“What are you here for?” asked Tcûskai. “We don’t want old men in our spring. My brother is dry. I am after water for him. Get out of our spring!” He told him two or three times to get out. The old man didn’t move, but at last he said: “Go and tell your brother to come and wrestle with me.” Tcûskai ran back to the house. “Why didn’t you bring me some water?” asked Tskel. “There is an old man sitting in the spring,” said Tcûskai. “He won’t let me get a drop of water.” “Go back and get me some water!” said Tskel. Tcûskai went back and screamed: “Get out of there, old man! You are all dirt; you’ll spoil our water!” The old man didn’t move, but he said: “Tell your brother to come and wrestle with me. I hear that he has killed all the Leméis people. I am their kin. I have come to wrestle with him.” Tcûskai said: “Let my brother have some water to drink; then he will come.” The old man turned around and let Tcûskai take a little water out of the spring. Tcûskai carried it to his brother, and said: “That old man has come to fight you for killing the Leméis people. He wants you to come to the spring and wrestle with him.” Tskel drank the water and ate pounded seed. Then he went to the spring and wrestled with the old man. They wrestled till dark, then the old man threw Tskel, rolled him up in a skin blanket, took his own form,—an animal with great horns,—put Tskel on his horns, and carried him down in the water and off under the ground. He carried him a long distance, then came out near a large lake. He took Tskel off his horns, unrolled him, and said: “Look around, before I kill you.” Tskel saw that they were on a narrow ridge of rock that ran, like a little trail, to the middle of the lake. The old man said: “When I get to the end of this trail, I will cut you into small pieces and throw you to my children. They are hungry for your flesh. As I throw the pieces, I will say: ‘Here is a piece of Tskel. Eat it.’ They will be glad, and all my kin will be glad that you are dead.” When he was through talking, he rolled Tskel up again, put him on his horns, and started. Tskel moved a little. “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.”