Every day somebody came along the river, telling us the news. There was a big quarrel going on. I was camped at that time, with my daughter, above Metá, picking acorns. All the acorns were bad that year—little, and twisted, and wormy. Even the worms were little and kind of shriveled that year. That place above Metá was the only place where the acorns were good. Lots of people were camped there. Some paid for gathering acorns there. My aunt had married into a house at Metá, the house they call Wóogi, “In-the-middle-House,” so I didn’t have to pay anything. People used to come up from the river to where we acorn pickers were camped, to talk about the news. They told us the boy’s mother’s people were trying to make some people at Smith River pay. “He’s the son of one of their men,” the old grandfather said. “They’ve got to pay for the words he spoke. I don’t have to pay.” The thing dragged on. Three weeks later they told us the old man wouldn’t pay yet.