D orothy wanted to ask her father about the stranger in the desert. Every time she set out to bring him up, however, her father changed the subject or went to bed. If he had known about the man, he could not have more studiously avoided discussion about him.
By Thursday evening, Dorothy began to feel desperate. If she didn’t trust the stranger, she had nothing to take to Charles Sinclair. If she did trust him, how could she even know that he would be trustworthy?
She sat by the fire, trying to read Ben Hur , but despite her familiarity with the volume, kept losing track of her place. She dropped the book into her lap, raising her eyes toward her father as he sat bent over his figurine. Dorothy couldn’t determine the shape as yet, but she had no doubt that her father could.
“It’s Thursday.” She hoped reminding him of the day might remind of him of the impossible task he had placed on her.
Her father nodded at his figurine. “Not for much longer, it isn’t.”
Dorothy glanced at the window, where the light had certainly grown more faint.
It will be dark within the next hour, though the days are growing longer.
“I reckon it’s about time I take another hike into the Superstition. The Dutchman isn’t going to find itself.”
Dorothy turned sharply. “How soon?”
He still didn’t look up. “I’m headed to Mesa tomorrow. I have figurines to sell. I’ll bring back supplies in the evening and start up the mountain early on Saturday morning.”
“Will… Will you have anything for me to give to Mr. Sinclair?”
“They don’t give me gold in Mesa, Dorothy.”
“I know that.” Her heart sank even further, and she closed her book.
“I told you.” Her father kept working, without so much as a glance in her direction. “Work it out on your own. I can’t give him something that I don’t have.”
Dorothy played with the pages of her book. “I don’t have anything to give him either, Father.”
“Well, I’ve tried convincing him of what I don’t have. Now, I reckon, it’s your turn to give it a try, if you can’t work anything else out.”
“I don’t even know how much Mr. Sinclair is owed.”
Her father shook his head. “I can’t say that I do either. Not anymore.”
Dorothy stared at him. How can he not know? How am I supposed to do anything about it without knowing?
“What if I can’t work things out on my own?”
“You can. Or if you can’t, I certainly can’t help you. I reckon that I’ve done my level best already.”
Dorothy opened her mouth to mention the stranger but closed it again. With a deep breath, she rose and put her book on her corner shelf. She paused with her hand on the door. “I’m taking a short walk before it’s quite dark, Father.”
He nodded with a grunt, though whether he meant it for her or the figurine, she couldn’t be certain.
A gentle breeze teased at her hair and fanned her cheeks as Dorothy wandered around the cacti and brush. She looked up at the Superstition Mountains towering over her head and stopped.
I can hope that Charles Sinclair will be merciful or that I can trust an utter stranger.
She thought of the notes. She expected another one on the following night. She recalled the unsettling tone of voice Charles Sinclair occasionally dropped into, when once again, no payment had been made. The glint in his eyes that seemed nothing short of evil.
Father in Heaven, I do not know if I ought to regard the stranger as Thine answer to my prayers. I do not know whether I should meet with him again or if I ought to go to Apache Junction empty-handed. The man is so strange that I’m rather afraid to trust him… I don’t know how he knows what he knows. Yet, I don’t trust Mr. Sinclair at all, and I’m frightened of him. I may be more frightened of him than of the stranger.
She sighed as the sun finally slipped beneath the western mountains. Sighed and turned back toward the shack.
Her father hadn’t moved in her absence. Not that she could see. He still stooped over his carving, his eyes narrowed onto the emerging creature in his hands.
We don’t have anything besides our house. If Mr. Sinclair takes it, we’ll have nothing, and Father might decide we should live like nomads in the Superstition Mountains. If Mr. Sinclair doesn’t do something worse to us first.
She put up her chin and pulled back her shoulders. Turning toward her father, she did her best to put on a smile.
“I’m planning to spend the day in the mountains tomorrow, Father. I’ll leave at dawn, and I’ll do my best to be home before dark.”