As soon as the grubby freighter Meteor anchored and lowered the plank onto the busy wharf, he disembarked, carrying a single suitcase. Almost instantly Aaron discovered that gold madness was still infectious in the States. As soon as he got into a cab, the driver began talking about the strike in the Yukon. When Aaron inadvertently mentioned that he’d just come from the Klondike, the driver, a round-faced man with a bristly mustache and moon eyes, stopped the team abruptly and began firing questions at him. Aaron answered the inquiries briefly, then growing irritated, he snapped, “Take me to the station. I’ve got to catch a train out of here.” From the scowl on the man’s face, he knew the driver was insulted, but Aaron didn’t care. He sat back moodily, not even looking out the window at the city he’d heard so much about. Ordinarily, Aaron Winslow would have been eagerly taking in the sights, but a weariness lay along his nerves, and the long white silences of the Yukon had changed him.
