As the sun sank behind the hills of the quiet valley, Chincho prayed that Maseca would hurry. The pain was getting worse and, though the blood had stopped flowing from the wound, Chincho was beginning to lose strength. Suddenly, from down the trail, the boy heard the voices of many braves. Then he heard his father shouting his name.
“Over here! Over here!” Chincho called weakly. His father ran to him and knelt at his son’s side. Soon Chincho was surrounded by many of the older braves who looked first at him and then at the dead buck. He searched among the faces for that of his friend.
“Where is Maseca?” he asked his father.
“Back in the village resting, my son,” his father said softly. “You see, Maseca ran so fast through the forest to seek help for you that he caught his foot in a root and twisted his leg badly. He wouldn’t stop even though he was barely able to hobble into camp. He had just enough strength left to tell us where you were before he fainted.”
Chincho began to feel very guilty about the many times he had hoped that Maseca would be injured some day just because Maseca had beaten him in the foot race.
“He will be well again soon, won’t he, father? He will be able to run as fast as before?” His father smiled down at Chincho.
“Is that what you want, my son?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, father. He must be well again. Because he won the foot race fairly, I have often wished that he would be hurt. Now that it has really happened, I am sorry. I will never wish harm for any friend again. Only then will I be a true son to my father and a true Iroquois brave.”
While Chincho and his father were talking, the other braves cut two saplings and tied branches across them to make a stretcher to carry the boy. Chincho’s father held his son’s hand as the other braves lifted the boy onto the stretcher.
“You have spoken wisely, my son. Do not worry. Maseca will soon be well enough to race and hunt and fish again with you.”