TITINDI MAUPA lived at a place called Kurulsa Mauna, where he had two sisters. Three miles west of that place lived young Topuna with his father, who had a great sweat-house at Motiri Mauna.

Titindi Maupa wished his elder sister to marry Topuna, his great friend, who was a good hunter and killed many deer. One day Titindi Maupa told his two sisters to make ready much food,—roots, acorns, and pine nuts.

The women made these things ready and put them into a round basket. He put the basket on his back, took two otter-skins as presents, and went to Motiri Mauna.

Old Topuna was sitting at home. His son had gone off before daylight to hunt deer in the mountains. Titindi Maupa saw a great deal of venison and deer fat hanging around in all parts of the sweat-house.

He looked in from the top of the sweat-house, and saw the old man cutting meat, breaking bones, and taking marrow out of them. He went in. Topuna stood up to meet him, made a fire, cooked meat, put it in a basket, and set it down before Titindi Maupa. He gave him also fat and dried venison.

“I have food on the top of the sweat-house,” said Titindi Maupa. “I left my basket there.”

Topuna went and brought it, put it down, then ate of it himself. The visitor ate much, and the two sat long together talking and eating; sat till midday, when young Topuna came home. He had killed five deer and was glad.

“You came to see us,” said he, sitting down near the visitor.

“Yes,” answered Titindi Maupa, “and you will come soon, I hope, to my house. You will come to-night, perhaps?”

Topuna gave Titindi Maupa nice venison and deer fat,—a great deal of it. “Be light and small till he takes you home,” said Topuna to the meat; “then be as big as you now are or bigger.”

He gave the visitor a beautiful buckskin dress, and Titindi Maupa went home.

The pack was light till he set it down at home. Then it grew as big as a small house. His elder sister would not eat Topuna’s venison; she did not like her brother’s friend; she loved young Hitchinna, and would not look at the other man.

Topuna put on three pairs of moccasins, three pairs of thick buckskin leggings trimmed with beads; put on three buckskin blankets, and at dark he went out of the door to go to Kurulsa Mauna.

“My son,” said old Topuna, when his son was going, “you will come back sorry; you will be angry in the morning; I know that woman well.”

All were asleep at Titindi Maupa’s when Topuna came; but Titildi Marimi had wished the whole house outside to be covered with sharp rocks and thorny brush, for she knew that Topuna was coming.

When he reached the place, he could not go in; he could not find the door, even; everything was hidden with sharp rocks and thorns. He was outside all night, and never stopped trying to find the way in; he wore out his three pair of moccasins, tore his three pair of leggings and three blankets; bits of them were scattered all around the sweat-house. At last he was naked and nearly frozen.

Topuna went home before daylight, very angry. Titildi Marimi had heard him, but said not a word. He lay down in his father’s sweat-house and stayed there all day.

When daylight came, Titildi Marimi rose up and went out of the sweat-house; the rocks and brush were all gone at her wish; nothing there now but the nice beads that had fallen from Topuna. She went to the spring; washed there, combed and dressed her hair, painted her face red, put on a nice woven cap, took a little basket with a sharp stick, and went out on the mountain; went far; dug sweet roots by the creeks on the mountain flats.

Titindi Maupa was angry at his sister all day; he stayed in bed until evening. Titildi Marimi dug roots, dug a great many, singing all the time while she worked. Hitchinna heard the singing from his place and came to her. She liked him. She went to meet him; was pleased to see him; they sat down together, talked, and were glad. They parted for that day; he hunted deer, she filled her basket with roots and went home about sundown.

Titindi Maupa was in bed yet. He did not raise his eyes when she came; did not look at his sister.

Next morning she rose early; rose at daylight. She had promised Hitchinna to meet him a second time. She washed, combed her hair, painted her face, took a basket with a root stick, and started.

She had not gone far when her brother sprang up, hurried to the river, swam in it; went back to the sweat-house, striking his hair as he went with a stick to make it dry quickly. Then he ate, and said to his younger sister,—

“I am going away; I must leave you; you will cry, I think, because I am going.”

He put on rich clothes, then tied a string of nice beads to a staff, and fastened the staff in one corner of the house corners.

“If I die,” said he, “those beads will fall to the ground; do not touch them while they are hanging, and say to our sister not to touch them. When she comes, do not say that I have gone; if she knows herself, you must not show her the way that I have taken.”

