulative nature of the original action. One very overt and clumsy attempt at manipulating Shoshones throu gh the Dialogues site facilities. However, the offer came with a catch (Barrick/Shoshone Journal Winter 2011: 1):

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205 In return, [Barrick North America President Greg] Lang requested an end to offer regarding Ruby Valley lands expired after the company received no formal response. provide benefits but we must reiterate that the opposition by a few impairs our ability to deliver many p Little exegesis is necessary to point out how patronizing this attempt was to proscribe litigation. There was even discussion of trying to prevent any Western Shoshone individuals from litigating, which see med to imply a reference to Carrie Dann, who is not affiliated with any federally recognized tribes. These attempts at control and manipulation are not surprising. Like lawyers in court, who will often employ whatever argument has the greatest instrumenta l impact regardless of the expected to leverage stakeholder groups in the same way that it does toward everyone else. 6 Perhaps the more remarkable aspect of the Di alogues remains that Shoshone communities are finally garnering benefits from mining on their traditional lands when for decades they were receiving nothing. Thanks to the efforts of Brian Mason, a Newe man who is Manager of Native American Affairs for Bar rick North America, dozens of Newene have secured well paying jobs at Barrick in recent years. I have been told that most of the Newe employees tend to work on reclamation, as they often feel culturally uncom fortable being part of the drill ing or excavatin g. Lack of experience, lack of education, criminal records, and other factors prevent many other Newene from getting Barrick jobs. 6 I am indebted to Ira Bashkow for pointi ng this out to me.

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206 Barrick is a corporation that has had an uneasy past with Western Shoshones, but which has sufficient resources as to be uns toppable as a project proponent. They can afford to hire their own specialists, to intervene on behalf of the federal government in litigation, and even to hire temps for federal agencies to expedite projects. Although some of their actions can be question ed on ethical grounds, as shown above, they can also afford to be ethical, even if only with the right hand while they might be violating those ethical principles with the left. Newe Tribal leaders have also demonstrated that they will not simply be pawns buy off litigation with the Ruby Valley ranch lands failed twice, and the Tribes are as shrewd in pursuing their interests as Barrick is in pursuing its own. General Moly As I have explained, the Moly mine, overall, has an excellent relationship with Duckwater, which is the nearest reservation to Eureka. While the Tribes had to pressure Barrick into an initiative to hire more Shoshones, Moly agreed to create such an initiative through its consultation with the Tribe. exceedingly good faith. Certainly, communication was open and thorough. Moly also attempted a comprehensive heritage management plan for the mine, and I was in Duckwater when they made their presentation. While the plan was fully compliant, it was less ambitious than the typical ethnographic and archaeological work that Barrick might fund. The focus was predominated by NHPA Section 106 issues, and almost entirely overlooked the role of cultur e in NEPA. This is a practice which Tom King (2008, 2009) has noted is typical of firms and agencies that are trying to take shortcuts or reduce costs. In the case of the Moly mine, I suspect the latter. The Moly mine had a startup of roughly $280 million, and it had already spent the bulk of that on permits and EIA contracting before the permits had even cleared.

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207 financial scandal, and while I was in Nevada in 2013 he wa s on the lam and suspected to be somewhere in Arizona. At the same time, Moly proposed hiring 8 to 12 tribal monitors for the archaeological phase of mitigation. The assessment in the Duckwater environmental office was that they wished to fund too short a time period, and that there needed to be monitors over the long term of the project. However, further underscoring the point that Duckwater does not have a surplus of members, the Tribe had difficulty furnishing enough able bodied and qualified members to serve as tribal monitors. Trying to figure out a suitable list of candidates was a popular topic of conversation for a couple of weeks. As both a public relations move and a gesture of goodwill, the Moly mine requested that Duckwater hold a ceremony to c onsecrate the grounds where the pit would be. It was a challenge for tribal members to explain that the ceremony was to apologize to the earth, and mourn the destruction that would be caused for the sake of short term economic gain. Even elders who were ex cited about the prospects of jobs for their children and grandchildren expressed deep regrets upon seeing the trees, brush, flowers, and signs of animals on the mountainside that would soon be torn up and destroyed. But tribal members who were ambivalent about the mine, and in some cases opposed to it, nonetheless endorsed it officially because that was the official position that the Tribe adopted. One individual explained to me that if the people needed the jobs and any other opportunities that would aris e from the mine, then he would do everything he could to make sure that the oriented sentiments are t he central theme of the concluding chapter, as they speak to the future oriented aspects of heritage.

