Four great otters came up out of the black lake and sat beside him.
He struck another blow. Four more otters came and sat behind him.
He struck again. Four more otters came and sat on the other side.
At last the pick struck a rock. The hunter dug it out, and beneath it was a cave full of wampum.
The hunter put both of his hands into the wampum and played with it. It felt good. He took out great strings of it and put them around his neck and over his shoulders.
He worked fast, for the sun was now going down, and he must go home.
He put so many strings of wampum around his neck and shoulders that he could hardly walk.
But he did not put any around the necks of the twelve otters, nor on the three black rocks. He did not give them one string—not one shell.
He forgot what the white elk had told him. He did not obey.
Soon it grew dark. He crept along by the shore of the big black lake. The otters jumped into it and swam and beat the water into white foam. A black mist came over the mountain.