Then he turned to each thing in the house and said, “You, my poking-stick, must not tell my sister how I have gone, nor you, my baskets, nor you, my fire, nor you, my basket of water, nor my roots; not one of you must tell her.” And he told everything except the acorn flour; he forgot to tell the acorn flour.

“Now I go,” said he; and pushing up the central post of the house, he went in to the ground, and the post settled back after him. He went under ground until he reached a spring of water. From the spring he turned back and went west, then back; went north, then back; went south, then back to the spring. Next he went in circles around his house to mislead his sister, so that she might not track him. At last he went west two or three miles; then he rose to the top of the ground, and went off on a trail.

When she went to the mountain flat on the second morning, Titildi Marimi stood a while thinking. She knew that her brother was out of bed, that he was very angry. “My brother will go away to-day,” thought she. “I must be home again soon.”

She threw down her stick and basket quickly and hurried home. She saw that her brother was not in the house, that her sister was crying.

“Where is my brother,” asked she; “tell me, my sister.”

The sister would not speak, gave no answer; held down her head and cried bitterly.

“Tell me quickly. The sun is high. If I cannot come up with him, he will die; if I do not find him, his enemies will kill him.” The sister did not answer.

“Tell me, you rock, which way my brother went; tell me quickly. Tell me, you poking-stick; tell me, baskets.” Nothing gave answer. “Post, tell me, tell quickly; it is too late almost, he will escape me.” She asked everything and got no answer, till at last she said, “Acorn flour, will you tell me?”

“Your brother is gone,” said the acorn flour. “He is angry because you injured Topuna, his friend; he is very angry, and does not wish you to follow him.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Under the post.”

“That is well.”

She was glad then. She made ready quickly; put on nice, new things, took her best bow and a big otter-skin quiver filled with arrows, put on leggings like a man.

“My sister, be well, take good care of yourself,” said she. “I don’t want my brother to die. He thinks that the journey is pleasant, that the journey is easy. I will go, too; I will help him.”

She pushed up the post and followed her brother; went to the spring, came back, followed him everywhere; came out at last on the trail and tracked him, followed him, toiled along over Backbone Mountain. She followed hard and fast, gained on him, kept gaining; still she was afraid that she could not come up with her brother. She turned then to Sun and called out,—

“O Sun, I wish you to be slow. Go very slowly to-day, O Sun. Let the day be long. Give me time to come up with my brother.”

The Sun went more slowly, gave her time, and she hurried on.

Titindi Maupa all this while was hurrying, going on quickly; and he sang as he went. His song was of Paiowa, Wakara’s youngest daughter, a maiden far off in the west.

Wakara had a great many daughters. All the stars in the sky were his children, and all his daughters were married but this one, the youngest, the one whom Titindi Maupa was going to marry if her father would give her.

He went along the Daha, went as the stream flows, swam across and sat down to smoke. When he had emptied his pipe, he went up on the mountain ridge west of the river, reached the top, and walked some distance down on the western slope, sat again and smoked a second time. Now Titildi Marimi, his sister, had crossed the river and was following. She came to where her brother had sat to smoke the first time.

“I will come up with you soon,” said she. “You cannot go from me now;” and she followed on, followed quickly.

The brother, when he smoked the second time, sat at a little spring on the western slope of the mountain ridge; the sister reached the ridge from the top; she saw her brother a little below her. He heard some one behind, looked up, and saw Titildi Marimi. He held his head down, he said nothing.

“I shall be with you soon,” cried the sister. “We can go on together. You have come a long way to find a good smoking-place.”

He said nothing, looked at the ground, waited for his sister. Soon she was there with him.

“My brother, I am tired,” said she, “give me tobacco; I wish to smoke.”

He gave her tobacco; she smoked.

“My brother,” said Titildi Marimi, “I want you to shoot at that quartz rock over there on the mountain side.”

He raised his bow with an arrow and took good aim.

“Now hit that rock,” said she.

He sent one arrow, after it a second, and then a third. They hit the rock, but bounded back from it.

“You might go a long way to hurt an enemy with arrows of that sort!” laughed the sister. “Do you think those good arrows, my brother? You will see enemies enough in two days; you will see enemies in the house of Wakara.”

