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."