Smoke Over Water

The bingo hall, which doubles as a performance venue, is lined with portraits of Kickapoo ancestors, great men who led the tribe out of famine and war, through Wisconsin, Illinois and Missouri before their arrival in Kansas in 1854 and toward a self-sustaining community. But, judging from the portraits, they hold former Kansas Gov. Joan Finney in highest regard. Finney, who led the state for one term from 1991 to 1995, worked to set up state-tribal gaming compacts. A painting of Finney hangs high above the entrance to the casino, a few feet above the tribal leaders — it's the only portrait with a wine-red backdrop and its own spotlight. She has high, permed hair and looks remarkably young (Finney died of liver cancer in 2001), tucked into a one-piece buck dress, her legs folded beneath her as she smiles in a green field at sunset.

Cadue has been pushing for the reservoir since the water treatment plant was built in the mid-'70s, knowing then that the plant was a temporary solution to much bigger water problems.

The Kickapoo reservation isn't wealthy, but it is self-sustaining. Fewer than 800 tribal members live there. Perhaps a dozen live in each of 160 one-story houses built by the tribe's construction company. It's the only dry reservation in Kansas, refusing alcohol service even at the casino's Dream Catcher Café, though cans of cheap beer scattered along the banks of the Delaware suggest that at least a few Indians enjoy a drink now and again.

To grow, the reservation needs water. There's a long waiting list of families who want to move onto the reservation, but there's nowhere for them to live. The tribe can't get federal grants to build more housing because it can't guarantee water for the residences. The river is so dry that the treatment plant can't adequately filter the water it does pull. What comes out of the taps, if it's allowed to settle, is flecked with dark globules. Indians who can afford it drink bottled water.

Cadue talks about arson and the possibility that reservation water might make his people sick. Remembering the summer drought of 2003 makes him visibly upset. Back then, the tribe bused in tanker trucks of water from nearby Horton but not enough to wash dishes for diners at the casino's café.

"We had to serve them on paper plates," Cadue says. "That's our business. Who's going to want to come back to eat off of paper plates?"

Besides lobbying politicians and local government leaders, he has appeared in at least two films the tribe has made urging the federal government to step in and seize land for the Kickapoo. To him, there's no mystery why the project has stalled.

"White man's greed," he says. "Because there are white landowners on that board."

Once, the Kickapoo tried to install one of their own on the water board. But the whites outmaneuvered them.

It was late 2005, and two seats were open. Tribal lawyer Williams went with two men, including Indian candidate Danny Simon, to the election meeting.

It was in the basement of a church. The board members were arranged at one end, seated at cheap folding tables. The audience sat in rows of steel chairs. Jesus was portrayed in a tapestry along one wall.

To become a board member, you must own land in a specific area of the Nemaha-Brown watershed district, which Simon did. Attendance at the meetings was usually sparse, and Williams and Simon had brought along a handful of Kickapoo women to add a few votes for Simon. They expected little opposition.

Rodney Lierz sat up front, on the board. Linda Lierz was among the spectators.

The first sign that something was wrong was the way the attendees segregated themselves. When the Indians sat down, the whites got up and moved to the opposite end of the room.

The second sign was when the cops showed up.

Williams says farmers started calling other farmers and telling them to come down to the church because a Kickapoo might get on the board. "So all of a sudden, all these people were appearing at the meeting," Williams says. "And we saw the police there, and we were told they were called to control any disturbances."

Williams found it unlikely that the Indian women he'd brought along, several of whom were old enough to qualify for Social Security payments, could start any trouble. But he kept his mouth shut.