She drew out her own bow then, took an arrow from her otter-skin quiver, and said, “Look now at me, my brother!”

She shot at the rock; hit it. Her arrow shivered the rock to pieces.

“This is what my arrows do!” said Titildi Marimi.

Titindi Maupa hung his head; said not a word, but rose and went down the mountain side till he came to a creek; then he crossed another mountain, going westward all the time till he was in sight of Wakaruwa, the place to which he was going; then he sat down a third time and smoked.

“O smoke,” said he, “I wish you to make friends to-night and to-morrow for me.”

He looked down into the valley, where he heard much noise; he saw many people playing games and shooting.

Just before this Wakara had called his youngest daughter, Paiowa, and said, “I want you to gather oak leaves for the acorn bread, and red earth to mix in it.”

She went with a basket on her back, went up to the mountain side, gathered red earth to mix with the acorn flour and make the bread light. The leaves were to be put on the top of the dough and cover the bread while baking. Titindi Maupa put his sister with her quiver in an otter-skin and carried her. She had made herself small, and seemed just like an otter; he hid her on his shoulder in this form.

Paiowa, Wakara’s youngest daughter, had put red earth in her basket and filled it with leaves. She turned around now to stoop and raise it, but could not, it was too heavy.

Titindi Maupa had slipped up and was holding the basket. She turned to see what the trouble was, and saw him right there almost touching her.

“Oh!” cried she, frightened and dropping her head; she was shamefaced before the stranger.

“Why are you afraid?” asked Titindi Maupa. “Is it because I am ugly?”

She raised the basket to her back, and rushed away. When she reached Wakaruwa, she threw down the basket outside, and ran into the house past her mother.

“Why are you so frightened? What is the matter?” asked her mother.

Not a word did she answer.

Old Wakara was sitting inside. “Why are you frightened, my daughter?” asked he. “Has anything happened, has any one hurt you?”

“I saw a man over there on the mountain.”

“What kind of man was he?” asked Wakara.

“He has an otter on his back and wears buckskin; his hands are both red with deer blood.”

Titindi Maupa had a large piece of fat venison in his otter-skin quiver.

“He is a good hunter, I think,” said Wakara; and he took down an otter-skin, put it on the north side of the house, and said to his daughter, “Sit there and let this man come to you.”

It was night soon. All the people came into the house, sat down, and ate supper. Titindi Maupa stopped outside for a while, and found a place where Wakara stored acorns. “I will leave you here for this night,” said he to his sister. “To-morrow I will come to get you.”

Titindi Maupa left his sister in the acorn crib, sank in the ground then, and came up inside the sweat-house right at the side of Paiowa. Old Wakara laughed when he saw him sitting near his daughter. He was glad.

“Give the stranger food,” said he.

Paiowa brought food and gave it to the stranger.

Titindi Maupa ate some and said, “Look in my otter-skin, I have some venison.”

She put her hand in, found a good piece, a nice saddle of venison. She could not draw the piece out, it was so heavy. She went then to her father and said, “I must have a big basket.”

She took a large tray basket over to her place. Titindi Maupa drew out the venison and put it on the tray, saying,—

“Now, be no smaller, my venison, stay as you are, no matter how much they take from you.”

Two girls carried the basket and put it down before Wakara and Hemauna Marimi, his wife. The two old people ate. After them all in the house ate, and the saddle of venison was as large as at first. When all in the house had eaten, old Wakara went out on the housetop and shouted,—

“My sons, I call you all to come in for a short while.”

Now, all the stars in the sky were Wakara’s children; they were his sons and daughters. The greatest, a son, came in first. When near the house, he had caught the odor of venison. Behind him came a great many people. All the stars were in Wakara’s sweat-house; the whole place was filled with them. When they looked and saw Titindi Maupa sitting with their sister, they laughed. They were glad. Some sat down; others cut off the venison and roasted it. All ate what they wanted.

Now, old Wakara himself cut off venison, and gave a large share to each son to carry home for his wife and children. All went away laughing.

Titindi Maupa rose before dawn the next morning, took a deer head, and went hunting to a mountain. He put on the head. Deer came and stood before him, ten, then ten more, and soon there were a hundred. He killed the hundred deer. Taking the smallest, he opened it, made the others very little, and put them into the small one, which he carried in one hand.

