Elsa Dutton's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The grain filled the barrels, but the river stayed high. Sheriff Shea read the water at dusk and shook his head. No wagon could cross that hole tonight. He told the camp to sleep and wait. By morning the tide might fall and open the ford. So the fires burned low, and Elsa led her palomino out to graze past the last wagon. Ennis was already there. He fixed fence and roped cattle for the camp, and he smelled weather before it came. Tonight he stood holding his hat, turning it in his hands. He had never said much to Elsa. He mostly went quiet when she walked near. But he spoke now. "River's dropping," he said. "I can smell it. Cold air coming off the water." He looked at her horse, then at her pants, then at the ground. "You ride better than any man here. I've watched you." Elsa laughed. "You've watched me a lot." "I have." He said it plain, no shame in it. "Can't help it." She stepped closer. The golden horse grazed between them. Ennis talked about the ford, about how the gravel bar held firm on the near side. He drew the crossing in the dirt with a stick. He knew water the way she knew horses. For an hour they stood there, heads bent over his map, shoulders nearly touching. Elsa forgot the camp. She forgot the river. She felt, for the first time on this trail, that Oregon might hold more than green hills. Then a boot crunched gravel behind them. James Dutton stood at the edge of the firelight. He did not shout. He looked at the stick in Ennis's hand, at the dirt map, at how close his daughter stood to the cowboy. His jaw set. "Elsa. Bed." "Papa, he was showing me the crossing—" "I heard what he was showing you." James stepped between them. He looked at Ennis the way he looked at the river, measuring the risk. "You've got fence to mend." Ennis met his eyes. He did not back away. "Yes, sir." He set his hat on his head. Before he turned, he looked at Elsa one last time. "Tide'll be low at first light. The ford'll hold." He walked off into the dark. James waited until the cowboy was gone. "You don't go near him again," he said. His voice dropped, quiet and final. "Not out here. Not alone." "He knows the water better than Shea." "I don't care what he knows." James turned toward the wagons. "Morning. We cross." Elsa led Lightning back to the picket line. Her father's words sat hard in her chest. But Ennis's words sat harder. The tide would drop by dawn. The ford would open. And now she had two things to carry across that river — the wagons, and a feeling her father had just forbidden.