#elsa dutton

The sun bled into the horizon, sinking behind the distant ridgelines like a glowing ember being swallowed by ash. Sky colors bruised into deep purples and fiery golds, painting the world in stark silhouettes.

Your group had made camp at a river’s bend a slow, winding artery cutting through the heart of unfamiliar land. It was quiet here, apart from the nervous shifting of hooves and the low murmur of tired men.

There were six of you, vaqueros born and raised under the hot skies of Mexico, each with the sun in their bones and dust in their blood. And then there was you, the only woman, but no stranger among them.

You grew up riding beside them, learning to rope cattle, mend fences, read the wind. Sons of cattle hands and rough riders, they had been your brothers long before blood or borders mattered. When the prospect of traveling north came up the seven of you gravitated towards each other and began the journey to a new life. You left everything behind except each other.

They treated you like one of their own. Mateo, the oldest, who always rode first and ate last. Luis, quiet and sharp-eyed, never without his rosary. Ramiro and Santos, cousins always bickering, always loyal. And Benito, the youngest, barely sixteen but already stronger than most men. Yes you were the only woman but they treated you like a sister, with respect and dignity.

The horses snorted nervously, and the low murmur of whispered conversations halted .

A cluster of riders had appeared without sound, as if they’d been born from the trees themselves. Their silhouettes were steady, proud. Their horses stood still as shadows, barely rustling.

Comanche.

A war party by the look of them. Not riders merely passing through, but men entrusted with guarding their land. Protectors. Sentinels of the old ways.

Their figures were silent in the brush, but you could sense them. Still as stone, but unmistakably present. Warriors, both young and old, cloaked in the copper and dusk of the fading sun. Their horses stood steady beneath them, muscled and alert.

They were dressed in a harmony of hide and sinew, each piece of clothing worn like armor and memory combined. Buffalo-hide hugged their legs, dyed with natural ochres and reds. Adorned with symbols you didn’t know the meaning of.

Some had feathers tied in their hair, others wore their braids wrapped in strips of fur and dyed quills. Their horses were lean and quiet. Each carried a weapon — bows, lances, clubs, though none raised them. Their alert posture spoke volumes. Not afraid, not angry, just ready.

Mateo’s voice rumbled low, like distant thunder.

“Nos miran como si ya hubiéramos hecho algo mal.” (they watch us like we already did something wrong)

You didn’t turn your head, but you heard Luis mutter behind him, “Tal vez, esta no es nuestra tierra.” (Maybe we did. This ain’t our land)

You took a slow breath, fingers tightening on your holster .

“Están alertos,” (They’re alert) you said, your voice calm. “Pero no hostiles. Si quisieran hacernos daño no estarían allí parados”. (But not hostile. If they meant us harm, they wouldn't be standing there)

At the center of them sat one man taller than the rest. Bronze-skinned, long-limbed, and cut from the same earth-colored stone as the land behind him. His face was calm, unreadable, but his presence was magnetic. Eyes black as obsidian, scanning the river, the camp, the horses, the fire… then each of you.

Santos scoffed behind you. “ O tal vez sólo son pacientes” (Or maybe they’re just patient)

You didn’t answer. You were watching the man across the river.

Mateo exhaled sharply behind you, like air escaping a punctured flask.

The river murmured, the only sound for long minutes. Wind in the grass. A horse's low whicker.

Mateo cleared his throat beside you. His voice was careful.

"Buenas tardes," (good afternoon) he called across the water.

No answer. The Comanche eyes tracked Mateo’s every word, unmoving. For a moment, you felt tension flicker through the group like a spark waiting for dry tinder.

Mateo tried again, switching to English, broken but bold.

“We pass through. Looking only for water, rest. We don’t claim the land. We mean no disrespect.”

A long pause.

Then, the leader guided his horse a few paces forward, until he stood directly across Mateo.

He spoke first in Comanche. The rhythm low and musical, like the sound of leaves moving in wind. Then he switched to English, his accent carved with purpose.

“You travel heavy. Too many for hunting. Not enough for war. You are not from here.”

Mateo dipped his head respectfully.

