Part 2

Not very far south of the deer-trail were the Klak people, at Klakkewilton. They lived together in one great house, and were all blind except one Klakherrit, who was young and strong, bad, a great liar, and very fond of gambling. This Klakherrit hated the Pitis people, and wanted to kill them all; he used to go out and watch for them. When a Pitis went hunting, and was following the deer, Klakherrit sat down at the trail, some distance ahead; and, as the Pitis came up, he would groan, and call out, “Oh, I have a big splinter in my foot; I cannot take it out alone, help me!”

The Pitis pitied him always, and said: “I will pull it out for you;” then he sat down, took the foot in his hand, looked at it, and pulled at the splinter.

“Oh, you cannot pull it out with your fingers; you must take it between your teeth.” The Pitis took the end of the splinter between his teeth, and began to pull; that moment Klakherrit cut his head off, and carried it to Klakkewilton, leaving the body by the roadside.

When Klakherrit killed the last Pitis, he took his skin, put it on and became just like Pitis. He went then to Memtachnokolton, and said to the Pitis women and children, “I killed a deer to-day; but Klakherrit ran off with it, so I come home with nothing.”

“We have enough to eat; never mind,” said the women, who thought he was their man.

About dark that evening, Klakherrit, the counterfeit Pitis, killed all the women and children except one little child, a boy, who escaped by some wonderful fortune, and hid under the weeds. Klakherrit burned the village then, and went home, thinking: “I have killed every Pitis.”

Next morning little Pitis came out of his hiding-place, and wandered around the burnt village, crying. Soon an old woman, Tsosokpokaila, heard the child, found him, took him home, called him grandson, and reared him; she gave him seeds to eat which she took from her own people,—a great many of them lived in her village. She was a small person, but active.

In a few days, little Pitis began to talk; and soon he was able to run around, and play with bows and arrows. The old woman said to him then: “My grandson, you must never go to the south nor to the east. Go always to the north or west, and don’t go far; you needn’t think to meet any of your people, they are dead, every one of them.”

All this time Klakherrit went out every morning, and listened long and carefully; hearing no sound of a Pitis, he went in one day, and said to his blind relatives: “I hear nothing, I see nothing of the Pitis people; they are all dead.”

There was one old man in the house, an uncle of Klakherrit, and he answered: “My nephew, I can’t see anything; but some day you may see a Pitis. I don’t think all the Pitis people are dead yet; I think some are living in this world somewhere.”

Klakherrit said nothing, but went out every morning as before; at last he saw far away in the west a little smoke rising, a slender streak of it. “Some people are living off there,” thought he; “who can they be, I must know.” He hurried to the house for his choicest clothes, and weapons, and made ready. He took his best bow, and a large quiver of black fox-skin, this he filled with arrows; then he put beads of waterbone on his neck, and a girdle of shining shells around his waist. When dressed to his wish, he started, and went straight toward the fire. As he came near it, he walked slowly, to see who was there; for a time he saw no one, but he heard pounding at the other side of a big pine-tree. He went around slowly to the other side, and saw a man pounding something. He would pound a while, and then pick up nuts, crack the shells with his teeth, and eat the kernels. This person was Kaisusherrit; and he was so busy that he did not see Klakherrit, who stood looking on a good while. “Hallo, my friend!” said Klakherrit, at last, “why are you alone; does no one else live around here?”

Kaisusherrit said nothing; he went on pounding pine cones, getting nuts out of them, didn’t look at the stranger. Around his neck he had a net bag filled with pine nuts. After a while he stopped pounding, cracked some nuts, put the kernels in his mouth, and then pounded pine cones again.

“My friend, you are alone in this place. I came here by myself; there are only two of us. I saw your smoke this morning; and I said, before I started, ‘I will go and see a good man to-day.’ I thought that you were here, and I found you.”

Kaisusherrit said nothing, but pounded away.

“My friend, why not talk to me; why not say something? Let us gamble: there is plenty of shade under the trees here; we might as well play.”

Kaisusherrit was silent, didn’t take his eyes off the pine cones.

“Why not talk to me, my friend? If you don’t talk to me, who will; there are only two of us in this place. I came to see you this morning, to have a talk with you. I thought you would tell me what is going on around here where you live; and I would tell you what I know. Stop eating; let’s gamble, and have a good talk.”