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208 CHAPTER 7 POSSIBLE WORLDS AND ALTERNATIVE FUTURES The Middle Ground This dissertation is a basic beginning to a larger project and a longer term relatio nship with the communities I worked with It was a project that inspired some excitement and interest among some of the CRM anthropologists with whom I talked. Fed eral agents were sometimes more cautious, but then, they were also more likely to be worried about some manner of ulterior agenda. While some of the Newene took little direct interest in heritage management, being more interested in the historical aspects of the research, others felt that a project looking at these issues had been a long time comi ng. I would hope that this dissertation might be of some value in provoking ideas for future research, not just on Newe heritage but on a wide variety of issues in Nevada and the Great Basin. My intentions in this research were driven by the application o f postcolonial and decolonizing perspectives (e.g. Smith 1999; Denz in et al. 2010; Wilson 2005; Harrison 2008), and by a dedication to community based work (Atalay 2006). However, I was also intent on approaching a complicated subject that many community m embers were not overtly interested in. The idea for the project emerged from conversations that I had with Newene in previous years, so it was rooted in the experiences of community members. Still, it incorporated disparate enough elements that even after I explained in detail exactly what I was trying to study, many Newene decided that I primarily interested in native history and traditions. I have already explained that many of the most illuminating conversations I had were never recorded. They occurred for instance, at a backyard table over some coffee and maybe a sandwich, punctuated by the interjections of children or pets, freely oscillating from the banalities of tribal politics, to the latest bit of gossip, to some religious tenets that my interloc utor

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209 was raised with, to a given television show, to gas prices, to recollections of hunting with the No sooner would I learn something relevant to the project than we would start talking about bike repair, or the need for someone a few doors down to get a new job. Through these changes in topics, I remained equally interested in the interaction. We were developing a relationship and a mutual understanding. Sometimes I would show up ready for an interview, but instead find question s deflected while we watched television for a few hours. In such circumstances, I would just enjoy the chance to get t o know whomever I was visiting, and I was prepared to walk away without an interview but also without regrets. So when I say that this wa s a community oriented project, I do not mean something programmatic about the procedures I followed in incorporating local voices. Nor do I mean that the community necessarily defined all of the research goals or the project design, though early on I had about people themselves. They were about listening to people, trying to respond in ou r interactions to the issues that seemed most relevant to them, and ultimately letting these interactions shape my focus on the micro scale. The project remained what it was, but how it took form was largely through interaction with the communities involve d. When described above have rarely been used among Western Shoshones, and they are long overdue. And any heterogeneity in this dissertation is a product of this dialectical method of scrutinizing theoretical and academic issues that were often abstruse to most of my interlocutors all the while following the guidance of the people based on the issues as they saw them and as they decided to engage them in their interactions w ith me.

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210 I have walked a sort of of the decolonizing approach that I have taken through the community engagement I described above. Over and over, I initially found myself thinking that cer tain Newene had a better understanding of a given issue than the others, only to come later to a deeper appreciation of the overall context of their disagreement. I have attempted to focus more on explaining the logic and the meanings behind various positi ons taken within the community, and less on privileging or authenticating certain positions. Some of the issues and events that I have described were painfully divisive within these communities, and in writing this account, I thought that the best thing I could do was try to illustrate the ways in which they were all part of the same larger story. I may be more openly critical of federal agencies and Basin an thropologists, but I still try to focus on telling a complex story that recognizes the lack of clear heroes and villains. Heritage management is more procedurally streamlined for these agencies and professionals in Nevada but can still be quite frustrating and complicated. There is valuable work to be done on the cultural changes within the managem ent agencies in that most federalized state of the U.S.; just as Wendy Espeland (1998) described the changes within the Bureau of Reclamation during the inception of the NEPA process, so could valuable work of similar scope be done with the Nevada BLM agen cies, or the USFS. And given the recent interest in ethnographic study of archaeology (e.g. Castaeda and Matthews 2008), the Great Basin offers a rather extraordinary opportunity. While many of the theoretical frameworks used there adaptationism, behavior al ecology, etc. are maligned in the mainstream discipline, if looked at evenly from a situated perspective (sensu Haraway 1988), they offer fascinating ways of mobilizing heterogeneous actors (sensu Latour 2005) from what might otherwise seem limited surf ace scatter to generate