“From the south.” He gestured to the others. “Vaqueros. We work with cattle. The land behind us is empty now.”

The man glanced at each rider in turn. His gaze paused on Luis’s rosary, on Ramiros saddle-worn hands, on Benito’s youth, and lastly on you, the only woman among them.

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in judgment, but in calculated interest. He said nothing at first. Just watched you.

A woman, not cloaked or silent in the shadows, but riding with the men. Not just tolerated, but respected. Your position in the group raised questions, perhaps admiration.

He spoke again, this time slower.

“You are far from your own fire. This is our land. But tonight, we will not draw lines.”

Mateo glanced at the man, then nodded toward the river.

“We’ll not cross, unless invited.”

The man held his gaze on you for a heartbeat longer before finally speaking.

“You are welcome to share our fire, but know this… trust is earned.”

Mateo nodded solemnly.

“Trust is hard to come by these days.”

The man gave a single, sharp whistle. The warriors relaxed slightly, but not fully. The leader turned his horse and began to lead them along the riverbank, toward a clearing.

-

The fire crackled, its soft golden light licking up toward the indigo sky. Flames reflected off bronze faces, worn leather, and dark eyes that had seen more than their years should’ve allowed. The air was heavy with pine smoke, and the scent of horse sweat. The evening had wrapped the camp in quiet, broken only by the occasional murmur of horses and the soft shuffle of feet on the earth.

The six of you sat in a tight half-circle just beyond the fire. You ate what had been offered with quiet gratitude: a simple soup, dense cornbread with bits of root and seed, and a handful of tart wild berries. The flavors were foreign, but comforting.

Spanish flowed softly among your group, a warm undercurrent of home in a strange land. Words passed between bites, familiar and low, a rhythm you all knew by heart.

Ramiro leaned toward you, his voice laced with uncertainty.

“¿Crees que confiarán en nosotros?” Ramiro asked quietly. (do you think they’ll trust us?)

You dipped a hunk of bread into the stew, eyes flicking toward the Comanche group seated just a short distance away. Warriors still alert, still watching, but not unkind.

You shrugged, placing the piece of bread in your mouth. “No lo sé. Pero debemos intentarlo.” ( I don’t know, but we should try)

From the shadows just beyond the fire, the “leader” shifted. He had been listening, though his eyes seemed fixed on the flames. Now he turned toward you — toward the voice, the accent, the unfamiliar words. His posture remained relaxed, but his presence was unmistakable.

“What language do you speak?” he asked gently.

Your gaze met his. His eyes, caught the firelight and reflected it like polished stone.

"Spanish," you replied with a small nod. "We come from Mexico. We are wranglers , cattle riders. Vaqueros. Like you, in some ways."

You paused, the word hanging there between you, dusted with pride.

A flicker of recognition passed through his eyes. He tilted his head, considering.

“Vaqueros,” he repeated, shaping the word like it was half-memory, half-myth. “My grandfather spoke of riders like that. Said they dressed like warriors and rode like the wind. South, near the old Spanish roads.”

A faint smile ghosted his mouth. Not amusement, but something closer to reverence.

“I always thought maybe those stories were just to make boys dream of horses and glory,” he added. “Didn’t know they were real.”

“They’re real,” you said, the corners of your mouth lifting. “We don’t dream. We ride. We rope, brand, chase across country no sane man would want. Not so different from you, I think.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Not so different,” he echoed. “Maybe that’s why you don’t scare easy.”

The vaqueros understood English but they could never quite group the words together correctly. Nonetheless they listened and learned the best they could.

Luis, one of the better at understanding English, leaned in.

“And how do you speak English so well?” he asked.

"Traders," he answered. "And missionaries. Soldiers, too. I listen more than I speak. It helps to understand the world when it wants to understand you less."

Airy laughter murmured from your group. Born of truth rather than humor. Sam looked back to you.

"And you?" he asked directing the conversation back to you. "You speak it well."

"My father worked the border trails. He said, ‘If you want to keep cattle and keep peace, you better learn the white man’s tongue.’ So I did."

Sam studied you more closely now. Not just listening — watching. Something about you stood apart. A woman among men. Not hidden. Not silent. Their equal.