Klakherrit talked, and teased, and begged, all the forenoon. He didn’t sit down once; he was on his feet all the time. At last, a little after noon, Kaisusherrit looked up, and said: “Why do you make all this fuss? That is not the way for one grown person to talk to another. You act like some little boy, teasing, and talking, and hanging around. Why don’t you sit down quietly, and tell me who you are, what you know, and where you live? Then I can tell you what I like, and talk to you.”

Klakherrit sat down, and told who he was. Then he began again: “Well, my friend, let us play; the shade is good here under the trees.”

“Why do you want to play?” asked Kaisusherrit; “do you see anything here that you like? I have nothing to bet against your things.”

“Oh, you have,” said Klakherrit,—“you have your pounding stone, your net full of nuts, your pine cones.”

“Very well,” said Kaisusherrit; “I will bet my things against yours;” and he placed them in one pile. Klakherrit took off his weapons and ornaments, and tied them up with Kaisusherrit’s things in one bundle, so that the winner might have them all ready to carry away. Kaisusherrit brought sticks to play with, and grass to use with the sticks. He sat down then with his back to the tree, and motioned to the other to sit down in front. The bundle was near the tree, and each had a pile of grass behind him.

“Let us go away from this tree to the shade out there; I don’t like to be near a tree,” said Klakherrit.

“Oh, I can’t go there; I must have my back against a tree when I play,” said Kaisusherrit. “Oh, come, I like that place; let us go out there.” “No, my back aches unless I lean against a tree; I must stay here.” “Never mind this time; come on, I want to play out there,” urged Klakherrit. “I won’t go,” said Kaisusherrit; “I must play here.”

They talked and disputed about the place till the middle of the afternoon: but Kaisusherrit wouldn’t stir; and Klakherrit, who was dying to play, agreed at last to let Kaisusherrit put his back to the tree, and to sit opposite himself. They began, and were playing about two hours, when Klakherrit was getting the advantage; he was winning. Both were playing their best now, and watching each other. Kaisusherrit said then in his mind, “You, Klakherrit’s grass, be all gone, be grass no more, be dust.” The grass in Klakherrit’s hand turned to dust. He reached behind to get more grass, but found none; then he looked to see where it was. That moment Kaisusherrit snatched the bundle, and ran up the tree. Klakherrit sprang to his feet, looked through the branches; and there he saw Kaisusherrit with the bundle on his back.

“Oh, my friend,” cried he, “what is the matter; what are you doing?” Kaisusherrit said nothing, sat on a limb, and looked at the stranger. “Oh, my friend, why go up in the tree? Come, let us finish the game; maybe you’ll win all my things. Come down.”

Klakherrit talked and talked. Kaisusherrit began to come down slowly, stopping every little while; he reached the lower limbs. Klakherrit thought he was coming surely; all at once he turned, and hurried up again, went to the very top, and sat there. Klakherrit walked around the tree, persuading and begging. Kaisusherrit slipped down a second time, was near the ground, seemed to be getting off the tree; Klakherrit was glad. Kaisusherrit didn’t get off, though; he went up to the next limb, smiled, and looked at Klakherrit, who was getting terribly angry. Kaisusherrit went higher. Klakherrit could hold in no longer; he was raging. He ran, picked up sharp rocks, and hurled them at Kaisusherrit. The first one hit the limb on which he was sitting, and cut it right off; but he was very quick and sprang on to another. Klakherrit hurled stone after stone at the tree, with such force and venom that a limb fell whenever a stone struck it. At dusk there wasn’t a limb left on the tree; but Kaisusherrit was there yet. He was very quick and resolute, and dodged every stone. Klakherrit drew breath a moment, and began again to hurl stones at Kaisusherrit; wherever one struck the tree, it took the bark off. At dark the tree was all naked and battered, not a branch nor a bit of bark left. Kaisusherrit was on it yet; but Klakherrit couldn’t see him. Klakherrit had to go home; when he went into the house, he said, “Well, I’ve met a man to-day who is lucky; he won all my things in play.”

“My son,” said Klakherrit’s father, who was very old, “you have been telling us that you are a great player; but I thought all the time that you would meet a person some day who would beat you. You have travelled much to find such a one; you have found him.”

