They came to the rapids; first, the Box Canyon, and, several miles below, the White Horse. The Box Canyon was adequately named. It was a box, a trap. Once in it, the only way out was through. On either side arose perpendicular walls of rock. The river narrowed to a fraction of its width and roared through this gloomy passage in a madness of motion that heaped the water in the center into a ridge fully eight feet higher than at the rocky sides. This ridge, in turn, was crested with stiff, upstanding waves that curled over yet remained each in its unvarying place. The Canyon was well feared, for it had collected its toll of dead from the passing goldrushers. Tying to the bank above, where lay a score of other anxious boats, Kit and his companions went ahead on foot to investigate. They crept to the brink and gazed down at the swirl of water. Sprague drew back, shuddering. “My God!” he exclaimed. “A swimmer hasn't a chance in that.” Shorty touched Kit significantly with his elbow and said in an undertone: “Cold feet. Dollars to doughnuts they don't go through.” Kit scarcely heard. From the beginning of the boat trip he had been learning the stubbornness and inconceivable viciousness of the elements, and this glimpse of what was below him acted as a challenge. “We've got to ride that ridge,” he said. “If we get off it we'll hit the walls.” “And never know what hit us,” was Shorty's verdict. “Can you swim, Smoke?” “I'd wish I couldn't if anything went wrong in there.” “That's what I say,” a stranger, standing alongside and peering down into the Canyon, said mournfully. “And I wish I were through it.” “I wouldn't sell my chance to go through,” Kit answered. He spoke honestly, but it was with the idea of heartening the man. He turned to go back to the boat. “Are you going to tackle it?” the man asked. Kit nodded. “I wish I could get the courage to,” the other confessed. “I've been here for hours. The longer I look, the more afraid I am. I am not a boatman, and I have with me only my nephew, who is a young boy, and my wife. If you get through safely, will you run my boat through?” Kit looked at Shorty, who delayed to answer. “He's got his wife with him,” Kit suggested. Nor had he mistaken his man. “Sure,” Shorty affirmed. “It was just what I was stopping to think about. I knew there was some reason I ought to do it.” Again they turned to go, but Sprague and Stine made no movement. “Good luck, Smoke,” Sprague called to him. “I'll--er--” He hesitated. “I'll just stay here and watch you.” “We need three men in the boat, two at the oars and one at the steering-sweep,” Kit said quietly. Sprague looked at Stine. “I'm damned if I do,” said that gentleman. “If you're not afraid to stand here and look on, I'm not.” “Who's afraid?” Sprague demanded hotly. Stine retorted in kind, and their two men left them in the thick of a squabble.