“Lord knew, he’d had few chances to see much of anything in his twenty-two years. What sights could a man see from the deck of a fishing boat? He swore that when he struck it rich in the goldfields of the Klondike, he was going to eat nothing but meat. He never wanted to smell another fish again. He hated fish and he hated the sea. His father was welcome to both, but he wasn’t about to spend the rest of his life stinking like a fish. Other passengers aboard the steamer had disembarked ahead of h...im, obviously sharing his intentions. A group of Indians, mostly squaws, crowded around them trying to peddle their goods that ranged from miniature totems carved from wood to silver bracelets and Indian blankets. Justin Sinclair shouldered his way through the bodies firmly shaking his head in refusal at every object thrust in front of him. Once free of the throng, he paused to look around and get his bearings. A perfectly cone-shaped mountain rose in the distance. Snow still frosted the cratered peak of the extinct volcano, making it stand out that much more sharply against the cloud-studded blue sky.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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