“Go ahead,” said the old man; “walk fast. I will come as I can.”
Pun Miaupa went on; his uncle followed. Igupa Topa stumbled every few steps, fell, hurt himself, tore his skin. Pun Miaupa looked back very often. The uncle was always tumbling. “He must be bruised and broken from these falls,” thought the nephew.
Pun Miaupa was on a hill beyond Chichipana. He sat down and smoked. His uncle came up while he was sitting there.
“Let me smoke; then I want to see you jump to that mountain over there,” said the old man, pointing to it.
“I shall leave you behind if I do that.”
“Leave me to myself,” said the old man.
Pun Miaupa put on deerskin leggings and a beaded shirt,—a splendid dress. He went then with one spring to the top of the opposite mountain and looked back to see his uncle; but old Igupa Topa had jumped too. He was just passing Pun Miaupa and went far beyond him.
“I thought you were too old to jump,” said Pun Miaupa, coming up to him.
They jumped again, jumped to a second mountain, and the uncle was ahead the second time. After that they walked on. The old man fell very often, but Pun Miaupa did not pity him any longer; he laughed when his uncle fell. They travelled a good while, travelled fast, and when both reached Wajami Mountain, they sat down to rest there.
“I want Wakara to send out his youngest daughter for wood,” said Pun Miaupa in his mind; and the next minute Wakara, who was far away in his own sweat-house, told his youngest daughter to take a basket and go for wood. This daughter was Halai Auna.