“I’m Sam,” he replied simply.

Introductions passed between your group and his, easy now, like the start of something that didn’t have to be earned with blood. The barrier between stranger and friend growing thinner.

All of the men were eating, their voices low in their own language, melodic and heavy with meaning. A sense of shared space wrapped around the camp like the smoke from the fire.

-

The moon had crested over the treetops now, casting a soft silver light across the clearing. The fire had quieted down into a steady bed of coals, glowing orange like embers a slight flickering of flames reigniting.

The others were still gathered near, some seated on logs or hides, still talking in quiet tones. Mateo and two of the Comanche were trading old stories, bits of Spanish and Comanche dancing awkwardly between them, bridged by gestures, shared smiles, and an occasional nudge from Luis translating as needed.

Sam sat beside you, just far enough to keep the space respectful, but near enough that his voice didn’t have to rise above the night.

For a long moment, you both just listened to the sounds of the camp. The quiet hum of fire, soft laughter, the distant rustling of horses near the tree line.

Then Sam spoke, tone light but thoughtful.

"The youngest one... Benito? He carries a knife nearly as tall as his leg."

You chuckled, nodding.

"It’s a machete, He sharpened it for an hour this morning. Swears he’ll skin a bear with it one day."

Sam grinned, teeth white in the shadows.

"Brave boy."

"He’s sixteen. They all think they're immortal at that age," you said. Then, with a small smile, you added:

"I remember thinking the same. Until a bull nearly threw me into the next village."

That got a laugh out of him a real one. Deep and unexpected.

You laughed too, leaning back slightly, your eyes catching the stars through the treetops.

Sam picked up a twig and began drawing in the dirt between you. Slow, looping shapes. The fire cracked, shadows dancing across the lines he carved. At first, you didn’t realize what it was. Just curves, a swirl, a petal-like shape. Then it clicked.

You tilted your head, watching. “Hmm... Flor,” you said, the word soft on your tongue. “A flower.”

He looked up, eyes catching yours, and nodded once. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Totsiyaa.” His voice was low, warm. “My mother used to wear them in her braid. Wild ones.”

You looked down at the dirt again. Such a simple thing. And yet it said so much.

You reached for your own twig, the bark rough under your fingers.

With a sweep of your hand, you smoothed out a patch of dry earth and began to draw. It wasn’t perfect. The legs too long, the head shaped more like a dog than anything else, but the spirit was there. Strong. Steady.

“Caballo,” you said with a grin, glancing up at him. “A horse.”

He leaned in a little, studying your attempt, then chuckled under his breath. “Looks like he runs fast,” he teased. Then added, more gently, “tʉhʉya. Horse.”

“tʉhʉya,” you repeated, testing the sound, watching his lips as he said it again.

You stared at the dirt-drawn horse. “My father raised them,” you murmured. “Said you could read a man by how he treated a horse.”

Sam nodded again, eyes flickering with something unspoken. “The horse is part of your spirit. If you’re good to them, they carry you further than you think possible.”

You looked at him then. The firelight caught the strong line of his jaw, the small smile at the edge of his mouth, and the way his eyes softened when they met yours.

Then you drew again. This one you took more care with rounded wings, a beak, little claws.

“Águila,” you said. “Eagle.”

He studied it for a moment, then looked at you. “Kwihnai,” he said. “Sacred.”

You nodded. “Same for us.”

You both sat there in silence, the dirt between you filled with crude drawings and crooked lines

“Teach me more,” you said.

He chuckled, looking down almost shyly, then began writing in the dirt again. A line, then another. Letters this time. Slowly.

“haitsi,” he said. “Friend.”

You stared at the word, then at him.

“Is that what I am?” you asked, playful but quiet.

He looked back at you, eyes steady. Letting out a low hum.

Then, after a moment, he answered, “friend… is a good place to start.”

A smile tugged at your mouth half gratitude, half mischief.

“Well then,” you said, leaning just a little closer, voice low and warm, “since we’re friends now… you should know that we vaqueros ride better than Comanche.”

