I looked up to see the rodeo man from Revais Creek and began to put the pieces together. A coil of rope was slung over his arm, another on his shoulder, on the curve of his hip hung a thick cable rope black-green with oil and heavy-looking. And it struck me, he was going to try to lasso Florence out of the water. I saw the long throw of his lean arm, heard the rope pelt water, sinking fast. I admired him. At least he was doing something and didn’t seem caught up in all the nonsense. I sucked in a full breath and let it out slowly. Something was tugging the end of the line, then the rope shot back empty, skipping water. He reeled the rope in fast, looping it tight, a dripping coil. He cupped his hand and tested the water. Then he removed the heavy cable from his hip and looped it. I watched him lift the lasso above his head. He had to rock back on his heels to spin it, to get some lift. And then he was leaning forward and the wiry line was flying, caught on a curve of wind riding just above water. I heard the wind whine as the cable cut the air. He jerked the line and dropped it clean into the water. I watched the river swallow the looping noose. The cowboy tightened the lead. He had cinched something. You could see the strain on his shoulders. He began pulling, hand over hand. Water was dripping down the front of his pants, dripping down the length of his arms. I squinted to see what he was pulling. When I saw Florence’s head lift from the water rushed to lend him a hand.

Louise THE LONG LENGTH OF DAY

She couldn’t shake the image of her sister, Florence, still and beautiful in the shallow, lapping water. She saw again and again Jules Bart kneeling down in the water. Her sister’s head tilting back, her long hair trailing the ground as Jules lifted her in his arms and carried her from the river that had claimed her. Charlie had made a difficult situation only more difficult.

Jules Bart had done what the other men could not do. He had passed the body of her sister, Florence, into the shaking arms of her father. Her grandmother had covered Florence’s face with the shade of her hand as if to protect her from the onlookers. Louise even thought of Loretta, how Loretta had stood bird-small beside Louise’s father, the heels of Loretta’s moccasins dark in the thin-crusted mud. When Loretta glanced at Louise she had smiled and cried at the same time and Louise had felt a lonesomeness for her own mother then. And they had all stood together by the sharp edge of the river, a family, her grandmother’s voice a prayer over them.