Leroy Neiman The Maulers

Leroy Neiman The MaulersLeroy Neiman The Lights of BroadwayLeroy Neiman The Home Hole at Shinnecock
Grumman?" said the black-bearded fur trader. "From the Berlin Academy? Reckless. I met him five years back over at the northern end of the Urals. I thought he was dead."
Sam Cansino, an old acquaintance and a Texan like Lee Scoresby, sat in the naphtha-laden, smoky bar of the Samirsky , by initiation?"
"You don't say," said Lee Scoresby, tipping more vodka into Sam's glass. His daemon, Hester, crouched at his elbow on the bar, eyes half-closed as usual, ears flat along Hotel and tossed back a shot glass of bitingly cold vodka. He nudged the plate of pickled fish and black bread toward Lee, who took a mouthful and nodded for Sam to tell him more."He'd walked into a trap that fool Yakovlev laid," the fur trader went on, "and cut his leg open to the bone. Instead of on using the stuff the bears use—bloodmoss—some kind of lichen, it ain't a true moss. Anyway, he was lying on a sledge alternately roaring with pain and calling out instructions to his men—they were taking star sights, and they had to get the measurements right or he'd lash them with his tongue, and boy, he had a tongue like barbed wire. A lean man, tough, powerful, curious about everything. You know he was a Tartar