He moved toward the back door—which was propped open with a rifle; probably due to heat from the firepit—walking awkwardly, haltingly, as though he had a bad hip. “Beer’s out back—in the snow.”
I glanced around the room as he went: at the other patrons—bearded men, all of them—who had peeled off coats and hats; and at one who hadn’t—a lone figure sitting in the corner ... with a pair of crutches nearby.
“That includes the mastodon; the mammoth. The roast elephant, whatever you want to call it.”
He shuffled back, slowly, arduously, twisting the cap off a bottle of Molson, setting it down. “It’s good—fresh. The meat, eh, not the beer. It was harvested only yesterday.”
He laughed a little and shook his head. “Whatever he does with that ivory, I’ll never know.”
I looked at the bottle of b
