We crossed the river on a freestone bridge. There was no toll to pay. The road keeps the east bank of the river. The clouds stand still over head, while we have a draft of wind through the valley, and every few moments a wind comes in at right angles through the deep cuts in the ridges. The mountains on both sides of the river are as regular in shape and size as though they had been planted by hand. The small, coarse grass parches yellowish.
Leaving the small Indian town of Checcacappa, the river runs from the east through the mountains. At the turn there is a brushwood suspension bridge in such a ruinous condition that we waded the stream above, and continued our course south, through the valley, by a branch of the Urubamba, called by the arrieros Sicuani. Beans and jackasses seem to be the principal productions. After travelling some time between high ridges of mountains, to come suddenly out upon level land and small hills, reminds one of the break of day. Changed baggage-mules at Cacha, a small town, where at midday the thermometer stood at 71°.
October 31.—Found boiled eggs plenty, and a pleasant postwoman.
The town of Sicuani is larger than any passed through this side of Cuzco, and built differently. On the long main street, which is crossed by small, narrow lanes, we saw many pretty faces. The women are in the majority in the market, buying and selling marketing—potatoes, peppers, &c. For a country town, some of the houses are very respectable-looking. The creoles regard us with an air of surprise. As we walk along, they look very grave, touch their hats, and bow politely; but suddenly turning, one catches them laughing and making remarks. At first they called us Frenchmen. We tell them their mistake. They inquire, "Englishmen?" Upon being told North Americans, they exclaim, with a wondering expression, "Oh! California!" A party of Indian boys were playing with tops—one of the very few things reminding us of home.
A printed notice, pasted at the corner of the plaza, forbids the trapping or shooting vicuña, by order of the supreme government. When the people gather the wool of the vicuña, they kill the animal, instead of shearing it and setting it at liberty again. We were told it was easier to take the fleece off when the animal was dead. As their numbers are decreasing, the government protects them.
November 1.—At 8 o'clock a. m., thermometer, 54°. It rained during the night. The hills are now covered with snow. After leaving the town and wading the river, we followed up the western bank of the stream. On arriving at a small town, our baggage-mules passed ahead. Proceeding some distance, we met a man, who told me the baggage was not on that road, and we turned. After travelling for some time, I suddenly missed Paititi. We had turned back without calling him. Paititi had become a pet, and was now considered as one of the party. José went back in search of him; but we never saw our brave little animal again. He had guarded our tent by night, and fought our battles on the road. He made friends for us, too; for whenever the people heard his name, they wanted to know his history. The mountain people take great interest in such matters; and when they learned where Paititi came from, they became interested in the party, and were the more polite upon introduction through the dog. We have lost a friend.
By Lieut. L. Gibbon U. S. N.
Lith. of P.S. Duval & Co. Phil.