The mouth of the Alsek River from the land side was a curious and interesting effect of erosion. Even granite, that almost invincible barrier which Nature sets up against the onslaught of her own fierce elements, had ultimately yielded. The river on the one side and the storming seas on the other had beaten upon the granite anvil till the white flag of surrender had been hoisted.
The attacking elements had met through a narrow gap which had helped to set the scene for the appalling race of tide which swept in through it. Two gaunt, barren headlands stood sentry on either side with less than three hundred yards of water dividing them. Outside these lay the bay with its guarding headlands and a multitude of rocky warriors still defending. Inside was an expanse of water that was nearly a mile wide. This was no less rockbound than the outer bay, but it was completely sheltered so that no view of the bay beyond could be obtained except that which was visible through the narrow opening.
It was early morning. The sun had just lifted above the eastern hills. Nature was astir. The restless sea-fowl were breaking their fast upon such fare as the waters provided, and sunrise had brought up with it a freshening breeze. The night tide was rapidly running out and the race of water was still fierce and strong and threatening.
Cy Liskard was laboriously clambering along the foreshore of the inner cove. He was moving up towards the headland guarding the southern shore of the river mouth. He was searching for the most promising direction whence he could attack its lofty summit.
Such was the nature of the shore that his movements were largely hidden. It was the thing he desired most. Now he was passing along in the shadow of mountainous boulders. Now he was full in the open, scaling a barrier impossible otherwise to pass. But he was making progress, rapid progress onwards and upwards. He had swiftly realised the danger of passing the gateway on the open water. It would have been to court discovery on the instant, to say nothing of the chances of disaster from the race of the tide, so his boat lay cached behind him while he confronted the task of scaling the headland.
The man was standing on the windswept crest of the southern guardian of the river. He was sheltering from observation behind a boulder, and from the whip of the breeze which stung with a wintry bite. The whole of the great bay lay there below him, calm and peaceful, and completely inviting. He was gazing down upon it, but without regard for its austere beauty. For that he had no interest whatever. The ravishing shimmer of the summer waters, the tattered magnificence of the element’s aged battle-ground. These things were matters of complete indifference to him. Even his view of McLagan’s high-perched home for the moment seemed to make no claim.
His searching gaze was preoccupied with the thing he had never looked to discover. He was gazing down upon the wreck of the Limpet lying upon its deathbed of rocks, which the night ebb had left bare. He was studying it, searching it, shape and rig and every detail as might some sailorman who still retains all his interest for a calling he has long since abandoned.
For a long time he stood in the shelter of the boulder, and the fascination of the wreck held him until its spell was abruptly broken by a thing of more immediate consequence. Suddenly he became aware of a small boat making its way from the north shore in the direction of the wreck. And in a moment he understood. He raised his eyes to the house on the cliffs. He dropped them again to the beach below. Then they came again to the moving boat with its solitary occupant.