Others say he is just a snake-oil merchant - the latest in a long line of white men enriching themselves at the tribe's expense.

John Jurrius is a well-dressed and articulate Texan who at 45 has amassed a fortune. He earned his chops during two decades in the oil business, but he likes to call himself an investment banker. It's a combination that makes him a formidable businessman.

He brought to the Uintah and Ouray Reservation in eastern Utah a no-nonsense approach: for every $10 million he would make for the tribe, he'd keep $1 million. He also required a salary of $62,500 per month for himself and four staffers.

''I told them I wasn't here to save them. I was here to make money,'' Jurrius said in a recent interview. "The [tribal] elders gasped when I said that. But one elder stood up and said, 'You're the first [white] man to tell us the truth.' ''

Jurrius is as controversial as he is dynamic. He spent a number of years with the Southern Ute Tribe in southwest Colorado before he was invited to leave in 2000. After five years with the Northern Utes, his contract is up this month. Its renewal is tied to a pledge to increase by four-fold dividends paid out to tribal members.

That has his critics crying foul: He's buying his own contract extension, they claim.

In any case, Jurrius has an impressive track record. Longtime Southern Ute finance director Bob Zahradnik, a non-Indian, said Jurrius helped lead the Ignacio, Colo.-based tribe into a new era of prosperity.

During the Jurrius years, the assets of the 1,300-member Southern Utes grew from less than $200 million to what now is creeping up on $2 billion.

"It's the most successful plan in Indian country," Zahradnik said. "The tribe's credit rating is better than that of Denmark or Japan."

But some Southern Utes claim that Jurrius went beyond financial adviser to political power broker.

"He became involved in tribal decisions," said Sage Remington, a full-blooded Southern Ute. "He was arrogant and viewed the tribal people as merely a conduit."

Because the Southern Utes sit on huge deposits of coal and natural gas, Remington believes the tribe could have succeeded without Jurrius.

"He made a lot of money for the tribe," Remington conceded. "But he made a lot for himself, too - millions and millions."

Success and secrecy: From the vantage point of the Northern Utes, encamped in the hardscrabble Uinta Basin, the Colorado scenario looked more than a little inviting. To Maxine Natchees, the chairwoman of the tribe's governing Business Committee, Jurrius appeared as the man who could at last lead her people out of poverty.

Although the Northern Utes are believed to own vast deposits of oil and natural gas, they had only recovered minimal royalty payments over 40 years of energy exploration in the Uinta Basin.

Jurrius set up shop at tribal headquarters in Fort Duchesne in January 2001 and unpacked the model he built in southwest Colorado. It includes a "membership fund" based on royalties and low-risk investments that would underwrite all tribal services: health, education, social services and retirement. In addition, it outlines a "venture fund" that seeks to build profits aggressively through a mix of investments in things such as real estate and technology. It sets the stage for any number of future tribal business ventures.

To put the plan on what Jurrius calls a "firm financial footing," he launched a new and comprehensive inventory of all the tribe's mineral holdings. He renegotiated royalties with exploration firms on Ute gas and oil fields to get a bigger share of the pie.

And he guided the creation of Ute Energy, so the tribe can participate directly in profits from new wells drilled on its land. Not least, Jurrius helped the tribe free up $190 million in water settlement monies that the federal government had held in trust.

"The future of the [Northern] Ute Tribe is now very bright," Natchees said. "I'm very confident we're going to get there."

The financial plan was put before the tribe for a vote. Once approved, it became something akin to law.

But complaints like those that dogged Jurrius in southwest Colorado - that he is secretive, heavy handed and meddling in tribal politics - soon followed.

Luke Duncan and Ron Wopsock, two Business Committee members who were not swayed by the charismatic Texan, found themselves outflanked by a voting majority of four on the six-member council. Frustrated by a lack of detailed investment information, the pair filed suit in September 2003 against the federal Bureau of Indian Affairs, which is charged with tribal oversight.

Natchees branded their action "dereliction of duty." Duncan and Wopsock were soon stripped of their positions by the four other board members. Although the chairwoman denies it, some believe Jurrius engineered the coup.

Duncan and Wopsock have been replaced on the Business Committee, but the issue of whether the men, elected by popular vote, were legally removed remains to be decided by the 10th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals in Denver.