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211 unique perspectives and research questions. Such studies might help to bridge the gap between native knowledge practices and non native anthropological traditions. Much work also needs to be done in terms of addressing the disjunct ures considered in this dissertation. I am hardly the first to raise these concerns about Great Basin heritage (Brewster 2003; Clemmer 2004), and I sincerely hope I will be far from the last. Over the next decade, I hope enough quality work is done to supe rcede the main themes of this dissertation, rendering it useful only as a document of its time and place. Heritage Management in Newe Sogobia Heritage management and Native American consultation often end up requiring immense expenditures to produce uneve n results at best in the eyes of Newe Tribes, and the system little more than components of a procedural checklist. Newene often feel disempowered when attem pting to protect their heritage through consultation, as the entire complex of heritage laws and policies is, after all, designed to facilitate development. Federal and state officials were more or les s unanimous in explaining to me that this pro developm ent orientation is not a secret. They generally felt that the Section 106 process was the wrong process to use for protecting sites. They described Section 106 in terms reminiscent of triage, basically a process of attempting to minimize damage or maximize all feasible (stress more proactively engage with heritage management procedures by nominating cultural sites before they are caught within the Area of P rojected Effects (APE) of an already proposed project. In their view, Newene need to engage in heritage management practices autonomously. There are grant funds available through the NPS, for instance, to aid in the documentation and nomination of TCPs to the NRHP.

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212 These options are, under present conditions, rarely attractive or feasible for the Newene. Even when a Tribe might officially want to document their sacred sites, the elders who possess the relevant knowledge may resist involvement in such a pro ject. As I explained in Chapter 3, they would sometimes rather see the site fall into oblivion than allow the knowledge of it to fall into the wrong hands. Better, in their view, to let it die than to permit someone to kill it. Throughout this dissertation it should be clear that there are plenty of well grounded reasons for these elders to be suspicious of confiding their traditional secrets to federal agencies or the anthropologists whom they contract bes them. What I am describing here are not the essential qualities of Newe tradition, but the grounded social dynamics that result in a general reluctance to participate willingly in the heritage management system. State and federal officials are clear o n their obligations to maintain confidentiality and share information on cultural sites strictly on a need to know basis yet Newene are understandably skeptical not simply of the confidentiality, but of a system that allows the federal agency to design the lock, the key, and the procedures that are assembled to protect it. There are too many instances in which Newene were unable to access vital information about cultural sites that was given over directly to licensed anthropologists in the employ of project proponents such as mining companies or large energy firms. In the case of Mt. Tenabo, even when information was shared with anthropologists who documented it, the authenticity of the information was attacked by hired experts. The simple truth is that proa ctive participation in the heritage management system could require opening up very sensitive cultural knowledge to this sort of crude and invasive scrutiny in court proceedings, and might even put pressure on elders to release still further information to substantiate their claims in accordance with the rules

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213 of evidence for legal proceedings. Once these debates become part of a courtroom setting, they also become open to public scrutiny; I was able to obtain the transcripts from the Tenabo injunction hear ings without going through the Tribes in any capacity whatsoever. It should give us pause to consider that, in effect, the laws have been designed so as to mean more than that they must construct discussion of it based on alterity (Michaelsen 1999). They are required to utilize an entire set of practices, constructs, and assumptions that are oriented toward the instrumentalization of cultural knowledge so as to specify, delineate, and standards. Sites need to be enlisted into knowledge systems under the bureaucratic assumption that their documentation is a wholly external ma tter, as if they are simply and factually being observed. praxis of doxa and the more explicit debates over authority and authenticity in orthodoxy and heterodoxy offers a helpful lens for this scenario. This is a simple sketch, but in its simplicity it should be useful. Newe heritage once operated on a doxic level, as much heritage generally does. This is not to say that people unconsciously and unquestioningly obeyed tr adition. There is no doubt that Newe contested and innovated tradition in some fashion, as these are intrinsic processes to living cultures. Rather, it is to say that heritage could be located as an emergent property of practice. What separates orthodoxy a nd heterodoxy from doxa is the quality of explicitness. Doxa is not truly incompatible with explicitness, but neither does it require it. Doxa is a liminal condition that can accommodate the overt and the explicit, but can never be defined by it.