He scoffed, sharp and immediate, like you'd struck a nerve. One he enjoyed having struck.

“You think so?” he said, squinting slightly, clearly amused.

“I know so,” you shot back.

He gave you a long look, deliberate, amused but unshaken.

“…We’ll see.”

As the night carried on and the ember of the fire began to die down, you heard someone laughing — probably Luis again, stirring beans with a stick and talking nonsense. You heard Ramiro say something about ghosts. The Comanche men answered in their own language, the rhythm light, playful.

-

The morning came fast, slipping through the trees in long gold beams that touched the earth like a blessing.

Quiet voices spoke in sleepy tongues — Comanche on one side of the clearing, Spanish on the other, both wrapped in that early-morning peace only shared trails could bring.

You were checking your saddle when you heard Ramiro’s voice behind you, already too loud for how early it was.

"Mírala, ya se cree vaquera y Comanche." (look at her, she thinks she’s a vaquera AND a Comanche now)

You turned with a smirk as he elbowed Santos, who just snorted into his tin cup.

"Cállate," (shut up) you said, grinning as you tossed a small rock at his boot.

The group erupted in laughter, even Mateo, who was usually harder to crack in the mornings.

Le ofrecieron conversación privada," ( offered her a private conversation) Luis added with a wink.

"Y dibujitos en la tierra," ( and little drawings in the dirt) Benito piled on, sketching an exaggerated horse in the air.

They had not been blind to your conversation with Sam last night.

But before they could add more fuel to the fire, Sam appeared, already on his horse, calm as ever.

"You always fight this early in the day?" he asked with a dry smile.

"Only when we like each other," you said.

He gave a knowing nod.

He looked down at your horse, then back at you, eyes glittering.

You stared at him with a daring gaze

“Let’s pick up where we left off?”

Sam looked at you with amusement, the topic of last night still present .

You quickly got up and nudged your mare forward, your smile growing.

Behind you, your group howled like coyotes.

"¡Dale, pues!" (* exclaims in Spanish lol)

"¡Enséñale!" )

Even the Comanche chuckled from their side, already catching on to the mood. A few stood, curious. One made a small gesture, pointing toward the tree line.

Sam followed the motion, then nodded toward a natural stretch of open land a perfect race path, clear and firm.

"To that fallen log," he said.

"Fastest wins. Simple."

You nodded your head in agreement. Both riding forward, to the starting point, hooves crunching on dry grass. The others gathered along the path, already hooting and taking sides.

"¡México contra Comanche!" (México vs Comanche) Benito yelled, hands cupped around his mouth.

Sam gave you a sidelong glance as you settled in beside him.

"Don’t hold back."

You rolled your shoulders, feeling the mare beneath you shift, ready.

"Oh, I wasn’t planning to."

A moment of silence.

Then—

Mateo raised his arm. “¡YA!”

And the world disappeared in thunder.

Hooves tore into the earth. The wind screamed in your ears. Trees blurred past in streaks of green and gold. You leaned low over the saddle, your mare eating up the ground like she’d been waiting her whole life to run like this.

Sam was fast, you could see him out of the corner of your eye, but he was holding something back. Testing you.

Bad choice.

You dug in, whispered to your horse in Spanish, and surged forward. The wind whipped your hair, your heart beat in rhythm with each stride,

You flew across the finish, hooves kicking up a cloud of dust that rolled over the cheering voices of the camp.

You pulled up with a tug, heart pounding, breath wild.

You’d won.

Sam reined in next to you, his chest rising and falling fast. He looked at you for a moment stunned and then laughed. Genuine. Warm. A little impressed. A little humbled.

You smirked.

Told ya’ "

Sams laugh quietly died down settling into a toothy grin. He reached into the leather pouch at his side, and pulled out a carved bone pendant. It dangled from a loop of worn leather, swaying gently in the space between you.

A smooth bone shaped into a horse. Its legs were caught in motion, head turned slightly to the side, tail flowing like it had just begun to run. Its shape was simple.

He held it out to you.

"My father carved this the night before my first hunt." he said quietly.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was low, steady. “He nodded. “You ride like you belong to no one.You earned it."

