Bitterroot Valley she said it didn't seem like that long ago

Young people these days, though Miska, as an endlelssly long line of the middle-aged had thought before him. He nodded impatiently when she asked if he intended her to speak to the doe - what else? The sour wind of your next fart? It went unsaid, burning a hole in his throat.

She did her best, he supposed - not the most eloquent send-off, but said with sincerity and her own little flair. Miska nodded again, approving, almost a little proud. She was so young.  Beautiful, as only a fresh-faced creature could be, but there was no denying the weight that was settling around his shoulders: the mantle of uncles, resplendent in tweed.

"What you do with skin?" he asked, intending to stay for the de-robing. "I meeting boy-wolf with skin of bear. Very bad smell. Not all fault of bear."