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214 Orthodo xy and heterodoxy are distinct in that they require explicitness. Bourdieu never discussed heterodoxy at great length, perhaps as an artifact of a certain romanticism he felt toward the Kabyle past (Goodman and Silverstein 2009), but the two conditions as he described them logically imply each other. They are mutually obverse. And they both operate when culture and its legitimacy become inescapably thrown into a state of explicitness because every instantiation is politicized. The settler colonial context o f Newe heritage effectively creates such a space, particularly through heritage management, where culture cannot simply be lived, but must be identified, described, articulated, translated, recorded, and properly inventoried so that it can be incorporated into cascades of environmental audit procedures that by their very nature recognize only what is explicit. In so rendering it, Newe heritage becomes disaggregated into knowledge that becomes commensurable with the results of non native knowledge practices The procedures and subjective memories that are vested in the sacredness of a place be it for major ceremony or minor ritual must be evaluated through rational decision making techniques for evaluative significance according to criteria set with American nation its contexts and meanings, are unchanged by it. In anthropology, it is now axiomatic that culture changes, both on conscious and unconscious levels. I am not insinuating that chan ge needs to be feared or resisted, per se. But these changes are not occurring on Newe terms, and the power relations shaping them are obscured through the rhetoric of consultation. In a Foucauldian sense, the commonsense

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215 the processes they describe, the sort of neo assimilationism of multiculturalism. Mario Blazer In development, participation and representation appear as closely related concepts: if representation means that one thing stands for something else in a relation of equivalence, surely the optimal equivalence would be a thing standing for itself. From this perspective, participation in d evelopment projects takes place if the target population represents itself in the development process. beneficent, and desirable. It suggests inclusion and engagement. Ye t indigenous participation in heritage management in Nevada, as in development projects in Paraguay, is somewhat more like conscription the subject position of the participant is discursively structured within a basically obligatory framework that serves t he structural power enabling it. Heritage management is in a sense a political lubricant that facilitates economic development while intending to minimize friction with affected communities. The benefit is that it prevents development projects from unfol ding without studies being funded to evaluate impacts and propose possible solutions, but the downside is twofold. First, many Newene and members of the general public expect it to protect sites and ecosystems, when it is only designed to prevent their unw itting destruction. Many people mistake both its aims and its capacities in this regard. So to speak, the EIS process often results in determining the optimal grade scalpel for the operation, rather than simply using anything sharp and risking unnecessary damage. It does not actually forestall or avert the operation itself, except in rare cases, and those rare cases do not tend to occur in the rural parts of a state that is regarded by the rest of the country as a desolate wasteland fit for the activities t hat are unfit for more valued places.

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216 Newe Tribes and the Future In part because their current land base within their treaty lands constitutes 0.1% of their traditional territory (Clemmer 1989; Sewall 1999), Newe Tribes have historically struggled for res far from it. Duckwater prides itself on a tradition of self governance and community uplift, and since the 1970s Ely has made remarkable progress in increasing its landbase and creating the i nfrastructure for it. On both reservations, the elders are remembered for fighting hard to establish the foundations that make sovereign futures possible. But it is to say that the progress both Tribes have made has already required many of their resource s, and much of their time and energy. The Newene who have spent sufficient time learning both their own traditions and the heritage management policies do not have formal training, and the Tribes do not have the resources to establish full time cultural re sources offices. There is little infrastructure to deal directly with these issues. Infrastructure is instead devoted to other issues, such as economic development, education, health care, elders, and so on. Yet it is through heritage management consultat ion that these other departments must communicate their concerns. The interface between sovereign Tribe and federal agency on most projects is the ethnographer; as I have described in previous chapters, there is a built in assumption that anything native p conflates a subject with the study of it, as Tom King (2009) has objected. of either pooling their resourc es or uniting their efforts surrounding heritage in substance rather than rhetoric. I know many Newene of all political stripes who are frustrated with their Tribal governments, and the question of dealing with heritage is one of the salient issues. Withou t putting too fine a point on it, the internal divisions in the communities seem to have made it

