“Quiet yourself, Timpoochee,” demanded Cornstalk. “I’m trying to concentrate on my fishing.”
“That odor,” Timpoochee insisted, ignoring his brother. “It doesn’t belong to Long Man. Something is here and it doesn’t belong.”
“Maybe the evening meal has already begun to cook in gaduhv.” Cornstalk replied, hoping to quiet his brother’s curiosity.
“The wind is still blowing down the mountain. We cannot smell town from here. It is downwind,” Timpoochee said. “No, this odor is foul, ugly. It’s like spoiled fruit or the hunter too long with a dead ganatlai.”
“Timpoochee, you should stop being such a warrior and start being more of a fisherman.”
But just as the words came from his mouth Cornstalk stopped short.
“Brother, that aroma. Is it foul like an injured ballplayer or a dead bear?”
“That’s it, Cornstalk. It’s becoming stronger. You smell it now?”
“Yes. And I don’t like it. We should leave.”
“You are right, as always, Cornstalk,” replied Timpoochee with a sarcastic note.
But before the boys could collect Cornstalk’s net the water downstream thrashed fiercely. A covey of white cranes and ducks flew frantically upstream, squawking loudly.
“It is Utkena!” screamed Cornstalk. “We are going to die!”