Elder Conklin, Frank Harris [life books to read .TXT] 📗

the bitterness of disappointment. She was detestably vain, common and selfish; he would be on his guard.

 

*

 

Next day at breakfast Mr. Morris came in. He was an ordinary young Western farmer, rough but kindly, ill-educated but sensible. When his appetite was satisfied he wanted to know whether they had heard the news.

“No,” Mrs. Conklin replied eagerly, “we’ve heard nothing unless p’r’aps the Elder in Eureka”—but her husband shook his head, and Morris went on:

“Folks say the Government in Washington has sent General Custer out with troops to pertect the Indian Territory. Away East they think the settlers have been stealing the Reserve, an’ the soldiers are coming with surveyors to draw the line again.”

After a pause, “That seems right,” said the Elder; “thar’ ain’t nothin’ agen that.”

“But you’ve ploughed and raised crops on the Indian land across the crik,” objected Morris; “we all hev. Air we to give it up?”

There was no answer.

“Anyway,” Morris continued, “Custer’s at Wichita now. He’ll be here in a day or two, an’ we’ve called a meetin’ in the school-house for this evenin’ an’ we hope you’ll be on hand. ‘Tain’t likely we’re goin’ to stand by an’ see our crops destroyed. We must hold together, and all’ll come right.”

“That’s true,” said the Elder, thinking aloud, “and good. Ef we all held together there’d not be much wrong done.”

“Then I kin tell the boys,” resumed Morris, rising, “that you’ll be with us, Elder. All us young uns hold by you, an’ what you say, we’ll do, every time.”

“Wall,” replied the Elder slowly, “I don’t know. I kain’t see my way to goin’. I’ve always done fer myself by myself, and I mean to—right through; but the meetin’ seems a good idee. I’m not contradictin’ that. It seems strong. I don’t go much though on meetin’s; they hain’t ever helped me. But a meetin’ seems strong—for them that likes it.”

With this assurance Morris was fain to be satisfied and go his way.

Bancroft had listened to the colloquy with new feelings. Prepared to regard with admiration all that the Elder said or did, it was not difficult for him now to catch the deeper meaning of the uncouth words. He was drawn to the Elder by moral sympathy, and his early training tended to strengthen this attraction. It was right, he felt, that the Elder should take his own course, fearing nothing that man could do.

In the evening he met Loo. She supposed with a careless air that he was goin’ to pack them leather trunks of his.

“No, I’ve reconsidered it,” he answered. “I’m going to beg your father’s pardon, and take back all I said to him.”

“Oh! then you do care for me, George,” cried the girl enthusiastically, “an’ we ken be happy again. I’ve been real miserable since last night; I cried myself to sleep, so I did. Now I know you love me I’ll do anythin’ you wish, anythin’. I’ll learn to play the pianner; you see if I don’t.”

“Perhaps,” he replied harshly, the old anger growing bitter in him at the mention of the “pianner”—“perhaps it would be better if you gave up the idea of the piano; that costs too much,” he added significantly, “far too much. If you’d read good books and try to live in the thought of the time, it would be better. Wisdom is to be won cheaply and by all, but success in an art depends upon innate qualities.”

“I see,” she exclaimed, flaming up, “you think I can’t learn to play like your sister, and I’m very ignorant, and had better read and get to know all other people have said, and you call that wisdom. I don’t. Memory ain’t sense, I guess; and to talk like you ain’t everythin’.”

The attack pricked his vanity. He controlled himself, however, and took up the argument: “Memory is not sense, perhaps; but still one ought to know the best that has been said and done in the world. It is easier to climb the ladder when others have shown us the rungs. And surely to talk correctly is better than to talk incorrectly.”

“It don’t matter much, I reckon, so long as one gets your meanin’, and as for the ladder, a monkey could do that.”

The irrelevant retort puzzled him, and her tone increased his annoyance. But why, he asked himself, should he trouble to lift her to a higher level of thought? He relapsed into silence.

With wounded heart the girl waited; she was hurt, afraid he did not care for her, could not even guess how she had offended him; but, as he would not speak, her pride came to her aid, and she remarked:

“I’m asked out this evenin’, so I’ll have to get ready and go. Good night, George Bancroft.”

“Good night, Miss Loo,” he replied calmly, though the pain he suffered proved that jealousy may outlive love. “I think I shall go to this meeting at the school-house.”

They parted. Loo went upstairs to her room to cry over her misery and George’s coldness; to wish she had been better taught, and had learned her lessons in school carefully, for then he might have been kinder. She wondered how she should get books to read. It was difficult. Besides, couldn’t he see that she was quick and would learn everythin’ afterwards if he’d be good to her. Why did he act so? Why!

