D orothy Hodges sat on the rough wooden chair by the tiny fire and pulled her mending into her lap. She had already tidied the small, three-room shack that she shared with her father; breakfast things had been put away, Dorothy’s little corner of books set to rights, and the dirt floor swept.
Her father, Joseph, sat at the table he had made decades before, his narrow eyes made narrower still as he squinted at the animal emerging from the wood that he held in his rough hands. His gray, scraggly hair, parted in the middle, hung well past his ears, while his curly beard, marked with patches of pure white, seemed to bury most of his features. Even Dorothy, who didn’t remember him without a beard, couldn’t help but notice it.
His clothes hung about him, limp and careless; especially his miner’s shirt, now long out of date and splattered with decades old wax. Dorothy saw a fresh tear on the lower edge of his sleeve while she looked at him, but she knew that he wouldn’t let her mend it.
Tossing one of her golden braids out of her way, she bent her attention again to the mending on her lap, glancing toward the man at the table every once in a while. At twenty-five years old, she might have looked her age if she hadn’t looked so out of time with her ankle length striped skirt, pleated and faded shirtwaist, and wide belt wrapped around her waist. Only her shoes, when she wore them, looked like they had actually been manufactured in the current decade.
Dorothy raised her thread to her teeth but stopped short when she heard a man’s voice outside. He scolded at the surrounding desert quite savagely. Dorothy looked at her father in alarm, but he just kept at his carving.
“That sounded like Mr. Sinclair, Father.” She ordered the tremor from her voice.
Her father nodded. “So, it does.”
Another growl outside sent her heart racing faster. “He’ll be at the door within the minute.”
“I imagine so.” He didn’t change his position, his expression, or even look at her.
Dorothy glanced around, wondering if it would be feasible to make an escape. Even if she ran to her room, she had no door and nothing to hide behind.
I’m not a child. I can face my fears.
She didn’t have the time to consider further. Charles Sinclair, a large man with a further imposing presence and unnaturally soft voice, entered the shack without any pretense of knocking or asking permission. His dark, slicked back hair and upright bearing showed marked contrast to the woodcarver at the table, though there couldn’t have been much difference in their ages. Where Dorothy’s father stooped, the other stood tall. Where the former squinted, the latter held his eyes wide open. Where Joseph had grown wrinkled and gray, Charles seemed to exude youth and color.
Dorothy could never help the comparison and only dropped her eyes back to her mending when the newcomer grinned in her direction.
“Joe!” Dorothy quailed at the sound of his voice and winced at the familiar greeting. “Pleasant to see you and your lovely daughter! How is the carving today?”
Dorothy looked up again as her father shook his weathered head.
“This little fella’s givin’ me trouble, but he’ll turn out all right in the end, I reckon.”
Charles Sinclair lay one of his large hands on the table and leaned over the small figurine. “It’s a dog, isn’t it?”
“A kai-ote. I suppose that’s a dog, but they are pretty different.”
Charles Sinclair nodded. “I see, I see. One should be exact.” He pulled out a chair and Dorothy just caught a gleam in his eyes as he sat down. “Have you sold any carvings lately?”
Dorothy’s father glanced up sharply. “A few down in Mesa.”
“That’s good. That’s good.”
They continued in silence for a few moments, and Dorothy took a deep breath. Her hands trembled too much to properly continue her mending.
“I’m here for my money, Joe.” He spoke the words quietly in the silent room, but Dorothy’s heart still began pounding more swiftly.
“I know you are.” Her father kept his gaze locked on the coyote.
“Should I have noticed it lying around somewhere by now? Did I miss something, Joe?”
“I don’t imagine so.”
Charles Sinclair stood, clasping his hands together. “Where’s my money, Joe.”
He still didn’t stop carving. “I don’t have it.”
“You don’t have it. You…” The man glanced in Dorothy’s direction and let the sentence die. He tried again. “You asked for another month, Joe. It’s been another month.”
“I know.”
“You sold some of your carvings.”
“I did, in fact.”
“Then where is my money?”
The woodcarver didn’t once raise his head. “Dorothy has to eat.”
Charles Sinclair sighed, then leaned on the table beside the other man. “Look here, Joe. I can’t keep coming up here. My automobile won’t even make it—I had to walk a long way through cacti and brush just to reach you. What’s more, this is the tenth time that you have been unable to deliver. You borrowed from me; it’s time to pay your debt.”
“I know.” Dorothy’s father nodded gravely. “Can’t do it though. I don’t have it yet, but I’ll get it.”
Dorothy squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, Charles Sinclair had straightened, his hands in his pockets.
“All right, Joe.” He nodded. “All right. I’ll give you more time. I’ll give you until Saturday.”
“Saturday week?”
“No. Saturday in five days.”
Dorothy held her breath. We’ll never have it. Never.
Charles Sinclair watched the coyote a moment longer before he spoke again. “Do you know the Dance Pavilion down at Apache Junction?”
“I reckon that I do.”
“Good. Because I can’t keep wandering through the desert all the time. Bring the money to the Pavilion on Saturday. One of my sons will be there to receive it.”
“Can’t.” Dorothy’s father shook his head. “I’m too busy.”
Charles Sinclair’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing, but only Dorothy saw it as her father never looked up.
“Does Dorothy know the way?”
Dorothy jumped.
“I reckon.”
“Good.” He nodded toward her, as if to tell her she couldn’t argue. “Send her.”
Dorothy’s heart pounded harder. Please, Father. Don’t agree to send me. Say you’ll find a way to go yourself.
Her father, however, nodded, still focused on the coyote. “She’ll be there.”
“Good.” Charles Sinclair picked up a wood shaving, rubbing it between his fingers. He bent lower beside the woodcarver. “I need my money, Joe. I need my money.”
The other man nodded once more. “I know. You’ll get it. Soon.”