The Northland Chronicles: A Stranger North

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“Hey Aristotle,” Jackson shouted across the saloon. “Who’s Bertrand Russell?”

Without so much as a blink, Aristotle continued to read her book, a hardcover that looked heavy enough to snap a moose’s back.

“I told ya,” Grant said, elbowing Jackson in the ribs. “The woman is an ice queen. Looks like you owe me a drink.”

Franco, owner of Franco’s Saloon, smirked in amusement from behind the counter. The sun had just fallen below the horizon, yet Jackson and Grant were already heckling the other patrons. This was going to be a long night.

“Wait, let me try one more time,” Jackson said. He stood six foot five, with ice-blue eyes and dirty blond hair. Years of farm work had given him enough strength to wrestle a black bear. His body was a weapon all in itself; the pistol at his hip was merely a backup.

“Hey Aristotle,” Jackson shouted. “What’s your real name, honey?”

Aristotle didn’t acknowledge the comment, as she turned to the next page of her book, A History of Western Philosophy.

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