But Mr. Colbrith was not to be balked or turned aside.

“Mr. Ford, I wish to be fair and impartial.  I desired to satisfy myself, personally, that this route we have driven over is practicable, and it was also my desire that the investigation should be conducted in your presence.  You will admit now that you made a mistake—­a very costly mistake for the company—­in abandoning this short cut.”

“I admit nothing of the kind.  The difficulties remain as they were, quite unchanged by our pleasure trip from the end-of-track, Mr. Colbrith.  Assuming that the re-survey will report that the north bank of the river is practicable, while the south bank is not, I have only to say that the cost of the two bridges would offset the easier grading conditions, while the danger to future traffic would remain the same.  But that is neither here nor there.  You must either give us credit for knowing our business, or you must discredit us entirely.”

Frisbie was grinding his heel into the hard soil of the mesa.  The argument was growing rather acrid; and Penfield and the two drivers were interested listeners.  It was high time for a diversion to be made, and the assistant made it.

“We have used five hours getting down here, and we’ll need as many going back,” he put in.  “Unless there is something more to be done on the spot, I think we’d better take the road over the hills.  It’s with you, Mr. Colbrith.”

The president signified his assent by climbing into his buckboard, and the return journey was begun with the two engineers in the lead for pathfinding purposes.  Once safely out of earshot, Frisbie voiced his disgust.

“A wild goose-chase, pure and simple!  Stuart, that old man is in his second childhood.”

“Not at all,” said Ford.  “He is merely following out North’s suggestions.  Dick, my name is Dennis.”

“Nonsense!  Things are no worse than they have been all along.”

“My time with the Pacific Southwestern is shorter by just the number of hours it has taken us to drive down here.  Mr. Colbrith has convinced himself that I was wrong in abandoning the canyon.  To-morrow he will convince himself that I was doubly wrong in approving the detour.  I shall hand in my resignation to-night.”

“So be it,” said Frisbie shortly.  “That means good-by to the extension.  I’m predicting that it will never get to Green Butte—­never get beyond Copah.  And your name will go out to the railroad world as that of a man who bit off a number of large things that he couldn’t chew.”

“Confound you!” said Ford; and after that, Frisbie could get no more than single-syllabled replies to his monologue of Job’s comfortings.

The returning route was a detour, winding, through the greater part of it, among and over the swelling heights north of the Pannikin.  On each hilltop the vast sweep of the inter-mountain wilderness came into view, and from the highest point in the trail, reached when the sun was dipping toward the western horizon, the eye-sweep took in the broken country lying between the Pannikin and the path of the Transcontinental narrow gauge forty miles away.