Frequently he paused in his walk and gazed far backward, shading his eyes with his hand.  He was under the belief that an evil spirit was haunting his steps.  This was what my mother told me once, when I sneered at such a silly big man.  I was brave when my mother was near by, and Wiyaka-Napbina walking farther and farther away.

“Pity the man, my child.  I knew him when he was a brave and handsome youth.  He was overtaken by a malicious spirit among the hills, one day, when he went hither and thither after his ponies.  Since then he can not stay away from the hills,” she said.

I felt so sorry for the man in his misfortune that I prayed to the Great Spirit to restore him.  But though I pitied him at a distance, I was still afraid of him when he appeared near our wigwam.

Thus, when my mother left me by myself that afternoon I sat in a fearful mood within our tepee.  I recalled all I had ever heard about Wiyaka-Napbina; and I tried to assure myself that though he might pass near by, he would not come to our wigwam because there was no little girl around our grounds.

Just then, from without a hand lifted the canvas covering of the entrance; the shadow of a man fell within the wigwam, and a large roughly moccasined foot was planted inside.

For a moment I did not dare to breathe or stir, for I thought that could be no other than Wiyaka-Napbina.  The next instant I sighed aloud in relief.  It was an old grandfather who had often told me Iktomi legends.

“Where is your mother, my little grandchild?” were his first words.

“My mother is soon coming back from my aunt’s tepee,” I replied.

“Then I shall wait awhile for her return,” he said, crossing his feet and seating himself upon a mat.

At once I began to play the part of a generous hostess.  I turned to my mother’s coffeepot.

Lifting the lid, I found nothing but coffee grounds in the bottom.  I set the pot on a heap of cold ashes in the centre, and filled it half full of warm Missouri River water.  During this performance I felt conscious of being watched.  Then breaking off a small piece of our unleavened bread, I placed it in a bowl.  Turning soon to the coffeepot, which would never have boiled on a dead fire had I waited forever, I poured out a cup of worse than muddy warm water.  Carrying the bowl in one hand and cup in the other, I handed the light luncheon to the old warrior.  I offered them to him with the air of bestowing generous hospitality.

“How! how!” he said, and placed the dishes on the ground in front of his crossed feet.  He nibbled at the bread and sipped from the cup.  I sat back against a pole watching him.  I was proud to have succeeded so well in serving refreshments to a guest all by myself.  Before the old warrior had finished eating, my mother entered.  Immediately she wondered where I had found coffee, for she knew I had never made any, and that she had left the coffeepot empty.  Answering the question in my mother’s eyes, the warrior remarked, “My granddaughter made coffee on a heap of dead ashes, and served me the moment I came.”