Like a bomb, then, late in December fell the news that the Indian Commissioner had been called before a senate committee to answer questions regarding the relations of Lake City to the reservation.  While following close on the heels of this announcement came word that a congressional commission of three had been appointed to sit at Lake City to investigate Indian matters.

“Billy, how did you do it?” asked Lydia, in consternation.  He had overtaken her one bitter cold January afternoon, on her way home from college.

“I didn’t do much,” said Billy.  “I just got affidavits, dozens of them, showing frauds, and gave them to Senator Alvord.  He has a lot of influence among the Democratic senators and is a personal friend of the President.  It was a wonderful chance, he saw, to hurt the Republicans, even though there were Democrats implicated.  The Indian Commissioner and Levine are both Republicans, you know.  Then, when he finally got the hearing before the Senate Committee, he smuggled Charlie Jackson and Susie and old Chief Wolf down there.  Nobody here knows that.”

Lydia’s lips were set tightly as she plodded along the snowy road.

“Billy,” she said, finally, “are you doing this to get even with Dave Marshall?”

“Lydia!” cried Billy, catching her arm and forcing her to stop and face him.  “Don’t you know me better than that?  Don’t you?”

“Then why are you doing it?” demanded Lydia.

“I’m doing it because I’m ashamed of what New Englanders have done with their heritage.  And I’m doing it for you.  To make a name for you.  Look at me.  No, not at the lake, into my eyes.  You are going to marry me, some day, Lydia.”

“I’m not,” said Lydia flatly.

Billy laughed.  “You can’t help yourself, honey.  It’s fate for both of us.  Come along home!  You’re shivering.”

“When you talk that way, I hate you!” exclaimed Lydia, but Billy only laughed again.

Amos at first was furious when he heard of the investigation.  He, with every one else in town, was eager to know who had started the trouble.

“Some sorehead,” said Amos, “who couldn’t get all the land he wanted, I’ll bet.  And a sweet time the commission will have.  Why, they’ll have to dig into the private history of every one in Lake City.  It’ll ruin Levine!  Oh, pshaw!  No, it won’t either!  He can get everything whitewashed.  That’s the way American investigations always end!”

But Levine could not get everything whitewashed.  The group of three commissioners sat for months and in that time they exposed to the burning sun of publicity the muck of thievery and dishonor on which Lake City’s placid beauty was built.

By some strange turn of fortune, Congress had chosen three honest men for this unsavory task, three men grimly and unswervingly determined to see the matter through.  They sat in rooms in the post-office building.  In and out of the building day after day passed the Indians to face the sullen and unwilling whites summoned to hear and answer what these Indians had to say of them.  Charlie Jackson acted as interpreter.  Lydia saw him once or twice on the street when he nodded coolly.  He had dropped his white associates completely.