A rtie spent a dreadful night in the Superstition Mountains. The man, Tom, who claimed to find the murder scene, led them first in the wrong direction and only realized it once the sun had set. The posse of men slept on the hard ground after that, rising at break of dawn and beginning their search once again. Artie, on the other hand, slept little and ill, spending most of his night watching the stars.
The morning seemed to drag out long and quiet. The closer Tom said they drew, the more ill Artie felt. The idea of discovering his father’s murdered corpse horrified him more and more with every step.
Lord, I can’t even begin to think what I should pray. I can’t… I can’t even think.
They arrived in a gully at last, the horses stamping lazily when they halted. Tom frowned as he surveyed the area.
“Are we going in the correct direction, Tom?” Sheriff Wright patted his horse with a soothing sound.
Tom nudged his own horse forward. “We’re close. It wasn’t far off from Weaver’s Needle.”
Artie didn’t trust himself to ask how far they had to go. He couldn’t trust his own voice.
The next stretch seemed to last miles, but Artie knew it didn’t really take long at all. He saw the area with its trampled and broken brush and bushes even before Tom pointed it out. He didn’t want to get closer, yet he couldn’t stop.
The area looked like a fighting ground. Broken plants, evidence of blood where it hadn’t disappeared into the earth, a bit of torn shirt. If his father really had been in the gully at the time of whatever had occurred…
“I found the watch here.” Tom gestured as he spoke. “The shirt here. The knife was on the ground by that cactus.”
Artie dismounted, walking about in a haze. He saw no evidence of a body. Still, plenty of evidence shouted that something dreadful had occurred. He could vaguely hear Sheriff Wright setting up plans to spread the search.
Instead of paying attention, Artie wandered the perimeter of the scene. Despite what any observer might have determined, he still noted his surroundings, morbidly keeping an eye out for his father’s corpse. He nearly wished that Theo had come in his stead, but swiftly banished the thought.
I wouldn’t have Theo in such an awful search, either.
He wandered on, ignoring or else not hearing the voices of the other men in the gully. He still failed at knowing what words to pray.
Something scurried away from him as fast as its little legs could run. Artie blinked and looked around. A glimpse of the vast beauty surrounding him made its way into his darkened mind.
The cacti reaching toward the heavens, while they clung to any bit of ground or crevice of rock that they could get, even if they had to dangle sideways. Flowers dotted the cacti, and a few other plants gave a similar herald to the aging spring. Short trees here and there, surrounded by countless scrubby bushes with the red and ash rock of the Superstition Mountains as their backdrop, made a lovely image.
Like a gloriously brilliant painting, Lord. Whoever said that You paint the landscape must have seen something like this.
Artie’s musings, however, didn’t last long. A lump of brown tweed caught his eye. At the first, he took it for a rock or a lump of dirt, but a second glance revealed the material like texture.
Dreading, yet unable to stay away, Artie went to investigate. Each step felt like torture, as he imagined every version of the worst.
As he came up even, he found the material in a lump, all on its own. No mangled body, no murdered corpse. Just a jacket. Alone with the pocket torn.
Dad’s jacket. And it’s stained with blood.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, Artie had been trying to discover what his father may have been hiding regarding his interactions with Dorothy Hodges. Now, he searched for his dead body in the Superstition Mountains overlooking her home. Sheriff Wright had pointed out the old shack from one of the higher outcroppings the day before.
Artie held the coat, glancing back to where he had left the rest of the posse. He could still see them, spreading out in several directions from a central point. He tried to call out, but his voice failed him. One of the men seemed to notice and Artie managed to wave his arm.
The next hours seemed to stretch for days. Artie joined the search, but the results yielded very little. Evidence of a camp that could have belonged to literally anyone and a piece of his father’s bloody shirt a good mile from the original site showed up.
No sign of Dad, though.
Artie stopped with the men for a rest, but he didn’t feel like eating or talking. He walked a short way off, climbed onto a heap of red rock, and sat with his back to the others.
What am I going to do? At this point, I have to go home and tell them… What will I tell them?
He could see Weaver’s Needle spiking toward the sky. A large bird flew overhead, singing as he went.
Lord in Heaven, I can’t think of what to say or think. I don’t know what to pray. I want to find Dad, but… I think I’m afraid of finding him as well.
He watched the sun cast shadows and illuminate peaks of rock. He pulled off his hat, and the breeze ruffled his hair, for some reason bringing about another sigh.
Lord, give me strength. Give me the strength to face whatever it is that I’m going to have to face. The strength to return home and tell my brother, my sister, my stepmother whatever it is that I have to tell them—whether we find Dad, or this is just the beginning of a long search.
The beauty around him continued, but it began to fade from his consideration.
Lord, where is my father? Please, help us to find him, if it is Your will. Wherever he is. In… whatever condition.
He sighed once again. He recalled Tom running up with evidence in Apache Junction, then remembered who he had been with and why. The thought of Dorothy Hodges only made the weight on his shoulders deepen.
I believed her. Lord, I believed her over my father and… I still do. I don’t understand why he would treat her like that. She was already frightened when I met her. Has he hurt or threatened her before? Do I want to know the answer?
He clenched his jaw, wishing for a moment that he could go back a few months in time and stay there. He knew it an impossible wish.
I don’t want to know. I need to know, however. I need to know what Dad and Fred Salts have involved me in. I need to know what is scaring that poor girl.
He heard someone call his name. Probably to begin the search again. The landscape around him came back into focus as someone laid a hand on his shoulder.
Sheriff Wright bent over him, concern etched in his face. “Did you hear us calling you, son? Are you doing all right?”
Artie wondered if claiming to be doing all right would be a lie. “I didn’t hear you until just now, sir. I’m ready to keep going if you are.”
The sheriff peered at him through his glasses for just an instant before nodding. “Very well. Let’s be moving.”
Artie put his hat back onto his head. Show us what to do. Lord, show us what to do and where to go. We need Your guidance.