“I don’t know where your cap is.” “Tell me quickly. I am almost dead.” “I don’t know; you always take it with you. What have you done with it?” “I shall die. I want it now. Hurry and find it! I am sleepy.” That minute he dropped on the ground, dead. The mortar was his medicine, his life. Tskel tried to make him get up. He pushed him, and said: “Get up, old man, your sons are coming. Don’t sleep so long.” When he didn’t move, Tskel was frightened and sorry. He ran to the creek, got the mortar and put it in the sun to dry. As soon as it was dry, he ran to the old man, and said: “Get up, grandfather; I have found your cap!” Tskel was crying. Wûlkûtska didn’t move; he was cold and stiff. Tskel pushed him ever so many times, but he didn’t stir. Then Tskel took his own medicine, a stick that he carried behind his ear, and hit Wûlkûtska with it; he moved a little. Tskel hit him again, kept hitting him, and saying: “Get up, grandfather, get up, grandfather! Here is your cap.” At last the old man came to life. Then Tskel said: “I hid your cap to see how I could kill you. You must never tease your daughter-in-law, for I know where your life is. If you kill her, I shall hide your cap and not get it for you.” The old man was frightened, but his mind wasn’t changed. When he saw his sons coming, he went into the house and watched them through the cracks. When they were near, Pitoíois put down her basket. As soon as they were in the house, the old man went out to see if they had brought roots; he hunted everywhere, but couldn’t find the basket. “Why don’t you stay in the house?” asked his son. “I am hungry. I am hunting for what you brought. I haven’t eaten anything for two days. The first day I ate all you left in the house.” Pitoíois told him where the basket was. He was going to jump at it and swallow all the roots at once, but she called to him: “Put down a large skin and pour the roots on to it, then take up a pinch of them with the ends of your fingers; that pinch will be so big that you can’t eat all of it.” “There isn’t a mouthful in the whole basket,” said the old man, and he was going to swallow all of them. When his son ran toward him, he snatched a handful of the roots and ate them. That moment he was so full that roots ran out of his mouth, and on to the ground; he fell down, rolled over, and choked to death. Pitoíois gathered up the roots that were on the ground, made them small, put them in the basket, and covered the basket up. The son’s were glad that their father was dead, but Pitoíois felt badly; she liked her father-in-law, and didn’t want to kill him. She hit the old man two blows on the back and two on the head. The roots came out of him, only enough were left to satisfy his appetite, and he was alive again. Tskel said: “See what you got by doing what your daughter-in-law told you not to do. Don’t do that way again. Next time no one will save you; you will die and stay dead.”