But Dan Appleton was not mistaken.  A two hours’ row across the mirror-like surface of Omar Lake brought the party out through a hidden gap in the mountains and afforded them a view across the level delta.  To their left the range they had just penetrated retreated toward the canon where the Salmon River burst its way out from the interior, and beyond that point it continued in a coastward swing to Kyak, their destination.  Between lay a flat, trackless tundra, cut by sloughs and glacial streams, with here and there long tongues of timber reaching down from the high ground and dwindling away toward the seaward marshes.  It was a desolate region, the breeding-place of sea fowl, the hunting-ground for the great brown bear.

O’Neil had never before been so near the canon as this, and the wild stories he had heard of it recurred to him with interest.  He surveyed the place curiously as the boats glided along, but could see nothing more than a jumble of small hills and buttes, and beyond them the dead-gray backs of the twin glaciers coming down from the slopes to east and west.  Beyond the foot-hills and the glaciers themselves the main range was gashed by a deep valley, through which he judged the river must come, and beyond that he knew was a country of agricultural promise, extending clear to the fabulous copper belt whither the railroads from Cortez were headed.  Still farther inland lay the Tanana, and then the Yukon, with their riches untouched.

What a pity, what a mockery, it was that this obvious entrance to the country had been blocked by nature!  Just at his back was Omar, with its deep and sheltered harbor; the lake he had crossed gave a passage through the guardian range, and this tundra—­ O’Neil estimated that he could lay a mile of track a day over it —­led right up to the glaciers.  Once through the Coast Range, building would be easy, for the upper Salmon was navigable, and its banks presented no difficulties to track-laying.

He turned abruptly to Appleton, who was pulling an oar.

“What do you know about that canyon?” he asked.

“Not much.  Nobody knows much, for those fellows who went through in the gold rush have all left the country.  Gordon’s right-of-way comes in above, and so does the Trust’s.  From there on I know every foot of the ground.”

“I suppose if either of them gets through to the Salmon the rest will be easy.”

“Dead easy!”

“It would be shorter and very much cheaper to build from Omar, through this way.”

“Of course, but neither outfit knew anything about the outlet to Omar Lake until I told them—­and they knew there was the canon to be reckoned with.”

“Well?”

Appleton shook his head.  “Look at it!  Does it look like a place to build a railroad?”

“I can’t tell anything about it, from here.”

“I suppose a road could be built if the glaciers were on the same side of the river, but—­they’re not.  They face each other, and they’re alive, too.  Listen!” The oarsmen ceased rowing at Dan’s signal, and out of the northward silence came a low rumble like the sound of distant cannonading.  “We must be at least twenty miles away, in an air line.  The ice stands up alongside the river, hundreds of feet high, and it breaks off in chunks as big as a New York office-building.”