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217 exceedingly challenging to develop a consensus on heritage issues. While it seemed for a time that the WSNC might enable such a forum for consensus to develop, popular support for WSNC has all but disappeared, and nothing has arisen to take its place. There is thus something of a strange irony regarding the Barrick Dialogues. When I mention the Dialogues to Newe and non Newe alike, the issue they raise is eithe r fear of co optation, or celebration of benefits. Yet what stands out to me is that the Dialogues, and related activities relating to it, have gotten Newe leaders to sit at the same table and talk to each other in a way that is unparalleled since the heyd ay of the Western Shoshone National Council. And indeed, Barrick created a Cultural Advisory Council, on which designated representatives serve from each signatory Tribe on the Collaborative Agreement. I have not worked with the CAC, but it is, again, a un itary group that meets regularly and is not matched by any analogous organizations that are not underwritten by Barrick. Mel Brewster, whose dissertation (Brewster 2003) was inspiration and guidance for my own, wanted to go on record stating that while many of the structural problems with heritage management are entangled with settler colonial politics, he believes that Grea t Basin Tribes could take better advantage of opportunities afforded by the system. Rather than seeking out accept the system as it is. I do not disagree with him, though I am not sure how best to weigh in on the issue. For example, all of the top personnel in Duckwater are already employed, sometimes in more than one position. Housing is currently at full capacity, and there is a waiting list of Tribal members hoping to move back when new housing becomes available. A more rigorous cultural resources program at this time might simply force already taxed personnel to don yet another hat. They could also hire outside personnel, but that proposition would be

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218 fraught with political challenges, beginning with establishing a steady payroll for it, and ending becoming a tribal representative in dealing with federal agencies a nd mining companies, and handling information that they often do not even share with each other. Although many scholars and officials have called for a streamlining of heritage management (e.g. King 2009; Sebastian and Lipe 2010), we need to ask critical questions about our intentions with heritage management (Dawdy 2009, 2010; Smith 2006; Yellowhorn 1996, 2000). What would reform mean? Where is this system really breaking down? As with other aspects of anthropology at the inception of the 21 st century (c f Ntarangwi 2010), we are dealing with a field that was developed in a distinctive moment, and whose alterations have mostly been a variety of patches applied for expediency to various problems. In the case of larger alterations like NAGPRA, the implicatio ns are still being sorted out, and one could argue that more effort has been put into circumscribing its authority than reasonably defining its limits. Once again, I am doing more to illustrate the complexities than to offer specific solutions. I will clos e this dissertation with a consideration of the consequences of a dedication to a middle ground of induction and description. Implications of Walking the Middle Ground I believe strongly that Western Shoshones, as a people, have been actively cheated out of their rights throughout the 20 th and into the 21 st century. One could argue that their greatest victories toward justice in the past decade have been petitioning the federal government to distribute a compensation payment for land that they technically never lost, and entering into an agreement with a major multinational mining corporation that gives Tribes much needed funding, but leaves even many of the more supportive Newene suspicious of the dangers of co optation of sovereignty.

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219 It is easy in such 2010 ; see chapter 4 for discussion ), taking facile positions in the moral high ground while failing to address any of the substantive issues lurking beneath. There is no denying that collaborating with a corporation like Barrick entails risks. But amidst the pervasive global reach of the corporatized world, the insidious power of the world market, and the inevitable need for outside investment to develop any kind of major infrastructur e in rural Nevada, would Shoshone Tribes truly be better off I can generate lists of the substantive education s or back the c onstruction of a new tribal building. Likewise, I could follow the lead of many commentators before me in assessing the legal realities of the Newe Treaty rights claims, and then focusing on the injustices that led to the creation and eventual disbursemen t of the Western Shoshone Distribution Fund. But to do so would also ignore many of the stories that people shared with me, through which I came to understand the meanings that the money, and the struggle over it, took on over the years. Debate over the fu nd became a forum for Newe self determination in which a far broader host of issues were entangled with the money itself. As one man told me, The way I see it, at one time it's supposed to help out the old people, that's years ago. They didn't have no income tax, you know? They worked like sonofagun, and then, you know, don't have very much money. I think that's what it was supposed to be benefit. Not the youngsters. The youngsters, they've got all kinds of making a lot of money. They didn't need it, and we still don't need it. But I think mainly that's what hurt people. They wanted that money. You know, instead of eating jackrabbit all the time, maybe once in a while have a T bone steak or something. That's the way I seen it. To focus on the perspectives of the treaty rights activists would be to silence stories like these, which are also important contributions in understanding the intricacies and entanglements of

