A bum accosted Sam at the door of the shop, more proof that the Ute social system wasn’t as egalitarian as its propaganda claimed. Here was another old, discarded remnant of the Ute tribe. He wore a battered black reservation hat sporting an equally battered turkey feather. The rest of his clothes were concealed under a dirty, multi-hued serape, and he bottle of cheap booze and accumulated grime and filth. His wheezy voice was full of alcohol-fueled enthusiasm.