Bancroft went to the meeting, and found the house crowded. A young farmer from the next county was present, who told how a United States officer with twelve men and a surveyor had come and drawn the boundary line, torn up his fences, and trampled down the corn which he had planted in the Indian Reserve. The meeting at once adopted the following resolution:

“In view of the fact that the land cultivated by American citizens in or upon the Indian Reserve has never been used or cultivated by the Indians, who keep to the woods, and that it is God’s will that land should bring forth fruit for the sustenance of man, we are resolved to stand upon our rights as citizens and to defend the same against all aggressors.”

Every one signed this document, copies of which were to be sent to General Custer, and also to the President, to the Senate, and to Congress. It was arranged further to write to their own representatives at Washington giving an account of the situation.

After this the meeting broke up, but not before all present had agreed to stand by any of their number who should resist the troops.

When Bancroft returned home Mr. and Mrs. Conklin were still up, and he related to them all that had taken place. The Elder rose and stretched himself without having made a remark. In a whisper Bancroft asked Mrs. Conklin to let him have a word with her husband. As soon as they were alone, he began:

“Mr. Conklin, I insulted you yesterday. I am sorry for it. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Yes,” replied the Elder meditatively, overlooking the proffered hand, “yes, that’s Christian, I reckon. But the truth’s the truth.” Turning abruptly to leave the room, he added: “The corn’s ripe, waitin’ to be cut; ef the United States troops don’t eat it all up we’ll have a good year.” There was a light in his steady eyes which startled the schoolmaster into all sorts of conjectures.

A day or two later, the Conklins and Bancroft were seated at dinner when a knock came at the door. “Come in!” said Mrs. Conklin, and a young officer appeared in the uniform of the United States cavalry. He paused on the threshold, lifted his cap, and apologized for his intrusion:

“Elder Conklin, I believe?” The Elder nodded his head, but continued eating. “My business isn’t pleasant, I fear, but it needn’t take long. I’m sent by General Custer to draw the boundary line between the State of Kansas and the Indian Reserve, to break down all fences erected by citizens of the United States in the Territory, and to destroy such crops as they may have planted there. I regret to say our surveyor tells me the boundary line here is Cottonwood Creek, and I must notify you that tomorrow about noon I shall be here to carry out my orders, and to destroy the crops and fences found on the further side of the creek.”

Before withdrawing he begged pardon again, this time for the short notice he was compelled to give—a concession apparently to Miss Conklin’s appearance and encouraging smiles.

“Oh, pappa!” cried Loo, as he disappeared, “why didn’t you ask him to have some dinner? He jest looked splendid, and that uniform’s too lovely.”

The Elder made no answer. Neither the courteous menace of the lieutenant nor his daughter’s reproach seemed to have had any effect upon him. He went on with his dinner.

Loo’s outspoken admiration of the officer did not move Bancroft as she had anticipated. It simply confirmed his worst suspicions. His nature was neither deep nor passionate; he had always lived in the conventions which the girl constantly outraged, and they now exercised their influence. Moreover, he had self-possession enough to see that she meant to annoy him. He was exceedingly anxious to know what the Elder intended to do, and what Loo might think or feel did not interest him greatly.

A few hours later a clue was given to him: Jake came and told him as a piece of news that “Pa’s shot-gun ain’t in his room.” Bancroft could not rid himself of the thought that the fact was significant. But the evening passed away quietly; Loo busied herself with some work, and the Elder seemed content to watch her.

At breakfast next morning nothing of moment happened. Bancroft took occasion to say that he was coming home early to dinner. On his return from school, some three hours after, he saw a troop of horsemen riding up the valley a mile or so away. With quickened pulses he sprang up the steps and met the Elder in the doorway.

“There they come!” he said involuntarily, pointing to the little cloud of dust.

“Hum,” grunted the Elder, and left the stoop, going towards the outhouses.

Bancroft turned into the parlour, where he found Mrs. Conklin. She seemed to be irritated, and not at all anxious, as he had expected:

“Did you see the Elder?”

“Yes,” he replied. “He went to the barn. I thought of accompanying him, but was afraid he wouldn’t like it.”

“I guess he’s worrying about that corn,” Mrs. Conklin explained. “When he broke that land I told him ‘twould bring trouble, but he never minds what any one says to him. He should listen to his wife, though, sometimes, shouldn’t he? But bein’ a man p’r’aps you’ll take his part. Anyway, it has all happened as I knew it would. And what’ll he do now? that’s what I’d like to know. All that corn lost and the fences—he jest worked himself to death on those logs—all lost now. We shall be bare poor again. It’s too bad. I’ve never had any money since I left home.” And here Mrs. Conklin’s face puckered itself up as if she were about to cry, but the impulse of vanity being stronger, she burst out angrily: “I think it’s real wicked of the Elder. I told him so. If he’d ask that young man to let him cut the corn, I’m sure he wouldn’t refuse. But he’ll never take my advice, or even answer me. It’s too aggravatin’ when I know I’m right.”

He looked at her in astonishment. She had evidently no inkling of what might occur, no vivid understanding of her husband’s character. Preferring to leave her in ignorance, he said lightly, “I