All were sleeping in the sweat-house when Titindi Maupa came. He threw down the small deer, and the ninety-nine others were as big as at first; they burst out of the small one, made a great noise, and filled all the space before the sweat-house. Wakara’s wife had got up to make acorn bread. She tried to go out, but could not, there were so many deer lying around everywhere. She hurried back and called her husband.

“There is something outside,” said she; “I do not know what it is. Get up and look, get up quickly!”

Wakara went out and saw piles of deer; he ran back, took his knife and sharpened it. Then going to the top of the house, he called to the whole village, “Come here; come, all of you!”

All the people of the village came soon, and there were so many that the venison was dressed quickly. They cooked and ate in company. Others came from beyond the river south of them, and ate all the venison they wanted. Many sat down under oak-trees and gambled; some shot arrows at marks, and others raced.

All day they amused themselves; all day they feasted, and went home at sunset very glad and praising Titindi Maupa.

West of Wakaruwa, was a large village and many people, all Wakara’s sons-in-law, all married to his daughters; and the chief was Lawalila.

“I wonder what my father-in-law is doing,” said each of these people; “he has very loud talk in his sweat-house. There has never been such talk there before.”

Lawalila called his two sons and said: “Go and see what your grandfather is doing. Your youngest aunt has a husband; perhaps that is why there is such loud talk at the sweat-house.”

The two boys stole up to the house carefully, and peeped into it. The younger saw Paiowa, his aunt, in one corner, and Titindi Maupa sitting near her. Wakara saw the boy peeping in, and hurled a stick at him. The two boys ran home.

“My aunt has a husband,” said the younger boy.

“She has not,” said the elder.

“I saw him,” said the younger.

“You did not,” said the elder.

Lawalila stopped the boys; he was satisfied. He went out, and calling to all said, “Paiowa, the youngest daughter of Wakara, is married!”

All were very angry now, all were enraged, for there were many in that village who wanted Paiowa.

Next morning Lawalila roused the village early, and said: “I want you, my people, to play to-day. You must play your best; you must beat Titindi Maupa, Wakara’s new son-in-law.”

After they had eaten he called all his people together and said, “We will go over to my father-in-law’s, to Wakara’s, and shoot at a mark there with arrows.”

They went to Wakara’s and asked: “Where is Titindi Maupa? We wish to try him; we want to shoot arrows at a mark against him.”

Titindi Maupa came out and shot. He won the first shot, the second; he won all the time, won everything that Lawalila’s people wagered.

Just at noon Lawalila lost his temper, got angry, sprang up, tried to seize and take back all the things that his people had lost. Titindi Maupa would not let him do that; he stood in his way, would not let him take anything.

Lawalila struck Wakara’s new son-in-law. Titindi Maupa threw down his opponent. Lawalila jumped up, ran toward his people, drew his bow, and tried to send an arrow through Titindi Maupa. A great fight now followed.

Wakara’s sons came and took Titindi Maupa’s part. Lawalila’s people hurried to his side. Titindi Maupa’s young wife ran out to help her brothers and her husband.

They fought very hard on both sides. In the middle of the afternoon all were killed on Lawalila’s side except himself. New forces came to Lawalila. Titindi Maupa was so tired that he could not stand. At this moment his sister came. She picked up Titindi Maupa, put him on her back, and gave him her bow and arrows. He shot from her shoulder, and used her strong arrows. Every man that they touched fell that moment. Every one from the west was killed, Lawalila with the others.

Titindi Maupa rested, and went to the sweat-house. His sister went with him. The dead of both sides lay all night where they fell.

Before daybreak Titindi Maupa rose, took his fire-drill, went out, and turning the faces of all his brothers-in-law to the earth, struck them with the fire-drill. All came to life and went back to Wakaruwa.

Lawalila’s people lay on the field all night, the next day, and the night following. Titindi Maupa did not like to see all those dead people lying there; so he went before daybreak of the second day and struck each with his fire-drill. All came to life, rose up, were glad, and went home. Next morning they came to Wakaruwa, and had games again, with good feasting and pleasure. They did not get angry a second time.

Titindi Maupa brought in deer every morning. His brothers-in-law came and ate with him; they were friendly and happy. Titindi Maupa stayed twenty days at Wakaruwa. He killed deer for all of them. On the twenty-first morning Wakara said to his daughter,—

“I think your husband would like to go home now.”

