Elder Conklin - Frank Harris (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

hope it’ll be all right,” and, in order to change the subject, added, “I’ve not seen Miss Loo, and Jake wasn’t in school this morning.”

“Oh, Mr. Bancroft, if anythin’ has happened to Jake!” and Mrs. Conklin sank weakly into the nearest chair; “but thar ain’t no swimmin’ nor skatin’ now. When he comes in I’ll frighten him; I’ll threaten to tell the Elder. He mustn’t miss his schoolin’, for he’s real bright, ain’t he?—Loo? Her father sent her to the Morrises, about somethin’—I don’t know what.”

When Bancroft came downstairs, taking with him a small revolver, his only weapon, he could not find the Elder either in the outbuildings or in the stable. Remembering, however, that the soldiers could only get to the threatened cornfield by crossing the bridge, which lay a few hundred yards higher up the creek, he made his way thither with all speed. When he reached the descent, he saw the Elder in the inevitable, long, whitey-brown holland coat, walking over the bridge. In a minute or two he had overtaken him. As the Elder did not speak, he began:

“I thought I’d come with you, Elder. I don’t know that I’m much good, but I sympathize with you, and I’d like to help you if I could.”

“Yes,” replied the Elder, acknowledging thereby the proffered aid. “But I guess you kain’t. I guess not,” he repeated by way of emphasis.

In silence the pair went on to the broad field of maize. At the corner of the fence, the Elder stopped and said, as if speaking to himself:

“It runs, I reckon, seventy-five bushel to the acre, and there are two hundred acres.” After a lengthened pause he continued: “That makes nigh on three thousand dollars. I must hev spent two hundred dollars this year in hired labour on that ground, and the half ain’t cut yet. Thar’s a pile of money and work on that quarter-section.”

A few minutes more passed in silence. Bancroft did not know what to say, for the calm seriousness of the Elder repelled sympathy. As he looked about him there showed on the rise across the creek a knot of United States cavalry, the young lieutenant riding in front with a civilian, probably the surveyor, by his side. Bancroft turned and found that the Elder had disappeared in the corn. He followed quickly, but as he swung himself on to the fence the Elder came from behind a stook with a burnished shot-gun in his right hand, and said decisively:

“Don’t come in hyar. ‘Tain’t your corn and you’ve no cause to mix yourself in this fuss.”

Bancroft obeyed involuntarily. The next moment he began to resent the authority conveyed in the prohibition; he ought to have protested, to have insisted—but now it was too late. As the soldiers rode up the lieutenant dismounted and threw his reins to a trooper. He stepped towards the fence, and touching his cap carelessly, remarked:

“Well, Mr. Conklin, here we are.” The earnestness of the Elder appeared to have its effect, too, upon him, for he went on more respectfully: “I regret that I’ve orders to pull down your fences and destroy the crop. But there’s nothing else to be done.”

“Yes,” said the Elder gravely, “I guess you know your orders. But you mustn’t pull down my fence,” and as he spoke he drew his shot-gun in front of him, and rested his hands upon the muzzle, “nor destroy this crop.” And the long upper lip came down over the lower, giving an expression of obstinate resolve to the hard, tanned face.

“You don’t seem to understand,” replied the lieutenant a little impatiently; “this land belongs to the Indians; it has been secured to them by the United States Government, and you’ve no business either to fence it in or plant it.”

“That’s all right,” answered Conklin, in the same steady, quiet, reasonable tone. “That may all be jes’ so, but them Indians warn’t usin’ the land; they did no good with it. I broke this prairie ten years ago, and it took eight hosses to do it, and I’ve sowed it ever sence till the crops hev grown good, and now you come and tell me you’re goin’ to tromple down the corn and pull up the fences. No sir, you ain’t—that ain’t right.”

“Right or wrong,” the officer retorted, “I have to carry out my orders, not reason about them. Here, sergeant, let three men hold the horses and get to work on this fence.”

As the sergeant advanced and put his hand on the top layer of the heavy snake-fence, the Elder levelled his shot-gun and said:

“Ef you pull down that bar I’ll shoot.”

The sergeant took his hand from the bar quickly, and turned to his commander as if awaiting further instructions.

“Mr. Conklin,” exclaimed the lieutenant, moving forward, “this is pure foolishness; we’re twelve to one, and we’re only soldiers and have to obey orders. I’m sorry, but I must do my duty.”

“That’s so,” said the Elder, lowering his gun deliberately. “That’s so, I guess. You hev your duty—p’r’aps I hev mine. ‘Tain’t my business to teach you yours.”

For a moment the lieutenant seemed to be undecided; then he spoke:

“Half-a-dozen of you advance and cover him with your rifles. Now, Mr. Conklin, if you resist you must take the consequences. Rebellion against the United States Government don’t generally turn out well—for the rebel. Sergeant, down with the bar.”

The Elder stood as if he had not heard what had been said to him, but when the sergeant laid hold of the bar, the shot-gun went up again to the old man’s shoulder, and he said:

“Ef you throw down that bar I’ll shoot you.” Again the sergeant paused, and looked at his officer.

