Dan O‘Brian was turning the spit and Kate clicked her tongue. And you a Park ranger, she said.

A hungry one, he said, and grinned.

When the moose was done Old Sam did the honors with a butcher knife the size of a samurai sword, producing thick, tender slices running with juice that tasted of forest and stream and home. There was sticky rice and soy sauce for those who wanted it, and boiled potatoes and butter for those who didn‘t, and enough fry bread for all. There was plenty for seconds, and some went back for thirds, and the talk got louder and the laughter more frequent. All the old stories were trotted out and retold to advantage as the sun sank in the sky, and the surface of the river turned to molten gold as it progressed downstream in a manner infinitely more stately than any holiday parade.

And for one evening at least, nobody talked about the elephant in the room, the gold mine fifty miles away that would change the very fabric of their lives forever. It was getting on toward dusk when Old Sam said, You know, I think I‘m going to sit down, and went down the dock on unsteady legs to subside onto the bench there.

Kate grinned, watching him.

Old man can‘t hold his liquor like he used to, Bernie said, next to her. He can still drink you under the table. Kate raised her voice. Come on, everybody, it‘s getting cold. Time to clean up and head home.

It broke up reluctantly, as all good parties do, and everyone pitched in to cut and wrap the remains of the moose, bag the leftovers, wash the dishes, and burn the paper plates and cups. People left in twos and threes, their vehicle lights showing for brief moments before receding into the encroaching darkness. The air grew chilly and Kate shrugged into her jacket.

Get your goddamn butts over to the house the next couple of days, before the kid forgets what the fuck you look like!

Okay, Bobby.

And you, you ancient old fucker, thanks for the best hunk a moose I ever sank a tooth into!

I think Old Sam‘s passed out, Bobby.

He‘s probably awake now.

Hey, Kate, Willard was up on the Step yesterday.

How‘d he get there?

Damn if I know. He didn‘t have his truck and when I asked him all he would say is him and Anakin hitched a ride.

Where the hell is Howie?

Come on, Kate. Is that a question any of us really want the answer to? Who‘s running the Roadhouse?

I closed it for the night.

I‘m sorry, I must have heard you wrong. You closed the Roadhouse? Yep. Locked the door, turned out the lights, put a sign out saying Closed due to barbecue.‘

I‘m trying to think. Has that happened in the memory of man?

I‘m making enough money from those miner boys, I can afford a night off now and then.