Metsi was right in the middle of the trail. He had learned that Putokya was out killing people in the south; he heard the roar a great way off, and said to himself,—
“I hear Putokya; he is killing all the people.”
Metsi thought over what he was to do. “I will meet him. I will say to this Putokya, ‘You are smart, you are good, but you are sick. I will cure you.’”
Metsi took off all his fine clothes in a hurry and hid them, made himself naked. “I must be quick,” said he; “the noise and wind are coming nearer and nearer. I wish a rusty old basket to be here before me.” The basket was there. He wished for an old strap to carry it. The old strap was there with the basket.
Metsi made buckskin rings around his arms and legs, turned himself into an old, very old woman, all bent and wrinkled, with a buckskin petticoat. He put the rusty basket on his back.
Putokya was hurrying on; the roar grew louder and nearer. Metsi knew that Putokya was very dangerous, and that he must be careful. He took white clay, painted his face, made a regular old woman of himself. Putokya came near. Metsi was ready, the basket on his back and a stick in his hand. He was walking along slowly, a very old woman and decrepit. The old woman began to cry, “En, en, en!”
Putokya stopped on the road, made no noise, listened to the old woman.
“He has stopped; he is listening to me,” said Metsi; and he cried more, cried in a louder voice and more pitifully.
Putokya was quiet. Metsi walked right up to him, looked at him, and said, “I came near stepping on you.” Metsi was crying more quietly now.
“Are you a dead person?” asked Metsi.