"Look here, Lydia," he began, "Levine is up to some new cussedness. Old Susie came on him in council the other night with six of the worst half breeds in the reservation. She lost her head and began to jaw him so she didn't find out what it was about. And he's getting the last of my timber now. Lydia, you've got to help me. When you get home, talk to Levine."
"Getting the last of your timber!" exclaimed Kent.
"Yes, the law lets 'em get the 'dead and down' stuff and who's going to swear it's fresh stuff that he cut this summer and will get out next winter?"
"Do you mean he's up cutting your pines now?" cried Lydia, aghast.
"No! No!" impatiently. "His half breeds do that."
"But how does he come to be taking your wood? Why don't you go to see him yourself?" asked Kent.
"I can't answer either of those questions," replied Charlie, sullenly.
The two young whites thought of the attack on Levine, and looked at each other apprehensively.
"Won't the Indian Agent stop him?" asked Lydia.
"He! Why, he's deep in the mire himself with Dave Marshall. My God, Margery Marshall went to New York on a blind Indian boy's pines! Lydia, save my pines for me! They belong to my tribe. My father kept them and so did his father for his people. As long as they had those miles of pines, they had a place for the tribe to live. Father was going to Washington three years ago to tell the president about the graft when they shot him from ambush. If I put up a fight, they'll shoot me. My father wanted me to learn white ways so I could protect the tribe. And the more I learn of white ways the more I realize I'm helpless. Lydia, won't you help us?"