“I-wo-loh-kia-a—a—a!” called the Turkey, so that they could just hear him; and as that means “Murder! Murder!” you may think to yourself how much they were excited; but they were not so much alarmed as the old grandmother, “for,” said they, one to the other, “it is nothing but a youngster, anyway, and they are always more scared than the old ones.”
Nevertheless, they hastened down to meet him, and as they approached they saw that he was terribly frightened, so they anxiously waited until he breathed more easily and would stand still; then they asked: “What is it? Where is it? Why do you come alone, crying ‘Murder, Murder!’”
“Alas! my fathers,” exclaimed the Turkey. “Alas! I, alone, am left to tell of it; ere I left they were thrown down all around me.”
“Who did this?” angrily demanded the boys.
“The people of Háwikuh,” exclaimed the Turkey, glancing apprehensively around.
“Ha! we shall yet win back our loss,” ejaculated the boys to one another; and then they turned to the Turkey. “Are they all murdered and gone?” they asked.
“Yes, alas! yes; I alone am left,” moaned the young Turkey.
“Oh, no!” broke in the elder brother, “there will yet many return, for this is but a Long-leg, and surely when he could save himself others and older ones could.” Even then they heard some of the Turkeys calling to one another, out of breath over the low hills. “U-kwa-tchi!” (“Didn’t I tell you!”) exclaimed Áhaiyúta, and they started toward the mountain.
One by one, or in little bunches, the Turkeys came fleeing in, scared, weary, and bedraggled; and the boys knew by this, and that only a few after all returned, that the Long-leg had not been for nothing taught to fear. They betook themselves to their house. There they sat down to eat with their grandmother, and after the eating was finished, they poked little sticks into the blazing fire on the hearth, and cried out to their grandmother: “Tomorrow, grandmother, we will gather fagots.”
“Foolish, foolish boys!” crooned the old grandmother.