Your throat tightened. You took the pendant gently and slipped it over your head. It rested against your collarbone, light and heavy at once.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Sam gave a small nod, his gaze lingering. You could see something flicker in his eyes—something unspoken. You felt it too.

You reached to your saddlebag, fingers working slowly, and pulled out a small bundle of cloth, carefully folded and wrapped in leather cord. You had carried it all this way, through dust and danger.

“This is yours,” you said, stepping forward.

Sam tilted his head, accepting the bundle in his hands. He untied the cord, unfolding the linen with slow fingers.

The cloth was deep, earthy red, dyed by hand. Embroidered flowers bloomed across the fabric stretching outward like a sunburst. Sharp green leaves curled in between them, stitched with patience and precision. And beneath it all, in delicate, looping script, one word:

Libertad.

He stared at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the stitching.

“You made this?”

You nodded. “Before we left.”

Sam looked up.

“I made it when I knew we’d be heading north. Before I knew anything for certain, except that I couldn’t stay. Not in that life.”

He didn’t speak, just listened, his fingers holding the cloth like it was something fragile.

“My mother taught me how to embroider,” you went on, your voice steady but soft. “She said that every stitch could carry a thought. A prayer. Even a memory.”

You smiled faintly, eyes on the flowers.

“I stitched libertad—freedom—because that’s what I wanted. Not just to run. But to live. Without fear. Without being told what I’m worth.”

You paused. Then glanced up at him.

“And when you told me about your mother and her flowers… I knew it was meant for you.“

His brow furrowed, a quiet intensity in his gaze. “No one’s ever given me something like this.”

“Then it’s about time.”

He slipped the cloth into the inside of his coat , pressed close to his chest. Then looked back at you.

“You carry freedom with you,” he said. “It’s in how you ride. How you speak. How you fight.”

A long, quiet moment passed between you. The others still laughing in the distance, their noise now softened like wind behind a closed door.

You looked up at him, your voice just a breath:

Then you tilted your head."Can I ask something?"

He glanced at you, expectant.

"Your name. Why Sam?”

His eyes dropped to the ground for a second, then back to yours. No anger, no shame. Just a sigh like he’d carried that question a long time

“That was the name of the man who killed my wife” he said, his voice like stone.

You stayed quiet

I know because I made him tell me," he continued, voice low. "Then I killed him... and took it."

His stare bore into you. Not in a cruel way, but with the kind of pain that made your throat tighten. You felt the echo of it in your chest, and before you could stop it, something inside you cracked wide open.

“I’ve kill—I’ve killed many.”you admitted, the words falling out before you could collect them. "This trail... it's not kind to people. Least of all to women."

You laughed softly, bitterly, not at him but at yourself, trying to push down what was clawing its way up.

"I never thought of taking their names."

He cut you off fast, but not unkind.

“You don’t want to know their names, with their names you mourn forever.”

That last part stung more than you expected. You turned your face, as if that would hide the sudden tremble in your jaw, the welling in your eyes. A chuckle broke through

And then, he reached for you.

"Don't do that," he said gently, his thumb brushing under your eye before the tear could fall. His hand lingered, warm and calloused as it cupped your face like something sacred.

You were quiet for a beat, watching the way the his hair caught the wind, the shape of his jaw, the steadiness in his eyes.

He stepped just a bit closer , the air between you growing still.

He reached out, just briefly, to adjust the pendant around your neck. Fingertips brushing your collarbone.

You looked down at the pendant, then up at him.

"Let it sit close to your heart," he murmured. "It’s meant to protect what matters."

"Then it’s in the right place."

After a moment, you spoke again.

"You think this makes us even?"

He smiled.

"Not even."

He paused.

"Connected."

A unspoken understanding flows between you two

You grinned, before a loud voice interrupted the silence

Behind you, someone from your group shouted out — "¡Ahí están! Ya están haciendo promesas de amor." t(they’re right there! theyre already making love promises)

You rolled your eyes, laughing under your breath.

He didn’t understand the words, not exactly, but he understood tone. He’d read it in your voice, in the laughter behind it, in the way you stood your ground and didn’t move an inch away from him.