Next morning Titindi Maupa set out for home with his wife and sister; they went in one day to Kurulsa Mauna.

Three nights later Topuna came to visit them; he came again to see Titildi Marimi. She let him come now. She was afraid that her brother might leave her a second time.

So at last Topuna got the wife he wanted, and they all lived together at Kurulsa Mauna.

THE TWO SISTERS, HAKA LASI AND TSORE JOWA

AT some distance east of Jigul matu lived old Juka. He had a great many sons and two daughters—a big house full of children.

Juka’s two daughters were Tsore Jowa, the elder, and Haka Lasi, the younger. After a time Haka Lasi fell in love with her brother Hitchinna. One day she fell asleep and dreamed that he had married her.

Metsi lived, too, in Juka’s house. He was no relative; he just lived as a guest there.

One day all the men were out hunting. It was then that Haka Lasi saw Hitchinna in a dream. She began to sing about him, and she sang: “I dream of Hitchinna; I dream that he is my husband. I dream of Hitchinna; I dream that he is my husband.”

All the men came back from the hunt at night. At daylight next morning they went to swim, and Tsore Jowa made ready food for them. Haka Lasi took a very nice staff in her hand, and went on top of the sweat-house. She looked in and sang,—

“Where is my husband? Send him up here to me. I will take him away. We must go on a journey. Where is my husband? Send him up here to me.”

All knew that she had no husband.

“You have no husband,” said they.

Hitchinna was lying in one corner wrapped up in the skin of a wildcat.

“You have no husband in this house; all here are your brothers,” said Juka.

“I have a husband, and I want him to come here to me,” answered Haka Lasi.

“Well,” said the eldest son, “I will go up to her. Let us hear what she will say.” He went up.

“You are not my husband,” said Haka Lasi. “Do not come near me.”

She drove that one down, and called again: “Where is my husband? Send him up to me.”

“Go you,” said Juka to the second son.

“I don’t want you,” said Haka Lasi to the second son.

She refused one after another, and drove them away until none was left but Hitchinna. Juka went then to Hitchinna and said,—

“My son, get up and go to her; it looks as though you were the one she wants.”

“He is the one,” said Haka Lasi; “he is my husband. I want him to go away with me.”

Hitchinna said not a word, but rose, washed, dressed himself nicely, and went to the woman.

“The sun is high now,” said Haka Lasi; “we must go quickly.”

She was glad when taking away the one she wanted. They travelled along, and she sang of Hitchinna as they travelled, sang of him all the time. They went a long distance, and at night she fixed a bed and they lay down on it.

Young Hitchinna could not sleep, he was frightened. When Haka Lasi was asleep, he rose very quickly, took a piece of soft rotten wood, put it on her arm where she had held his head, covered it, and then ran away quickly, hurried back toward Juka’s sweat-house with all his might. About daylight he was at the sweat-house.

Now Chuhna, Juka’s sister, lived with him. She was the greatest person in the world to spin threads and twist ropes. She had a willow basket as big as a house, and a rope which reached up to the sky and was fastened there.

“My nephew,” said she to Hitchinna, “I will save you and save all from your terrible sister. She will be here very soon; she may come any moment. She will kill all in this house; she will kill every one if she finds us here. Let all go into my basket. I will take you up to the sky. She cannot find us there; she cannot follow us to that place.”

“I will lie lowest,” said Metsi. “I am a good man, I will go in first, I will go in before others; I will be at the bottom of the basket.”

Metsi went in first; every one in the sweat-house followed him. Then Chuhna ran up, rose on her rope, and pulled the basket after her.

The sweat-house was empty; no one stayed behind. Chuhna kept rising and rising, going higher and higher.

When Haka Lasi woke up and saw that she had a block of rotten wood on her arm instead of Hitchinna, she said,—

“You won’t get away from me, I will catch you wherever you are.”

She rushed back to the sweat-house. It was empty; no one there. She ran around in every direction looking for tracks, to find which way they had gone. She found nothing on the ground; then she looked into the sky, and far up, very high, close to the sun, she saw the basket rising, going up steadily.

Haka Lasi was raging; she was so awfully angry that she set fire to the house. It burned quickly, was soon a heap of coals.