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220 Newe heritage And many Newene, including s elf The middle ground of my approach was born of an ethic of inclusion, and a commitment to a methodology of dedicated listen ing. It seemed like the necessary approach if I truly intended to respect everything that people wanted to share with me, because even if a given opinion about the Treaty of Ruby Valley was at odds with the legal or historical facts, it was of ten still a belief rooted in more substantive matters. Rather than assessing the veracity of claims, I attempted to trace the connectivity of narratives and experiences. It is my hope that in so doing, I have provided an account that illuminates the complexities of the debates and points of tension that I encountered during my fieldwork. A more conventional approach would have been to focus on a particular issue: land righ ts, mining and indigeneit y, the politics of water, etc. Instead, I followed heritage as it wended its way through the se various s ubjects and issues, because this approach illustrate s the complex ways that heritage is entangled with wider economic and polit ical structures in Nevada. If we continue to examine global phenomena from the situatedness of particular localities, all the while paying careful attention to the interlocutory role played by anthropology, then perhaps we will find more effective solution s to heritage management issues that lead to robust and democratized forms of heritage consultation.

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221 APPENDIX ARCHIVED ORAL HISTORY INTERVIEWS CONSULTED Adams, Dwight 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, June 8. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection University of Florida. Blackeye, Henry 2012 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, December 13. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Bonamont Harry, and Minnie Bonamont 1976 Early Days at Goshute: Soldiers and Related Ha ppenings. Inter Tribal Council collection, Nevada Historical Society, University of Nevada, Reno. Collins, Floyd 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, July 23. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Frank Churchill, Mau rice 2012 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, December 3. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. George, Delaine 2012 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, October 27. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Graham, Boyd 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, July 8. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Gumm, Cheryl 2012 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, December 15. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, Unive rsity of Florida. Johnson, Ruth Pressy 1974 Interviewed by June Tom, November 19. Inter Tribal Council collection, Nevada Historical Society, University of Nevada, Reno. Marques, Sally 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, June 6. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Mascarenas, Arvilla 2012 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, November 7. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida.

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222 Mike Kenny 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, June 7. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Penoli, Agnes 1974 Interviewed by Danny Millett and Dan Allen, January 15. Inter Tribal Council collection, Nevada Historical Society, University of Nevada, Reno. Rainey, Laura 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, July 8. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Redner Albina 1990 Interviewed by Helen Blue, 1989 1990. University of Nevada Oral History Program, University of Nevada, Reno. Robison, Betty 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, June 13. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Sanchez, L illy 2012 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, December 8. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Spilsbury, Delaine 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, June 2. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Flor ida. Thompson, Tim 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, July 23. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Walker, Helen 2013 Interviewed by Ryan Morini, July 5. Samuel Proctor Oral History Program Collection, University of Florida. Yowell, Doris 1974 Handwritten letter, December 5. Inter Tribal Council collection, Nevada Historical Society, University of Nevada, Reno.

