Smoke Over Water

Besides, Pallesen says, the Indians display their own racism in their argument that because the land was theirs to begin with, it should be theirs now. "We were brought into this innocent," she says. "It sounds like prejudice on their part."

The four landowners interviewed for this story believed the Indians' initial offer of $1,300 to $1,500 per acre was an insult, too low for a counteroffer. All admitted that similar land often goes for only a few hundred dollars more at auction, but they claim that the costs of moving their farming operations, or the taxes they would need to pay on the sale, warrant more than double the offered amounts.

To date, the only person to sell any land for the reservoir is a 62-year-old Nebraskan named Larry Stuckey, whose 250 acres make up 25 percent of the needed land. He says the Indians offered him a good price. "I thought it was the right thing to do," he says. "Personally, I think if the rest of them sold, after the project went through, the value of [the rest of] their land would go up. I'm not going to say who, but I did have one of them come to me and try and convince me not to sell."

Stuckey knows that the other landowners view him as an outsider, an absentee landlord, the bad guy.

The others have no intention of selling.

"The land's never been for sale. It'd hurt our farming operation, and there's some emotional investment there because we've had it so long," says Roger Ploeger, who spoke on behalf of his mother. "I don't know what's so hard to understand about that."

When asked why the Indians can't understand that people feel an emotional investment in their ancestors' property, Emily Conklin takes a moment, in shocked silence, before she responds.

"It was ours first, and it should never have been theirs to begin with," she says. "We want justice."

The Indians' argument that their land was unfairly taken from them has no sway in Linda Lierz's kitchen. She says her family comes by its land honestly. An Indian sold it to the railroad, she says, and Rodney's grandfather bought it from the railroad. Rodney's grandfather built their home and, later, died at his deer-hunting stand where the property meets the forest — a spot that would be underwater if the Indians had their way.

Behind her, bouncing toward the door, is Linda's 2-year-old daughter, swinging a yellow cattle prod by its business end. "You'll shock yourself," Linda says. The kid starts using it as a cane instead.

She views sympathy for the Indians' cause as useless white guilt. How long should hurt feelings last, anyway?

"It's been a hundred years! Get over it," Linda says. "[Kansas Sen.] Sam Brownback apologized for me, all right? He passed legislation apologizing, right? Good. Then I'm done!"

Sometimes Linda has visions. She walks onto the porch and looks out over the land and sees a lake instead. She cries after Rodney has gone to sleep.

But she isn't fighting just for the family home. She sees nearly 2 million Indians — the current population of American Indians in the United States — waiting, biding their time, before they can drive a bulldozer to anyone's front door and wave a federal condemnation order.

"My fear is, this is setting a precedent," Linda says. "If they win, every other Indian tribe in the U.S. is going to go after land by eminent-domaining it. This won't just stop with this."