As the sun rose higher in the sky and beat down on the bare rock ridges over which the adventurers were making their way, it became as uncomfortable as any expedition on which the boys had ever beer engaged.
"Talk about New Mexico or Death Valley," exclaimed Harry, "I feel like a piece of butter rolled up in a paper and I've melted."
"I feel like a Welsh rarebit myself," laughed Frank, "how about you, Ben?"
"I feel like a pot of boiling tar with a fire lighted under me," growled the veteran angrily; "consarn these rocks, I'd give a whole lot for a bit of that shade we left behind us."
Despite the discomfort and the heat, however, they struggled on up the mountain-side, frequently using the rope-ladder to get over rough places, and at about noon they stood beneath the steep rock cliff that formed the nose of the upturned face.
It was easy enough then to reach a spot below the tip and Frank, with a long cord he had brought for the purpose, laid out a straight line from the point down the southern slope of the mountain-side. While they were busy about this they were startled by a repetition of the same strange cry, half-warning, half-savage, that they had been so alarmed by the night before.
"A-ho-o-o-o-AH-H-O-O-O-a-h-o-o-hoo-o-o-o-o!"
"Great Scott," yelled Harry, "what on earth do you think of that?"
Frank—considerably startled himself—had, however, made a determined effort to ascertain the source of the sound as it rose and fell in its strange cadence.
"I've got it!" he shouted; now with a cry of triumph.