"This way—two weeks."
The other pointed down directly into the throat of the roaring gorge.
It read:
"This way—two minutes."
Pierce Phillips smiled as he perused these signs; then he turned up the trail, for in his soul was a consuming curiosity to see the place of which he had heard so much.
Near the top of the slope he met a familiar figure coming down—a tall, upstanding French-Canadian who gazed out at the world through friendly eyes.
'Poleon Doret recognized the new-comer and burst into a boisterous greeting.
"Wal, wal!" he cried. "You 'ain't live' to be hung yet, eh? Now you come lookin' for me, I bet."
"Yes. You're the very man I want to see."
"Good! I tak' you t'rough."
Phillips smiled frankly. "I'm not sure I want to go through. I'm in charge of a big outfit and I'm looking for a pilot and a professional crew. I'm a perfect dub at this sort of thing."