Next morning Klakherrit went out, and saw a smoke in the west. “That is my friend,” said he; “I must see him.” He took his best dress and weapons, and soon reached the fire. “Hallo, my friend,” said Klakherrit, “I’ve come to play with you to-day.” “Very well,” answered Kaisusherrit, who was wearing Klakherrit’s clothes that he had carried up the tree. “But, my friend, you won’t do as you did yesterday?” “Oh, no; I’ll play nicely to-day, I’ll play to please you.” They tied the stakes in one bundle, brought sticks and grass. Kaisusherrit put his back to a tree much larger than the first one. Klakherrit wished to play in the open; Kaisusherrit wouldn’t go there. They disputed and quarrelled till Klakherrit had to yield; but he made up his mind not to let Kaisusherrit go up the tree this time.

They played as before till the middle of the afternoon, when Klakherrit was winning. Kaisusherrit turned the grass into dust, and was up the tree before Klakherrit could stop him. The deeds of the day before were repeated with greater force. Kaisusherrit was more cynical in his conduct. Klakherrit was more enraged; he cut all the limbs, and stripped all the bark from this tree with stone-throwing. At dark he had to go home, leaving Kaisusherrit unhurt.

On the third morning, Klakherrit was watching for smoke; he wanted to win back what he had lost in the west. Soon he saw a herd of deer pass, followed by a Pitis.

It was the end of summer; little Pitis had grown very fast, was a young man now. While Klakherrit was gambling, Pitis told his grandmother that he wanted to hunt. “Oh, my grandson,” said she, “you must never go hunting; all your people were killed while out hunting. I don’t want you to hunt; I don’t want you to be killed.”

“I don’t want to be killed, my grandmother; but I don’t like to stay around the house here all the time. I want to find food and bring it home; I want, besides, to see where my people were killed. I want to see the place where they died; I want to look at the person who killed them.”

“My grandson, I don’t like to hear you talk in that way; I don’t want you to go far from this house. There is a very bad person south of us: he is the one who killed all your people; he is Klakherrit.”

“My grandmother, I can’t help going,—I must go; I must see the place where my people were killed. If I can find him, I must look at Klakherrit, who killed all my relatives.”

Next morning, young Pitis rose, and dressed himself beautifully. He took a good bow, and a quiver of black fox-skin; his arrows were pointed with white flint; in his hair he had Winishuyat[1] to warn him of danger. “My grandmother,” said he, at parting, “do the best you can while I am gone.” The old woman began to cry, and said, “Oh, my grandson, be on the watch, and guard yourself well; take good care, my grandson.”

Pitis started off; and, when out of sight, Winishuyat said, “My brother, a little ahead of us are deer. All your relatives were killed by Klakherrit for the sake of these deer. The deer obeyed your people, and went wherever they told them.” Pitis saw twenty deer, and, a few moments later, twenty more. He shouted; they ran around, stopped, and looked at him. “I want you, deer,” said Pitis, “to go toward the south, and go past Klakherrit’s house, so that he can see you and I can see him.”

Pitis shouted three times; and Klakherrit, who was watching for Kaisusherrit’s smoke, heard him. The forty deer went on one after another in a line, Pitis following. When Klakherrit saw them, he ran into the house, and called to his relatives: “Deer are coming; and a Pitis is with them!”

“Oh, my nephew,” cried the blind uncle, “you kept saying all the time that there was not another Pitis in this world; but I knew there were some left somewhere. Didn’t I say that you would see Pitis people; didn’t I tell you that you hadn’t killed all that people, my nephew? You will meet a Pitis to-day.”

Klakherrit made no answer; he took his bow and quiver quickly, and hurried out. The deer had passed the house and Pitis was just passing. Klakherrit saw him well; and Pitis had a good look at Klakherrit. Klakherrit went away on one side of the trail, got ahead of the deer, and sat down at the side of the trail near a rock. When they came up, the deer passed him; but Winishuyat said to Pitis, “My brother, Klakherrit is near that rock right there; when you pass, don’t stop, don’t speak to him. It is he who killed our people; he wants to kill you.”