The basket was almost at the sky when Metsi said to himself, “I wonder how far up we are; I want to see.” And he made a little hole in the bottom of the basket to peep through and look down.

That instant the basket burst open; all came out, poured down, a great stream of people, and all fell straight into the fire of the sweat-house.

Now, Tsore Jowa was outside on top of the basket. She caught at the sun, held to it, and saved herself.

Hitchinna went down with the rest, fell into the burning coals, and was burned like his brothers.

Haka Lasi was glad that they had not escaped her; she took a stick, fixed a net on it, and watched.

All were in the fire now and were burning. After a while one body burst, and the heart flew out of it. Haka Lasi caught this heart in her net. Soon a second and a third body burst, and two more hearts flew out. She caught those as well as the first one. She caught all the hearts except two,—Juka’s own heart and his eldest son’s heart.

Juka’s heart flew high, went away far in the sky, and came down on the island of a river near Klamath Lake. It turned into Juka himself there. He sank in the ground to his chin; only his head was sticking out.

The heart of the eldest son flew off to the foot of Wahkalu and turned to be himself again. He fell so deep into the earth that only his face was sticking out on the surface.

Now Haka Lasi put all the hearts which she had caught on a string, hung them around her neck, and went to a lake east of Jigulmatu. She wanted to live at the bottom of the lake, but could not find a place deep enough. So she went northwest of Klamath Lake to Crater Lake, where she could live in deep water.

Two Tsanunewa brothers lived near the lake with their old grandmother. One morning early these brothers were out catching ducks, and just at daybreak they heard some one call.

“Who is that?” asked the elder brother.

“I don’t know,” answered the younger.

Soon they saw Haka Lasi spring up on the water and call. She had a large string of hearts around her neck. Then she sank again in the water. Again she came up at some distance and called a second time.

Now Tsore Jowa came down from the sun and went to the old sweat-house, where she found nothing but a heap of bones and ashes. Putting pitch on her head and on her arms, and strips of deerskin around her neck with pitch on them, she cried and went around mourning. After a time she began to look for her sister. She went everywhere; went to Klamath Lake.

For some time the two Tsanunewa brothers had heard a voice singing,—

This was old Juka. He was lying in the ground where he had fallen, and was crying.

Tsore Jowa searched, inquired, asked every one about Haka Lasi, and told what she had done,— that she had killed her own brothers and father.

Tsore Jowa came at last to the house of the two Tsanunewa brothers one day about sunset, and spoke to their grandmother. “My sister, Haka Lasi, has killed all my brothers and my father,” said she; and she told the whole story.

The old woman cried when she heard what Tsore Jowa told her. The two brothers were away hunting; they came home about dark with a large string of ducks. “This woman,” said the grandmother, “is looking for her sister, who has killed all her people.”

The two brothers cried when the story was told to them. When they had finished crying, they said to the old woman, “Cook ducks and let this woman have plenty to eat.”

When all had eaten, the two brothers said to Tsore Jowa: “Tell us what kind of a person your sister is. Which way did she go?”

“I don’t know which way she went,” said Tsore Jowa.

“Three days ago,” said the elder brother, “just as daylight was coming, we saw a woman jump up in the lake where we were fishing. She seemed to have large beads around her neck. That woman may be your sister.”

“Catch that woman for me. I will give you otter-skins and beads. I will give bearskins. If you wish, I will stay with you here, if you catch her.”

“We want no beads nor otter-skins nor bearskins,” said the brothers.

“What do you want?”

“We want red deer-bones and green deer-bones; small, sharp ones to stab fish with.”

“You shall have all you want of both kinds,” said Tsore Jowa.

Next morning she set out with a sack, went away to high mountains, gathered deer-bones, red and green leg-bones, and put them in her sack. At sunset she went back to the house, with the sack full.

The two brothers were glad, now. The elder took red, and the younger green bones. (The fat on the leg-bones of deer turns some red and others green.)

“You must catch her bad sister for Tsore Jowa,” said the old woman to her grandsons.

All that night the brothers sat sharpening the bones and then fastening them to the spear-shafts. They did not stop for a moment. “Let us go now; it is near daylight,” said the elder brother.

