They met groups of guachos and other inhabitants of the country on their way to Mendoza, everybody, without exception, being mounted on horse or mule, or riding in a cart. The carts were the same rude affairs with which Frank was already familiar; the wheels consisting of single trucks or sections cut from logs, four or five feet in diameter. A hole in the centre of the truck admits the axle; there is no tire on the truck, and when it is worn too small it is thrown aside and a new one takes its place. The axles are never greased, and when a dozen carts are in motion across the plain the creaking is fearful. It is said the Indians take advantage of this creaking to guide them to trains moving along the road in fog or darkness, and certainly it is as clearly audible as a fog-horn on the sea-coast. Whether the natives have ever circumvented the savages by the simple expedient of greasing the wheels is not recorded in the local chronicles. Long before Frank reached Mendoza, on his way from Buenos Ayres, he had seen the magnificent chain of the Andes filling the western horizon, and from the plaza of the city it seemed as though he could almost reach the summits of the nearest peaks with a bullet from a rifle. The air is wonderfully clear and pure at Mendoza, and the consequent deception regarding distances reminded our youthful traveller of his view of the Himalayas from Darjeeling, and of the Rocky Mountains from Denver. He was not the first to make the same mistake in the mountains near Mendoza. Read the following from Gerstaecker's narrative of a journey from Buenos Ayres to Valparaiso: "One day we saw a fox approaching, and I determined to have a shot at him. Master Reynard came up the slope as carelessly as though he were only out for a quiet walk; judging the distance at about a hundred yards, just as he got scent of us, but appeared uncertain of the danger, I took a good and sure aim and pulled the trigger. The gun went off, but to my utter astonishment the ball struck the snow, as I plainly saw, some paces short of the fox; and Reynard, discovering all was not right, scampered off, leaving me to fire with as little effect as before. "Having no idea what could be the matter with the gun, I went to the place where the fox had stood, and, counting the steps in going, was surprised to find that what I had thought about a hundred yards was really two hundred and sixty! So deceptive was the pure and transparent snow as to distance. "Indeed, on looking back, I saw that the spur of the mountain behind appeared not farther off than two or three miles, though I knew the distance to be much greater. Then I reflected that if the sight was misled in this way by the thin air in judging the distance of objects so close, what an enormous space must lie between the mountain-ridges, which really looked so far apart, and to what a height the mighty peaks must rise, when they were so gigantic even in appearance." [Illustration: COMING TO TOWN.]