When Pitis came to the rock; Klakherrit jumped up on one leg, and cried, “Oh, my friend, I can’t travel farther. I was going to help you, but I have this great splinter in my foot; draw it out for me.” Pitis didn’t look at him, went straight past. A little later, Winishuyat said, “My brother, on the other side of that clump of bushes your enemy is sitting: go by; don’t speak to him.” When Pitis came, Klakherrit begged him again to pull the splinter out of his foot; but Pitis didn’t stop, didn’t speak to him. Five times that day did Klakherrit run ahead by side-paths, and beg Pitis to pull a splinter out of his foot; but Pitis never stopped, never answered him. In the evening, Pitis said to the deer, “You, deer, meet me in the morning where you met me to-day.” That night, Pitis said to his grandmother, “I saw Klakherrit; he bothered me all day. Five times he was ahead of me with a sore foot; but if his foot is sore, how can he travel so? There must be a great many of his people just like him.”

“My grandson, Klakherrit has many relatives; but he is the only one of that people who can travel. All the rest are blind; he is the one who was ahead of you all day.”

“Well, grandmother, I have seen Klakherrit; I know all about him. I know what I can do to him; I shall follow the deer to-morrow.” (Pitis didn’t hunt deer; he just followed them.) Next morning, Pitis rose very early, bathed in the creek, ate his breakfast, and dressed for the road; then he brought two flat stones, a blue and a white one, each about a foot wide, put them down before the old woman, and said, “My grandmother, watch these two stones all day. If you see thick black spots of blood on the blue stone, you may know that I am killed; but if you see light red blood on the white stone, you may know that I am safe.” The old woman began to cry; but he went to the place where he met the deer the day before. He sent them by the same road; and, after a while, he met Klakherrit, who begged him to pull the splinter out of his foot. Pitis passed in silence; when out of sight, he stopped the deer, and said, “Now, my deer, let the strongest of you go ahead; and if Klakherrit is by the trail again, run at him, and stamp him into the ground with your fore-feet; jump on him, every one of you.”

Some distance farther on, they saw Klakherrit sitting at the side of the trail. The first deer ran and thrust his hoofs into his body; the second and the third did the same, and so did the whole forty. He was all cut to pieces, one lump of dirt and blood. The deer went on; Pitis followed. Soon Pitis called to the deer, “We’ll go back again;” and he walked ahead till they returned to where they had trampled his enemy. Klakherrit was up again, begging, “Oh, my friend, pull this great splinter out of my foot; I cannot do it alone, help me!” Pitis sent the deer at him again; they trampled him into the ground, and went on. When they had gone perhaps two miles, Klakherrit was sitting at the roadside as before, and begged Pitis to pull the splinter out of his foot. Pitis was terribly angry now; he stopped in front of Klakherrit, and walked up to him. “My friend,” said he, “what are you talking about; what do you want? Are you one person, or are there many like you? You bothered me all yesterday; what do you want to-day?”

“I am only one person,” said Klakherrit; “but, my friend, pull this splinter out; my foot pains me terribly.”

“But how do you run so fast, and go ahead of me every time, if your foot is hurt; how do you pull the splinter out?”

“I get it out at last, and run ahead; but by that time there is another splinter in my foot.”

“Why do you follow me; what do you want; why don’t you let me alone?” inquired Pitis, sitting down.

“Oh, my friend, pull this splinter out; my foot is so sore I cannot talk. Pull the splinter, and I will tell you.”

Pitis took hold of the splinter and pulled, but no use, he could not draw it out. “Take it between your teeth, that is the only way,” said Klakherrit.

“My brother,” said Winishuyat, “look out for your life now; that is the way in which Klakherrit killed all your people. Do what he says; but dodge when I tell you.”

Pitis took the splinter between his teeth, and began to pull. That moment Klakherrit drew his knife, and struck; but before the knife came down, Winishuyat cried, “Dodge to the left!” Pitis dodged, and just escaped. Pitis struck now with his white-flint knife. Every blow he gave hit Klakherrit; he dodged every blow himself so that it struck only his clothes. Klakherrit was very strong, and fought fiercely. Pitis was quick, and hit all the time. The fight was a hard one. In the middle of the afternoon, Pitis was very tired, and had all his clothes cut to pieces; and Klakherrit’s head was cut off. But the head would not die; it fought on, and Pitis cut at it with his knife.

