Chapter III

Three shrieks of a small steamer’s titanic siren echoed and re-echoed among the snow-tipped mountain tops. “B-o-a-t! B-o-a-t!” The cry set in motion Eskimos and Indians, countless uncanny echoes. Dogs responded with wolfish wails. One of a group of white men, against a background splotched with the brilliant blankets of the Yakutats, Bruce Harcourt stood on the shingle at headquarters watching a launch put-putting from the ship which had dropped anchor. Behind him the tableland, fifteen feet above the shore, was li…