Old Mítsina, locking them up in a small recess of his house, went out and gathered before his front door a great quantity of dry wood. Then he tied the little fellows hand and foot, and laid them near by,—not near enough to burn them up, but near enough so that they would scorch,—and lighted the fire, to have the pleasure of roasting them. When they began to brown and sizzle a little they writhed and howled with pain, but they were tough and quite bad, as you know, and this did not kill them.
Who can hide a thing from the eyes of the gods? The elder brothers of these two foolish little War-gods, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma, those who dwelt on Thunder Mountain, became aware of what was going on. “Come, brother younger,” said the elder, strapping on his quiver and taking his bow in hand, “come, let us off to old Mítsina’s house and teach him a lesson!” So, in a twinkling they were climbing down the mountain, speeding across the wide valley, and threading their way through the Cañon of the Pines.
Mítsina had grown tired of watching the poor little War-gods and had gone in to have another little game, and there he was pitching his cane-cards and talking to himself, as usual. The two gods hauled their unfortunate brothers away from the fire, and, climbing the ladder, peered in. Mítsina espied them, and as usual invited them in to a game. With as jolly an air as his own they accepted his challenge and sat down. Mítsina offered to bet all his fine things hanging on the north side of the house. “What will you put up, my little fellows?” asked he.
“If you will include those ugly little devils that we saw sizzling before the fire when we came in, we will bet you everything we have with us,” said they.
“Good! good! haul them in!” shouted Mítsina.
The War-gods scrambled out of the house, and, by no means gently, dragged their wretched little brothers in by the heels and dumped them down on the floor to show their indifference, sat down, and began to play. They bet their weapons, holding up the knife of war which they carried, the point of lightning itself fatal in power,—splitter of mountains and overcomer of demons and men alike.
Old Mítsina, when told of the power of the weapons, became doubtful as to his company, but presently fell to and played with a will. He lost. Then he put up all the rest of his goods hanging on the other side of the room. Again he lost, and again, even the turquoises hanging from the basket-drum, the necklaces under his robe, and the things he played with, and getting wild with excitement, sure that his luck would return, followed out the plan he had so often suggested to others, and bet away his thighs, then his sides and arms, then his head and ears, excepting his eyes, and last of all his very eyes themselves. Each time the young War-gods won. The old gambler let his hands fall by his sides, and dropped his head on his breast, sick with humiliation and chagrin.
“Now, my brother,” said the elder to the younger, “what shall we do with this beast?”
“I don’t know,” said the other. “We can’t kill him; yet, if we leave him to go his own way, he will gamble and gamble without ceasing, and make no end of trouble. Suppose we make a good man of him.”
“How?” asked the other.