“What are you doing?” asked the old man.
“I am scratching myself.”
“You needn’t scratch; you will die soon.”
“I itch; I can scratch while I live,” said Tskel. He moved again.
“What are you doing now?” asked the old man.
“I don’t lie easy.”
“Why bother about that? you will die soon.”
“I don’t want to suffer while I live,” said Tskel. He was getting his stone knife out. It was tied up in his hair and the old man hadn’t seen it. With the knife Tskel cut holes in the skin blanket for his eyes and his hands, and just as he got to the end of the trail, he stuck the knife into the old man and killed him. Then he cut the body up and threw it piece by piece into the lake. As he threw the pieces, he called out: “Here is Tskel’s shoulder! Here are Tskel’s ribs! Here are his legs! Here are his arms!” As fast as he threw the pieces, the old man’s children caught and ate them. At last he threw the head. It was an awful-looking thing, enough to scare any one.
When the children saw it and knew that they had eaten their father, they were so mad that they sent everything they had to find Tskel and kill him. They sent what they thought he would like,—knives, hatchets, beads, shells, blankets—to lie in his path. If he took up any one of them, he would die.
Tskel passed them all till he came to the last, a stone knife sharp on both edges, that looked so nice that he picked it up. Right away the ends of his fingers were burned off. He dropped the knife, rubbed his fingers with his own stone knife, and they were well again. Then he went on till he reached home. Skóŭks and little Tcûskai had covered their hair with deer fat and pounded coal; they were mourning for him.