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I put the weasel-skin cap on his head

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I put the weasel-skin cap on his head.jpg I saw that the black-bear skin was bound to one of the posts at the entranceThumbnailsI put on my copper kettle and made blood puddingI saw that the black-bear skin was bound to one of the posts at the entranceThumbnailsI put on my copper kettle and made blood puddingI saw that the black-bear skin was bound to one of the posts at the entranceThumbnailsI put on my copper kettle and made blood puddingI saw that the black-bear skin was bound to one of the posts at the entranceThumbnailsI put on my copper kettle and made blood puddingI saw that the black-bear skin was bound to one of the posts at the entranceThumbnailsI put on my copper kettle and made blood puddingI saw that the black-bear skin was bound to one of the posts at the entranceThumbnailsI put on my copper kettle and made blood puddingI saw that the black-bear skin was bound to one of the posts at the entranceThumbnailsI put on my copper kettle and made blood pudding

I lifted the skin door—it was an old-fashioned one swinging on thongs from the beam overhead—and entered the lodge. Hanging Stone sat on his couch against the puncheon fire screen. I went to him and put the weasel-skin cap on his head. The young man who was to be my husband was sitting on his couch, a frame of poles covered with a tent skin. Cold Medicine and I went over and shyly sat on the floor near-by.