“Oh, Gowila is coming! Gowila is coming!” cried she, terribly frightened.
“Grandmother, don’t be afraid; it is I. Gowila is dead. I have killed him. I am wearing his skin. I am as big and as ugly as he was. I will go to his house to-night, I think. I have brought his liver and lights with me.”
“Go, grandson, go. I fear nobody now.”
Ilhataina went away, saying, “I will be here about sunrise to-morrow.”
He went north to Gowila’s sweat-house, went a long way, went quickly, walked up to the house, was just like Gowila. A great many people lived in that house. All kinds of snake people were there,—rattlesnakes, bull-snakes, water-snakes, striped snakes, all kinds of snakes.
He hung Gowila’s liver and lights outside, went in, and sat down between Gowila’s two wives. The dog lay down in his own place. The wives were Pupila women, two sisters.
“Bring in the meat which I hung up outside and cook it,” said Ilhataina to the elder wife.
He cut the liver and lights into small bits, and the two women boiled them. There was a great steam and a strong smell from these pieces. All in the house were blind except the two wives, and only one of the blind people spoke, Gowila’s younger brother. “I smell Gowila’s flesh,” said he.
“How could you smell Gowila’s flesh when I am Gowila?”
Ilhataina was very angry, and dashed live coals through the house. All were terrified. All ate of the meat except Gowila’s younger brother. He was very wise and wouldn’t touch it.