“Where are our people? Tell me,” said he.
“Our people were many,” said she, “but Gowila killed them all. We have no people now.”
“Who is Gowila?”
“Oh, he is strong and terrible; you must not see Gowila.”
The boy walked around the house then, looked at the walls, and asked, “May I have that bow hanging there?”
“You may if you like,” said she, “but you are too weak to use it. You are very small, a little fellow.”
He started at the east side of the sweat-house and went northward, tried the first bow, broke it; went on, took another, broke that. Then he went around the whole house, breaking every bow that he came to, till on the south side he reached the last bow. It was made of deer sinew. He bent that, tried his best, tried again and again, could not break it. “What kind of a bow is this?” thought he. “It is the ugliest, the oldest, but I cannot break it.” He took the bow and a big stone to crush it. The bow flew out of his hand, and the stone fell.
“How did the man die who used this bow?” asked the boy.
“Gowila killed him, and those who had the other bows,” answered the old woman.
“I will go for wood now and sweat.”