We had little need of guides, for the _camino real_ had few branches between towns; but soon after leaving Santa Cruz we found a branch on our left which puzzled us a little, as our map gave no indication of its existence. But we kept on almost a league, riding through a pine-forest on a nearly level road,—which proved to be the right one, although the choice was guess-work. Grass grew beneath these noble trees, and herds pastured in this park-like region. It was most interesting to see the acorns inserted by the birds in the pine-bark, precisely as I had often seen them in the forests of Nevada and California; but with all my watching I could not catch the birds at work. The acorns that I dug out, although frequently dry and apparently abandoned, were free from worms. The common species of pine (_Pinus macrophylla_) had “needles” fifteen and a half inches long; and the Indios were gathering them to strew the floors of the churches,—a more fragrant carpet than the rushes of our ancestors. We frequently came across artificial mounds, which, according to Santiago, “were where houses had been.” At ten o’clock we halted at a little village which we were told was Uspantán (our wretched mozo Santiago, who pretended to be guide, but knew no more than we about the road, led us into this mistake); so we unsaddled and waited for almuerzo, with little to amuse us except two turkey-cocks, one white, the other dark, inseparable companions, who followed us wherever we went, and at last were driven nearly wild by their attempts to converse with us. Not until two o’clock did we arrive at the true Uspantán, and then very unexpectedly; for seeing some women at a spring washing, in a wild place where no houses were visible, we turned a low ridge, and found ourselves in the midst of a considerable Indian town. The church, which we did not enter, had huge buttresses at the apse,—doubtless a precaution against earthquakes. We saw a great deal of pottery, and anona-trees were on all sides; but the full-grown fruit was not ripe. We felt so provoked at our waste of time at the first village (whose true name we never learned) that we did not care to stop here, but rode out of the town through a deep artificial ravine. San Miguel Uspantán has some nine hundred inhabitants, who weave cotton from the lowlands and wool from their numerous flocks; and it is from the mines near by that all the silver was obtained for the vessels of the church,—so says tradition. Ruined walls and broken aqueducts attest the former importance of the place under the Quiché rule.