For his part, Duncan maintains that no one outside of Jurrius' inner circle knows exactly where the tribe's money is. And there is no independent audit to back up his assertions.

"John Jurrius says this and that. But where is the paperwork? Has anyone verified it? No."

Despite Jurrius' pledge that the books are open, Irene Cuch, who now sits on the Business Committee, says she, too, is often overwhelmed and befuddled by information provided via PowerPoint on the tribe's finances.

"There has to be better accountability," she said. "There needs to be an independent audit. It's just a good practice."

Three-prong proposal: Of prime concern for critics is the $190 million in water settlement money paid out for failed promises of the Central Utah Project. Most of it, Jurrius said, is invested in low-risk bonds with, among others, Bear Stearns, a New York City-based banking and securities brokerage.

The government was making less than 1 percent per year on the settlement money, but now it's making 3 percent to 6 percent, Jurrius explained.

"The first goal of this tribe was to say [to the federal government], wait a minute. They want to give their money to a professional money manager," he said of the brokerage firm. "Why would you give away $8 million a year [in unrealized investment earnings]? That's destruction of capital."

At least $11 million of the water settlement money was invested in a shopping mall in Cheyenne, Wyo. The deal eventually netted the tribe $4 million in profit. But it spooked some tribal members, who feared the water money could be lost on risky business ventures.

After she began poking around for details on the mall deal, Mary Carol Jenkins lost her job at the tribe's laundry.

She's not the only one. Sandy Hansen worked as a staff attorney for the Ute Tribe for a decade. When she sought an independent evaluation of a mineral lease renegotiated by Jurrius, she found herself out of work.

"He convinced the Business Committee that I was not trustworthy," Hansen said.

Others have lost jobs, too. And Jenkins contends that fear has gripped the tribe.

"Right now, nobody wants to ruffle his feathers - they have everybody scared," Jenkins said. "The Business Committee is in the pocket of John Jurrius. There is no one to tell them they can't do what they're doing."

An additional $84 million of water settlement money remains in federal trust. Earlier this month, the Business Committee took the first step toward securing it for investment in the tribe's financial plan. But the measure must be approved by a simple majority of the 3,200-member tribe.

The referendum will include three provisions: Obtaining the funds from the federal government; increasing monthly payments to tribal members from $200 to $800 per month; and extending Jurrius' contract for 24 months.

The triple-pronged legislation appears like a trick to renew Jurrius' contract, said Curtis Cesspooch, a longtime tribal leader and former Business Committee member.

"They are trying to buy the people off by giving them a bigger dividend," he contended. "Those things should be separate ordinances, voted on separately."

Oil-well speed bump: Jurrius says he needs more time to get the Northern Utes to financial security. He sets a benchmark for the Membership Fund at $550 million. The interest from it would underwrite all the tribe's governmental functions. In the past five years, Jurrius says, he has brought that fund from $1 million to $76.9 million.

But there's a bugaboo that's hindering growth: Utah crude oil at room temperature is a dark, waxy substance that is difficult to refine. Recently, Salt Lake City refineries set their sights on the more profitable Canadian sweet crude and put limits on how much of eastern Utah's black wax they would accept.

Not only does that limit the tribe's short-term revenues, but exploration companies are reducing by half the number of wells they will sink on Ute lands next year.

"It's devastating to the tribe," said Jurrius. "But we're not done."

Jurrius is studying alternatives, like trucking Ute black wax to the mothballed EcoDomaine oil refinery in Green River. He's also considering building the tribe its own $250 million refinery with a 15,000-barrel-per-day capacity.

Ute Energy and the prospect of a Ute refinery, not to mention the venture fund, represent a dramatic shift for the Indian community, which historically has functioned more like a socialist society than a capitalist one.

"It's change, and it's hard," Jurrius said. "When you take a race of people who have had their future in trust and that trustee [federal government] has taken so much of their land and their future, it's hard."

The sometimes spasmodic transformation from passive socialists to active capitalists is the cause for most of the unrest on the reservation, Jurrius explained. But once the tribe is in control of its own financial independence and its own destiny, much of that anxiety will disappear.

"My commitment to the tribe is that I'll stay until I'm finished."

csmart@sltrib.com

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* Tribune reporter BOB MIMS contributed to this story.