They all listened
intently.
Sure enough it seemed to proceed from the sinister countenance
carved in the living rock above them.
"Well, here's where we end this mystery for all time," shouted
Frank, drawing his revolver, "who is game to follow me?"
Of course Harry and Ben rushed to his side, and while the echo of
the mysterious cry was still sobbing and sighing among the crags
they dashed back up the mountain-side utterly oblivious now to the
heat or anything but their determination to discover who or what had
uttered the extraordinary cry. The side of the nose--or the nostril
so to speak--was formed of a wall of rock fully twelve feet in
height.
"You fellows give me a boost up there and I'll travel right along
the face till I find out where the racket comes from."
On Ben's strong shoulders Frank was soon hoisted up to a height
where he could lay hold of a projecting bit of rock and shin himself
up on to the top of the nose.
"Look out he doesn't think you are a fly and try to brush you off,"
laughed Harry from below.
"No danger of that," shouted back Frank, "unless I lit on him in the
Golden Eagle."
The surface of the face was as remarkable as its profile.
Apparently some forgotten tribe had at some time or other been
struck by the facial outline of the rocks and had cut into the flat
surface, which was upturned to the sky, eyes and a mouth, the latter
well provided with teeth, in each of which was drilled a tiny
triangular hole.
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