The morning breeze was light and spoke of sun and humid warmth all day. Out across the bay, the trees on the Island of Graves broke the horizon. Four days had passed since the funeral, and the weather had stayed fair. Rounding the eastern headland, he saw a steam launch coming, its prow cutting cleanly through the light swell. The ensign of the Indian Agency was at its masthead. Most likely it was William Halliday, Indian agent for this region of the coast. He was coming from the south. He’d be out from Alert Bay, passing through en route to the outer villages, part of the bimonthly trip he took to make his presence felt among the people of the coast. Harry had met him a few times. He seemed a decent enough man, as far as his task was given and his values allowed. Harry had been wary, though, knowing his trade in liquor would land him in trouble if Halliday should learn of it. As the boat neared the jetty, the Reverend Crosby stepped out along the boards and raised his hand to hail the incoming launch.
