The Turning Stone Casino Resort--all curves and swirls and earth tones--was designed to capture the Oneidas' profound respect for the natural world. But the casino, plunked down amid acre upon acre of farmland, is one of the least natural structures around. Just a few yards from Exit 33 of the New York State Thruway, the Turning Stone bursts into view as a bright white swoosh in a field of green. Inside is a distinct absence of Indian kitsch. Unlike the Mashantucket Pequots' Foxwoods resort in southeastern Connecticut, where cocktail waitresses parade about in skimpy outfits and feather headdresses, most Turning Stone employees sport solid-color shirts and long pants. Some sections of the casino, like the faux-New Orleans "21 Bourbon Street" strip, forgo Native American themes altogether. Despite hints like the "Tuscarora" and "Seneca" meeting rooms, the arriving visitor might mistake the Turning Stone for a modest Trump resort. That impression wouldn't last long. The Oneidas' decidedly un-Trumplike compact with the state forbids the tribe from trading in two of the gaming industry's most lucrative elixirs: alcohol and slot machines. But the absence of these two lures has not much hindered the expansion of the tribe's gambling business. In just seven years, the Turning Stone has become one of the top five tourist attractions in the state. In 1999, according to the Oneidas' annual report, the Turning Stone drew almost 4 million visitors. Legal documents indicate that in 1997 this influx translated into receipts of more than $100 million. (The Oneidas do not release exact figures.)

Casino profits have helped to fuel the Oneidas' other business operations. The tribe now owns a chain of gas stations and convenience stores, an RV park, three golf courses, two hotels, two marinas, a national newspaper, an e-commerce site, a print-and-design company and several other business ventures. Combined, its businesses employ 3,000 local residents--90 percent of them non-Native. In addition, the Oneidas have begun to buy large tracts of land within the claim area. So far, they have acquired more than 13,000 acres. In the words of the Nation's own 1999 annual report, "What a difference a decade makes."

Like most Indian communities, the Oneidas operate under federal law as a semi-sovereign government. As a result, Oneida businesses pay no local, state or federal taxes. In addition, when the Oneidas buy property on the open market, that land, too, disappears from the local tax rolls. "The Oneida Nation is not a casino operator that happens to have its own government," says the Nation's 1999 annual report. "The Nation is a government that happens to operate a casino." The distinction is crucial, because tribal sovereignty is the bedrock upon which the Nation plans to build a capitalist paradise in central New York. "We believe our sovereignty can be a source for economic development--the likes of which has never existed in this region," the Nation explained in a January 1999 open letter to "Our Neighbors in Madison and Oneida Counties." "We could create an economic empowerment zone that is free of the onerous regulations and costs inherent in New York State's government."

Despite criticism from some tribal members, Ray Halbritter, the Harvard-trained CEO of Oneida Nation Enterprises and the federally recognized head of the Oneida Nation, insists that this is the best way to advance the Oneidas' fortunes. "Sure we don't like casinos. I wish we had another alternative. But on the other hand, I know the condition of our people in poverty, and I know it now. And I'll tell you that we're able to do things now that we haven't been able to do for centuries."

In addition, he adds, "we have contributed to this area economically more than any other entity in the history of this region." Given this win-win situation, he says, local residents shouldn't worry about the Nation's growth. "You can fire up all this emotion--all this, 'Oh my word, what if the Indians take over the United States?' Come on. Come on."

Scott Peterman, president of Upstate Citizens for Equality, likes to joke that the Oneidas' suit against local landowners was the best thing that ever happened to his organization. In December 1998, when the Oneidas announced their decision to sue area residents, UCE's membership was small, its meetings informal and its agenda focused on protesting the Indians' tax-free status. In a single blow, the Oneidas added 20,000 families to UCE's natural community of interest. The Oneidas' legal tactics seemed to confirm what UCE had been saying all along: that local homes and businesses are in imminent danger, that the Oneida Nation is planning to use its sovereignty to dominate central New York and that the federal government has taken sides against its own citizens.

While UCE was not the only landowners' group to respond to the Oneida suit, it quickly became the largest, the most outspoken and, by many accounts, the most extreme. Today it operates as an efficient populist organization, with meetings twice a month, regular pickets and its own newspaper and website. It reports about 4,000 members in the area, though Peterman concedes that only about 100 are hard-core activists. Its supporters hail from a variety of points on the economic spectrum, including struggling dairy farmers as well as Ivy-educated doctors. Peterman, who repairs and maintains ultrasound equipment for a living, describes the membership as "good people. They're just everyday working Joes."

If he sounds a bit defensive, it's because UCE since its earliest days has been dogged by accusations of racism, a charge that Peterman roundly denies. "Who are the ones having a government based on race?" he asks. "Their [the Oneidas] whole membership is based on race, their whole notion of life is based on race, their whole culture is based on race. And they're calling me a racist?" All the same, UCE supporters have hardly been uniformly sensitive to the racial implications of their protests. In December 1998, just after the Oneidas filed their amended complaint, State Assemblyman and UCE sympathizer David Townsend joked in a public meeting that he kept his hair short for fear of being "scalped," provoking fierce criticism from the Oneidas. And posts on the UCE electronic discussion board regularly contain choice racial remarks, such as "Kiss my lily white UCE ass!!!"

The group's official rhetoric, though, dwells less on race than on revolution. Specifically, UCE has adopted the symbols and rhetoric of the American Revolution. During its first motorcade, for instance, the group hauled along a makeshift replica of nearby Fort Stanwix, site of a bloody battle during the Revolutionary War. Outside the float, three locals dressed in colonial garb stood as representatives of the landowners' historic claim to the area. If this harking back to the Founding Fathers yields occasional irony (wouldn't those early colonists be directly responsible for the Indians' loss of land?), for the most part UCE has effectively adapted the legacies of antifederalism and property rights to its modern-day political struggle. "We're sick and tired of the governor acting like a king," says Peterman, explaining UCE's decision to sue New York Governor George Pataki for his support of the Oneida gaming compact, which his predecessor, Mario Cuomo, signed without legislative approval. "The legislature is the voice of the people; if you allow the governor to usurp the power of the legislature, the people have no voice."

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