“My brother, I could not stand it.”
“What did I tell you?”
“Can I not make more?”
“Perhaps you cannot endure it.” Kele did not want him to try.
“I am sorry for my girls,” said Sedit, “I want them back; I was fond of them.”
“You may try for sons, but those girls will not come back.”
Sedit tried a third time. The beating was so hard that he almost screamed; but he held out this time, and had twenty sons. Sedit’s house was full of sons, but he had no daughters; the sticks would not turn to girls again, though he did with them as he had the first time.
Sedit sent his sons to hunt. “Go wherever you like,” said he. “On the west side is a ridge; go on that ridge, keep in one line, and when you turn some one may see you and think, ‘What a crowd of nice boys!’”
Kele’s boys were hunting that day, and saw Sedit’s sons in a long line. “Look at that row of men on the ridge,” said they. “Those are our cousins,” said one of the smooth ten; “those are Sedit’s sons.”
Sedit’s sons went to a flat, danced and played all the day, took yellow clay, made paste of it, painted themselves yellow—that is why coyotes are yellow to this day; the paint would not wash off. All went home in a line. Sedit had supper for them.