They started. When they reached the lake, they went out on the water. Every morning at daybreak. Haka Lasi sprang up to the surface and called from the lake. The elder brother took a stem of tule grass, opened it, placed it on the water, made himself small, and sat down in the middle of it. The younger brother fixed himself in another stem of tule in the same way. The two tule stems floated away on the water, till they came near the place where the brothers had seen Haka Lasi spring up the first time.

“Let me shoot before you,” said the elder brother.

“Oh, you cannot shoot; you will miss her,” said the younger. “Let me shoot first. You will miss; you will not hit her heart.”

“I will hit,” said the elder.

They watched and watched. Each had his bow drawn ready to shoot. Daylight came now. Haka Lasi rose quickly, came to the top of the water, and held out her arms before calling.

The younger brother sent the first arrow, struck her in the neck; the elder shot, struck her right under the arm. Haka Lasi dropped back and sank in the water.

The brothers watched and watched. After a time they saw two arrows floating, and were afraid they had lost her. She had pulled them out of her body, and they rose to the surface. After a while the body rose. Haka Lasi was dead.

The brothers saw that she had a great many hearts on a string around her neck. They drew her to the shore then, and carried her home. They left the body hidden outside the house, and went in.

“We did not see her,” said the elder Tsanunewa to his grandmother.

All sat down to eat fish, and when they were through eating, the elder said to Tsore Jowa, “Come out and see what we caught this morning.”

She ran out with them, and saw her dead sister with a string of hearts on her neck. Tsore Jowa took off her buckskin skirt, wrapped up the body, and put it in the house. She counted the hearts.

“My eldest brother’s heart is not here, and my father’s is not here,” said she.

“Every morning we hear some one crying, far away toward the north; that may be one of them,” said the two Tsanunewas.

Tsore Jowa started out to find this one, if she could, who was calling. She left the body and hearts at the old grandmother’s house, and hurried off toward the north. She heard the cry soon and knew it. “That is my father,” said she.

Tsore Jowa came near the place from which the cry rose; saw no one. Still she heard the cry. At last she saw a face; it was the face of Juka, her father.

Tsore Jowa took a sharp stick and dug. She dug down to Juka’s waist; tried to pull him up, but could not stir him. She dug again, dug a good while; pulled and pulled, until at last she drew him out.

Juka was very poor, all bones, no flesh at all on him. Tsore Jowa put down a deerskin, wrapped her father in it, and carried him to the old woman’s house; then she put him with Haka Lasi’s body, and carried them home to the old burned sweat-house east of Jigulmatu.

She was crying yet, since one brother was missing. She put down the basket in which she had carried them, hid it away, covered it carefully.

At the foot of Wahkalu lived a certain Jamuka, an old man who had a wife and two daughters.

“Bring in some wood,” said the old man one day to his daughters.

The two girls took their baskets and went to bring wood. Soon they heard some one singing,—

“Listen,” said the younger sister; “some one is singing.”

They listened, heard the singing; it seemed right at the foot of Wahkalu. They went toward the place from which the sound came.

“That is a nice song,” said the younger sister. “I should like to see the one who sings so.”

They went near, saw no one yet. “Let us take the wood home,” said the elder sister, “then come back here; our father may be angry if we stay away longer.”

They took the wood home, put it down, and said nothing. Both went back to the place where the singing was and listened. At last the younger sister came to the right place, and said, “I think this is he who is singing.”

There was a head sticking out of the ground, and the face was covered with water. The man had cried so much that he looked dirty and ugly.

The sisters took sharp sticks, and dug all around the head, dug deeply. They could not pull out the person; they had only dug to his waist when night came and they must go.

“Why did you stay out so late?” asked their father.

“We heard some one singing, and wanted to know who it was, but were not able. We will go back in the morning and search again.”

“That is well,” said Jamuka. He had heard how Juka’s sons had been killed. “Perhaps one of those people is alive yet,” said he; “you must look for him.”

They went early next morning to dig, and drew the man out. They took off their buckskin skirts then, and wrapped him up carefully. He was nothing but bones, no flesh at all on his body. The younger sister ran home to get wildcat skins to wrap around him.

“We have found a man, but he is all bones,” said she to her father.

“Take good care of the stranger, feed and nurse him well,” said Jamuka; “he may be Juka himself, and he is a good man.”

