Alone within his teepee sat Iktomi. The sun was but a handsbreadth from the western edge of land.

“Those, bad, bad gray wolves! They ate up all my nice fat ducks!” muttered he, rocking his body to and fro.

He was cuddling the evil memory he bore those hungry wolves. At last he ceased to sway his body backward and forward, but sat still and stiff as a stone image.

“Oh! I’ll go to Inyan, the great-grandfather, and pray for food!” he exclaimed.