"Why?"
"Why?" echoed Dugan, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Well, jist this side of 'em is the entrance to Canyon River. It runs a-racin' an' teamin' through an awful gorge, an' any feller that gits swept in is a goner."
"Whew! No one ever go through in safety?"
"None that I ever hearn tell of. The sides of the gorge rise plumb out of the water, an' even if you kin swim like a fish it wouldn't do you no good."
"Well, I guess you won't catch me trying to swim through," laughed Bob.
"The end of the lake is all right for a feller that knows the currents," went on Dugan. "That's what I told Howard Fenton."
As if glad that their journey was about over, the horses broke into a brisk trot and the coach rattled noisily along, swerving from side to side, while Bill Dugan cracked his long whip at frequent intervals.
He was a skilful but reckless driver, and the last stretch was taken at a clip which made Bob Somers hold tightly to his seat.
As they approached the lake, Captain Bob became more and more pleased with its surroundings. The forms of the two islands began to stand out clearly, and he soon saw that the nearest was scarcely more than two hundred yards from the end of the picturesque sheet of water. The lake rounded sharply at this point, being shut in by granite cliffs. It was here, immediately opposite Promontory Island, that Canyon River had its source, the water flowing into a gorge whose towering walls rose in places from five hundred to a thousand feet.
"Do people climb the mountain?" asked Bob.