"I, or my paint?" asked the girl, coquettishly.
"The paint is well put on; but I think you prettiest just after a swim."
"Thank you, señor."
"May I use the balsa again, Indita?"
"Si, señor, and you may keep it, but return the paddle."
"Thank you. I will leave the paddle on the shore where you were sitting."
With this exchange of civilities Henry walked down to the pool. An idea had occurred to him. He wondered if he could not float down the river to the racing-ground and get a peep at Sancho and Chiquita, as they came in victors. He felt sure no ponies in Arizona could outrun them. But Mr. Duncan had told the escort not to go to the race. True; but what harm could there be if he kept out of sight?
Placing an empty box on the raft for a seat, he took Vic on board, and began paddling out of the lagoon. Speed could not be made with such a craft; it was simply a convenience for crossing or journeying down the river. The Mojaves, whose village was five miles above La Paz, came down on freshly made balsas every day, but walked home, carrying their paddles.
Once well out of the lagoon, and in the river-current, the boy and dog were swept along at a swift rate.
A mile down the shore he saw a crowd of men, mounted and on foot, intently watching something inland. He was approaching the race-course. He made a landing on a sand-spit that struck off from an outward curve of the bank, and dragged the balsa out of the water.