La Bête Errante: Roman vécu du Grand Nord Canadien

In the frozen heart of the North, Dawson City clings to life beneath an eight‑month winter that smothers its wooden streets and rattles the telegraph lines. Inside the bustling saloons—The Exchange, the Monte‑Carlo, the Green Tree—the clatter of dice, the wail of an accordian, and the crackle of a phonograph create a lively refuge from the howling blizzard outside. The townsfolk, hardened by endless cold, gather around stout tables, trading stories and wagers as the night deepens.

Through the swinging doors stumbles a lone traveler, his coat frosted with ice, his presence as unexpected as a glass of milk in a whiskey den. The barkeep’s bemused disbelief turns to quiet amusement when the stranger insists on the simple drink, prompting a tense silence that ripples through the room. As the milk is heated and the newcomer drinks in one swift motion, eyes lock and whispers rise, hinting at a hidden resolve that could stir the quiet recklessness of this frontier outpost.