They wrapped the man in wildcat skins. A great stream of water was running from his eyes, and deer came down the hill to drink of that water.

The girls lay on each side of the man, and gave him food; stayed all night with him. Next morning they went home for more food.

“Feed him, give him plenty,” said Jamuka; “he may get health and strength yet.”

The sisters went back and stayed a second night. The man began to look better, but he cried all the time, and many deer came to drink the water that flowed from his eyes. The girls went home the second morning. “The man looks better,” said they to their father.

“I have heard,” said old Jamuka, “that Juka’s sons were killed. This must be one of them.”

They went back right away, and stayed another day and night with the stranger. The man looked as though he might get his health again. He began to talk. “Has your father a bow and arrows?” asked he of the sisters.

“He has; he has many.”

“Bring me a bow and arrows; many deer come near me to drink, I may shoot one.”

They took the man’s words to their father. Jamuka gave them a bow and some arrows, and they went back to the sick man.

“You may go home to-night,” said he. “I wish to be alone.”

The girls left him. At sundown a great buck came and drank of the tears, he killed him; later another came, he killed that one; at midnight a third came, he killed the third; now he had three. At daylight a fourth buck was killed; he had four now. “That is enough,” thought he.

When the girls came and saw four great bucks lying dead near the stranger, they were frightened; they ran home and told their father. Old Jamuka was glad when they told him. He sharpened his knife, hurried out to the woods and looked at the stranger. “That is Juka’s son,” said he; “take good care of him, daughters.”

Jamuka dressed the deer, carried them home, and cut up the venison for drying. Next evening Juka’s son sent the girls home a second time, and killed five great deer that night. Next morning the girls came to see him, and ran home in wonder.

Their father was very glad. He dressed the five deer as he had the four, and cut up the venison.

Tsore Jowa was hunting everywhere all this time to find her brother. She had left the hearts, her sister’s body, and her father hidden away carefully; had done nothing yet to save them.

The night after Juka’s son killed the five deer the two girls took him home to their father. He was well now and beautiful, in good health and strong. He cried no more after that. A salt spring was formed in the place where he had fallen and shed so many tears. The spring is in that place till this day, and deer go in herds to drink from it. People watch near the spring and kill them, as Juka’s son did. Tsore Jowa went to every house inquiring about her brother. At last she came to Jamuka’s house, and there she found him. She was glad now and satisfied. She left her brother with his two wives and hurried home.

Tsore Jowa made in one night a great sweat-house, prepared a big basket, and filled it with water. When the second night came, she dropped hot stones into the water; put all the hearts into the basket. Opening her sister’s body, she took out her heart and put it in with the others. At this time the water in the basket was boiling. She covered the basket and placed it on top of the sweat-house. Then she went in, lay down and slept.

The water was seething all night. At daybreak the basket turned over, and there was a crowding and hurrying of people around the sweat-house. They began to talk briskly.

“We are cold, we are cold!” said they. “Let us in!”

Soon broad daylight came. Tsore Jowa opened the door, and all crowded into the sweat-house. Tsore Jowa said not a word yet. All the brothers came; behind them Haka Lasi. She looked well, she was good. Her heart was clean; there was nothing bad now in it.

“Where is our eldest brother?” asked all.

“He is well; I have found him. He has two wives,” said Tsore Jowa.

Juka was in good health and strong. She had washed him and given him good food.

All were happy, and they went hunting.

“I think your husband would like to go home,” said Jamuka one day to his daughters.

Juka’s son and his two wives set out to visit his father; Juka saw his son coming; took a big blanket quickly, caught him, placed him in it, and put him right away.

Now the wives of Juka’s son came in and sat down in the house. Two other brothers took them for wives. They stayed a long time, never saw their first husband again. Old Juka kept him secreted, made him a Weänmauna, a hidden one.

After a time the two women wished to go home to visit Jamuka. They took beads and blankets, nice things of all kinds, and went to their father at the foot of Wahkalu.

“We have never seen our husband,” said they, “since we went to his father’s. We have new husbands now.”

“I think that is well enough,” said Jamuka. “His father has put him away. His brothers are as good for you as he was.”

The sisters agreed with their father, and went back and lived at Juka’s house after that.

THE DREAM OF JUIWAIYU AND HIS JOURNEY TO DAMHAUJA’S COUNTRY