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223 REFERENCES Agrawal, Arun 2005 Environmentality: Technologies of Government and the Making of Subjects. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Alfred, Taiaiake 2005 Wasas: Indigenous Pathways of Action and Freedom. Peterborough, Ontario. 2013 Being and Becoming Indigenous: Resurgence Against Contemporary Colonialism. University of Melbourne, Narrm Oration, Nov 28. Andersen, Jim 2009 Lost in Austin: A Nevada Memoir. Reno and Las Vegas: University of Nevada Press. Anderson, Benedict 1991 Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. 2nd ed. New York: Verso. Angel, Myron 1881 History of the State of Nevada. Oakland, CA: Thompson and West. Arkush, Brooke 1999 Numic Pronghorn Exploitation: A Reassessment of Stewardian Derived Models of Big Game Hunting in the Great Basin. In Clemmer et al. Pp. 35 52. Arnold, Emmett L. 1973 Gold Camp Drifter, 1906 1910. Reno, NV: University of Nev ada, Reno Press. Arnstein, Sherry R. 1969 A Ladder of Citizen Participation. Journal of the American Institute of Planners 35(4): 216 24. Asad, Talal, ed. 1973 Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter. Amherst, NY: Humanity Books. Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin 2002 The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post Colonial Literatures. 2 nd ed. New York: Routledge. Atalay, Sonia 2006 Indigenous Archaeology as Decolonizing Practice. American Indian Quarterly 30(3&4): 2 80 310. 2012 Community Based Archaeology: Research with, by, and for Indigenous and Local Communities. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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226 Carr, John 1891 Across Nevada in 1850. In Pioneer Days in California. Pp. 52 59. Castaeda, Quetzil E., and Christopher N. Matthews, eds. 2008 Ethnographic Archaeologies: Reflections on Stakeholders and Archaeological Practices. Lanham, MD: Altamira Press. Cattelino, Jessica 2008 High Stakes: Florida Seminole Gaming and Sovereignty. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. CBC News 2005 dome accepts barrick s sweetened 1 0 4b us takeover bid 1.518970 CERD (United Nations Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination) 2001 Concluding observations of the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination: United States of America. 59th session. 13 Aug. 2 006 Early Warning and Urgent Action Procedure. Decision 1 (68). Chamberlin, Ralph 1911 Ethno botany of the Gosiute Indians of Utah. Memoirs of the American Anthropological Association 2(5): 329 405. Lancaster, PA. Chilisa, Bagele 2012 Indigenous Rese arch Methodologies. Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications. Clemmer, Richard O. 1972 Directed Resistance to Acculturation: A Comparative Study of the Effects of Non Indian Jurisdiction on Hopi and Western Shoshone Communities. PhD dissertation in anthrop ology, University of Illinois. 1981 Western Shoshones and the MX: The Relevance of the American Indian Religious Freedom Act. Paper delivered at Society for Ethnohistory annual meeting, Colorado Springs, October 30. 1987 The Tail of the Elephant : Indians in Emigrant Diaries, 1844 1862. Nevada Historical Society Quarterly 30(4): 269 90. 1989 Differential Leadership Patterns in Early Twentieth Century Great Basin Indian Societies. Journal of California and Great Basin Anthropology 11(1): 35 49. 1990 Tosawihi Quarry. Report to the U.S. Bureau of Land Management, Elko, Nevada office.

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248 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ryan Morini was born in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. At the age of four, he maintained a consistent narrative that he was an alien from a different planet. For much of his life thereafter, he felt similarl y out of place, though the narrative no longer remained so consistent. It is a known tendency for anthropologists to be the odd ones in the group. After surviving adolescence through a regimen of fantasy/horror novels and punk rock shows in West Chester, P hiladelphia, and Reading, he attended Penn State University, where he became the first student in comparative l iterature to graduate from the concurrent BA/MA program in 2005 A side fascination with Mesoamerican antiquity turned into a minor in anthropolo gy that was increasingly focused on Amazonia, and he left Penn State expecting to go into Amazonian ethnoarchaeology. At the University of Florida, he decided to do a term paper on Western Shoshone land rights issues. Within a year, he was headed to Nevada for the first time, participating in the Western Shoshone Walk and Run, which he has joined every May from 2007 through 2013. He considers his work with Shoshones to be a lifetime commitment, and hopes that the interviews that come out of his work will be of value to the future generations. He took an interest in black history in Gainesville in 2008, and has worked with the Samuel Proctor Oral History Program at UF since 2010 recording the narratives of African American elders and community leaders He rec eived his PhD in cultural anthropology at the University of Florida in 2014. Ryan is happily married to Caitlin Baird as of 2011, and looks forward to their future together with their two dogs, Lorna Doone and Maggie Mae, and their cat, Egon.