Now Winishuyat called out, “My brother, you can’t kill Klakherrit in that way; you can’t kill him with any weapon on this earth. Klakherrit’s life is in the sky; Klakherrit’s heart is up there on the right side of the place where the sun is at midday.”

Pitis looked up, and saw the heart. He stretched out his right hand then, pulled down the heart, and squeezed it; that moment Klakherrit died.

Pitis took the skin off Klakherrit’s body, put it on himself, and became just like him. He cut up his enemy’s flesh, then carried it to Klakkewilton, went into the house and said, “I have some venison to-day; I will roast it.” He roasted Klakherrit’s flesh, and gave it to his relatives. All ate except the old uncle, who grumbled, and said, “This meat doesn’t seem right to me; it has the smell of our people.” Pitis walked out, pulled off Klakherrit’s skin, threw it into the house, and was himself again; then he set fire to the house, and stopped the door. He listened; there was a great noise inside and an uproar. If any broke through, he threw them back again. At last one woman burst out, and rushed away; she escaped, and from her were born all the Klaks in the world. But she and they were a people no longer; they had become rattlesnakes. The Pitis people became quails, and Kaisusherrit’s people, gray squirrels.

The old woman, Tsosokpokaila, who reared Pitis, became a weed about a foot high, which produces many seeds; the quails are fond of these seeds.

The following summary shows in outline the main parts of a tale which could not be so easily modified as the preceding, and one which is much more important as to contents.

Before thunder and lightning were in this world, Sulapokaila (trout old woman) had a house on the river Winimem, near Mount Shasta. One evening, a maiden called Wimaloimis (grisly bear maiden) came, and asked a night’s lodging of the old woman; she gave it. Next morning, Wimaloimis wanted to eat Sulapokaila, and had almost caught her, when the old woman turned into water, and escaped. Wimaloimis went her way then, but remained in the neighborhood. She built a house, lay down near the door, and gazed at the sun for a long time; at last she grew pregnant from gazing. In time she had twins. When the first one was born, she tried to swallow it; but the infant gave out a great flash of light and frightened her. When the second child was born, she tried to eat that; but it roared terribly, and she was so frightened that she rushed out of the house, and ran off. The old woman, Sulapokaila, came and took the children home, washed them, cared for them, named the first-born Walokit (Lightning), and the second Tumukit (Thunder).

The boys grew very fast, and were soon young men. One day, Walokit asked, “Brother, do you know who our mother is, who our father is?”

“I do not know,” answered Tumukit; “let us ask our grandmother.”

They went and asked the old woman. “I know your father and mother,” replied the old woman. “Your mother is very bad; she came to my house, and tried to eat me. She wanted to eat trees, bushes, everything she saw. When you were born, she tried to eat you; but somehow you little boys frightened her. She ran away, and is living on that mountain yonder. Your father is good; he is living up there in the sky.”

A couple of days later, Walokit said to his brother, “Let us go and find our mother.” They went off, and found her half-way up on the slope of a mountain, sitting in front of her house, and weaving a basket. Her head was down; she did not see them even when near. They stood awhile in silence, and then walked right up to her.

“Oh, my children!” cried she, putting the basket aside, “come into the house, and sit down.” She went in; the boys followed. She sat down.

“Come here, and I’ll comb your hair; come both of you, my children.” They sat down in front of her, and bent their heads. She stroked their hair, took her comb, and began to comb; next, she opened her mouth wide, and was going to swallow both at one gulp. That moment some voice said, “Look out, boys; she is going to eat you.” They saw no one, but heard the voice. Next instant, Walokit flashed, and Tumukit roared. The mother, dazzled, deafened, rushed out of the house in great terror.

“I don’t believe she is our mother,” said Tumukit.

“I don’t believe she is either,” answered Walokit. They were both very angry, and said, “She is a bad woman anyhow. She may be our mother; but she is a bad woman.”

They went home, and later Walokit found his mother, and killed her. Tumukit merely stood by, and roared. The woman’s body was torn to pieces, and scattered. The brothers wept, and went to their grandmother, who sent them to various sacred springs to purify themselves, and wash away the blood of their mother. When they had done that, after many pilgrimages, they said, “We will go to our father, if we can.”