"The boat?" said the Mexican slowly, going on with his milking. "No, friend. The river only came down like this yesterday. It was high the day before, but we could still ford it up above. It was yesterday it came down big."
The leisurely manner of the man, and the indefiniteness of his reply, were maddening to the excited Indian.
"Yes, but the boat," he almost shouted, "the boat, where is it?"
The Mexican had finished milking his cow, and putting down the milk jar he began to unfasten the rawhide strap with which her hind legs were tied.
"The boat, friend?" said he; "there is no boat here now. Last year Don Leandro had the boat, but she is hauled up, and they say there is a hole in her. Perhaps he will talk of getting it mended after a while. I suppose the Americano at the mail station in Ensenada will be wanting to send the mail across next week."
"Valgame Dios!" cried the boy. "And will there be no way of getting over the river till next week?"
"The water will have run by in a month, or perhaps in three weeks, if God wills it," remarked the Mexican piously; "and then, friend, you can cross without a boat."
"And is there no boat anywhere up or down the river on this side?" exclaimed Felipe. "Is there no way over?"
"There are the Indians at San Miguel, eight leagues below," said the man, proceeding to take down the bars of the corral for the purpose of turning out the cow to pasture. "They have a bridge of single logs to cross on foot by. I do not know if the river will have carried it down. Probably not. They have land on both sides, and are always crossing."
"Eight leagues below!" cried the young Indian in a despairing voice. "And a sandy road from here they say—deep sand, is it not?" He followed the man and the cow outside the corral.