At this juncture Bancroft could not help interfering. The Elder’s attitude had excited in him more than mere admiration; wonder, reverence thrilled him, and his blood boiled at the thought that the old man might possibly be shot down. He stepped forward and said:

“Sir, you must not order your men to fire. You will raise the whole country against you if you do. This is surely a law case, and not to be decided by violence. Such a decision is not to be taken without reflection and distinct instructions.”

“Those instructions I have,” replied the lieutenant, “and I’ve got to follow them out—more’s the pity,” he added between his teeth, while turning to his troopers to give the decisive command. At this moment down from the bluff and over the wooden bridge came clattering a crowd of armed farmers, the younger ones whirling their rifles or revolvers as they rode. Foremost among them were Morris and Seth Stevens, and between these two young Jake Conklin on Jack. As they reached the corner of the fence the crowd pulled up and Morris cried out:

“Elder, we’re on time, I reckon.” Addressing the lieutenant he added violently: “We don’t pay United States soldiers to pull down our fences and destroy our crops. That’s got to stop right here, and right now!”

“My orders are imperative,” the officer declared, “and if you resist you must take the consequences.” But while he spoke the hopelessness of his position became clear to him, for reinforcements of farmers were still pouring over the bridge, and already the soldiers were outnumbered two to one. Just as Seth Stevens began with “Damn the consequences,” the Elder interrupted him:

“Young man,” he said to the lieutenant, “you’d better go back to Wichita. I guess General Custer didn’t send you to fight the hull township.” Turning to Stevens, he added, “Thar ain’t no need fer any cussin’.” Amid complete silence he uncocked his shot-gun, climbed over the fence, and went on in the same voice:

“Jake, take that horse to the stable an’ wipe him dry. Tell your mother I’m coming right up to eat.”

Without another word he moved off homewards. His intervention had put an end to the difficulty. Even the lieutenant understood that there was nothing more to be done for the moment. Five minutes later the troopers recrossed the bridge. Morris and a few of the older men held a brief consultation. It was agreed that they should be on the same spot at six o’clock on the morrow, and some of the younger spirits volunteered to act as scouts in the direction of Wichita and keep the others informed of what took place in that quarter.

When Bancroft reached the house with Morris—neither Stevens nor any of the others felt inclined to trespass on the Elder’s hospitality without an express invitation—he found dinner waiting. Loo had not returned; had, indeed, arranged, as Morris informed them, to spend the day with his wife; but Jake was present and irrepressible; he wanted to tell all he had done to secure the victory. But he had scarcely commenced when his father shut him up by bidding him eat, for he’d have to go right back to school.

There was no feeling of triumph in the Elder. He scarcely spoke, and when Morris described the protective measures that had been adopted, he merely nodded. In fact, one would have inferred from his manner that he had had nothing whatever to do with the contest, and took no interest in it. The only thing that appeared to trouble him was Loo’s absence and the fear lest she should have been “fussed;” but when Morris declared that neither his wife nor Loo knew what was going on, and Bancroft announced his intention of driving over to fetch her, he seemed to be satisfied.

“Jack, I reckon, has had enough,” he said to his boarder. “You’d better take the white mare; she’s quiet.”

On their way home in the buggy, Bancroft told Loo how her father had defied the United States troops, and with what unconcern he had taken his victory:

“I think he’s a great man, a hero. And if he had lived in another time, or in another country, poets would have sung his courage.”

“Really,” she observed. Her tone was anything but enthusiastic, though hope stirred in her at his unusual warmth. “Perhaps he cares for me after all,” she thought.

“What are you thinking about, Loo?” he asked, surprised at her silence.

“I was just wonderin’,” she answered, casting off her fit of momentary abstraction, “how father made you like him. It appears as if I couldn’t, George,” and she turned towards him while she spoke her wistful eyes seeking to read his face.

There was a suggestion of tears in her voice, and her manner showed a submission and humility which touched Bancroft deeply. All his good impulses had been called into active life by his admiration of the Elder. He put his disengaged arm round her and drew her to him as he replied:

“Kiss me, Loo dear, and let us try to get on better together in future. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t,” he added, trying to convince himself. The girl’s vain and facile temperament required but little encouragement to abandon itself in utter confidence. In her heart of hearts she was sure that every man must admire her, and as her companion’s manner and words gave her hope, she chattered away in the highest spirits till the homestead was reached. Her good-humour and self-satisfaction made the evening pass merrily. Everything she said or did delighted the Elder, Bancroft saw that clearly now. Whether she laughed or talked, teased Jake, or mimicked the matronly airs of Mrs. Morris, her father’s eyes followed her with manifest pleasure and admiration. On rising to go to bed the Elder said simply:

“It has been a good day—a good day,” he repeated impressively, while he held his daughter in his arms and kissed her.

The next morning Bancroft was early afoot. Shortly after sunrise he went down to the famous cornfield and found a