D orothy couldn’t settle on Thursday. She knew the posse of men had started for the Superstition Mountains the day before. She’d watched them from a distance and wondered what they would find. Staying in the shack with her father made her heart ache as she watched him chip away at his carving. She had gone out for a walk when she saw the posse.
Dorothy might have stayed outdoors until long after dark, but the unmistakable sound of footsteps following her at a distance behind made her wary. She could see no one, but the sounds sent her scurrying back into the shack for the rest of the night.
She spent most of the next day puttering around, trying to focus on something, anything, except that posse and what they might find. She mostly failed.
She read three chapters of Silas Marner before she found herself growing too sorrowful to finish. She inspected her clothing, mending one shirtwaist. She might have started pacing if she didn’t think it would annoy her father.
It took until the early afternoon to convince herself to take a walk. That the sound of footsteps from the day before meant nothing. She likely imagined it.
The fresh air put her concerns to flight. The birds sang, the rabbits hopped by, and lizards scurried past. Dorothy wove her way through the friendly cacti and began to relax.
Until several branches cracked at once. Dorothy froze. The branches creaked again.
Rabbits don’t make that kind of noise. They aren’t heavy enough. Unless it’s a coyote or a bobcat?
She tried looking around and saw nothing. She raised her sights to the Superstition Mountains towering above her. Never in her life had they seemed so ominous.
Father in Heaven, am I reacting overly much? I pray Thee to protect me.
She turned back in the direction of the shack. She had come partway up the foot of the mountains. It would take time to go back. If someone had been following her, would retracing her steps be the surest way of meeting them, instead of escaping?
I do not want to meet up with someone who may be following me. Not alone. Her hand strayed toward her knife, thankful she had one once again. She took a slow step forward and twigs snapped nearby again.
Her hands began to tremble, and every sense went on the alert. The birds still sang, but she scarcely heard them. They were safe, and she didn’t need to pay attention.
She cast her gaze over the landscape, plotting a circular path back to the shack.
I don’t know if it is safer there or not, but at least I won’t be alone. I don’t know how to keep anyone out—they could climb through any window easily enough if they don’t use the door. Father would help me if someone came inside with untoward intentions… Wouldn’t he?
She realized she couldn’t answer her own question with certainty, and it bothered her. She began walking. Every few steps, she heard a snap or a rustle, letting her know that her shadow kept up.
Her mountains appeared ominous, dark, and foreboding. Their friendly peaks held secrets that came closer to her than any goldmine legend or dark tales connected to it. Even the thought of her gold gifting stranger seemed foreboding as she considered.
Hurrying over the path, she climbed once or twice over rocks and boulders where no one would normally choose to walk, merely to avoid backtracking over her own steps until she made it far enough along her way. She heard every creak and every snap in the surrounding desert until she wondered if she might go crazy.
As the shack grew closer, the sound of footsteps grew more distant. Softer.
As if he’s slowing his walk and falling behind. She glanced over her shoulder, stopping when she thought she caught a silhouette. Nothing clear materialized.
Why would anyone follow me? Of all people?
She asked herself the question all through the rest of the day while she ate her dinner and tidied up. She asked it again when the crack of the brush outside her window sent her heart racing just as she began to drift off to sleep. She didn’t dare go to the window and look out.
Dear Jesus, please… Wouldst Thou protect me? Who and why would anyone shadow me?
She could think of no answer.
* * *
Walter, perched in the shadows and hardly visible, watched the posse as they seemed to head out of the mountains. His clear eyes penetrated distance well and easily identified Sheriff Wright, as well as Artie Sinclair. Among the others, he knew most of them by name as those ready to join a posse when one became required. All except one of them.
Walter watched the man, clearly a rather excitable one at that, who took turns pointing out unidentifiable objects from Walter’s point of view or following along in utter silence. He rode beside the sheriff and Walter guessed that he had been leading the party. At least, at the start.
Walter had seen the man before once or twice, but he had no knowledge of the man’s name or the reasons regarding his presence. He didn’t look well meshed with the rest of the posse.
The Sinclairs don’t usually join a posse either. Charles is too wealthy and highhanded to allow his sons to normally venture out on a search. Whatever could bring one out here now?
He tried to catch a glimpse of Artie’s face, but the distance prevented much clarity.
There must be something or someone tremendously important involved to get a Sinclair into the Superstition Mountains these days.
He grunted, squinting at the posse, while still safely in the shadows himself. No one would notice him. The posse kept on their way. Walter shook his head, leaning back against the rock behind him. He crossed his arms, his expression grim as usual.
The girl hasn’t shown up, and a Sinclair is in the Superstition Mountains with a posse. Something suspicious is on the wind… She might still show. Or she might have let on where she got the gold.
He watched the sky as a hawk circled widely above. He must have had an eye on prey as he dropped lower and lower with each pass. Walter’s thoughts grew ever clearer as he watched.
If the girl told, it would have been under duress. Charles wouldn’t bat an eye at hurting her either. He squinted again. He could not see the glint in his own eye, of course, nor could anyone else, but it was there. She may have told him about me if he pushed her hard enough.
The hawk disappeared, and a cloud crossed in front of the sun. A reptile skittered past Walter, but he barely gave it any attention.
If she told about me, Charles would be out here himself. Not his son. Neither would the sheriff be involved with an entire posse. They aren’t looking for me.
I’ll ask her if she shows and if she doesn’t… I can always trek down to the Junction if I’m that anxious. George Curtis might know or someone else about the place.
He nodded to himself.
Yes, sir, something tremendous must have happened to get a Sinclair to join a posse. Best I found out what it is.