“Catch it,” Lang shouted.
“Get a hold,” Mills added. But the man was too terrified to understand. With a wild lunge he threw himself on the weakest part of the log, clawed with both hands, sending a shower of chips into the abyss and at the same time, the awful unearthly cry came again. Another panic-stricken lunge, the log creaked dismally, parted in the middle, and dropped its burden to the depths. The fellow who was astride the end was nearly taken with it, but Mills caught and hauled him to safety.
“If he’d waited for the rope he could have been saved,” Bob said softly, and there was genuine regret in his tone. It was a tragic situation, standing tied helplessly while a fellow human fell to his death.
“Something’s back there—”
“I believe that is only wind,” Jim declared.
“Wind, how do you make that out?”
“Since the air purified, either there is a high wind outside or something happened to let in a good breeze. It played on those tight streamers and vines like a harp—”
“Queer harp,” Mills muttered with a shiver.
“Just the same, that’s all it is, I’m sure. If you have been around the Andes much, you’ve heard something like it before—”
“Well, I haven’t been, and I’m getting out now fast as I can, see?”