There was a wide trail that led eastward from Cuzco. Over this the pack train went at a slow but steady gait that promised to eat up the miles sooner than it might be thought possible.
“Wonder if we’ll see any big game?” remarked Bob, as he and Joe walked near the rear of the pack train. “I’d like especially to bag one of those white condors Dad was talking about. You think there are any?”
“Possibly,” replied Joe. “But if there are, it isn’t likely that we’ll see one.”
The three adventurers followed a well-beaten path to the town of Puquiura, which they found nothing more than a group of native mud huts.
“Not much life here,” observed Joe, as the caravan of pack animals passed on through the village.
“I suppose this is typical of all the towns in these mountains,” came from Bob. “Just a bunch of dirty mud dwellings.”
Led by Dr. Rander, the Americans wound around a narrow trail that reached steadily upward. They were making fairly good time, and if nothing prevented, they expected to arrive at a much larger town before noon.
“I think I’ll try riding my mule,” announced Bob, who, along with his friends, had been walking beside the mounts.
“Better watch out,” cautioned Joe. “Those little animals are treacherous sometimes.”