A rtie arrived at the Hodges shack shortly before noon on Monday. He saw Dorothy from a distance, seated on one of the large rocks near the door with a book. High overhead, a few birds seemed to circle the surrounding area.
Dorothy must have seen him, because she laid the volume in her lap, while she gazed in his direction. Artie could see the moment when she recognized him. Her shoulders relaxed and the hand that she had raised to her waist dropped into her lap again.
Poor girl. She shouldn’t have to worry about pulling her knife every time she knows someone is coming.
Dorothy stood as he came up, giving him a rather weary smile. He tried to ignore the thrill that smile sent through him.
“I couldn’t be certain who you were at first. I didn’t know you had come back from the mountains.” The concern in her voice grew. “Did you find your father?”
Artie watched a bird as it seemed to circle closer. “No. Our guide had been too turned around to lead us anywhere that we might learn anything.”
“I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t help studying her face when she said it. She does mean that she’s sorry. Even though I think Dad is the last person on earth that she would ever care to see alive again.
“And you? How are you doing?”
Something crossed her face. He couldn’t read it, but she didn’t like whatever thought or memory had occurred. “I haven’t heard or seen anyone outside my window or following me for several days.”
It didn’t quite answer his question, but it did, in part. “Do you think that they have stopped following you or honed their skill?”
Dorothy watched something in the distance, then brought her attention back to his face. “I don’t know if I could say. They would seem to be gone though.”
“Thank the Lord for that! I hope they stay away for good.”
She seemed to try to say something but shook her head. Instead, she gestured toward the shack. “Had you wanted to see Father?”
Artie realized he had no desire whatsoever to speak to Joseph Hodges. The sight of the man would only serve to make him angry, an action the memory of him did easily enough.
“If it’s all the same to you…” He gestured to the rocks. “I didn’t come to see him and would rather stay out here, if you don’t mind.”
Dorothy’s forehead creased with worry, but it didn’t reach her voice. “I don’t mind.”
He wanted to tell her about the last search in the mountains and Tom’s inability to find anything whatsoever. He didn’t know why he wanted to tell her, but once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. She said little, unless she had a question, but somehow just her presence comforted.
When he came to a stop, Dorothy spoke quietly. “Do you think that he was lying?”
Artie looked up. “Who?”
“The man—Tom?”
Artie shook his head, staring out into the distance again. “He could be. I don’t think he made it all up though. He could have done.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the sun shining on their heads. Artie wondered how many more days of pleasant weather they would have until the summer heat began roasting the desert with the flame of sunshine. Dorothy turned toward him, distracting him from his thoughts.
“Could I ask you a question entirely unrelated to what you have mentioned?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Of course.”
“I have been wondering…” She pressed her lips together into a thin line, then shook her head lightly. “I don’t mean to be rude. I apologize if I am. When you…When you have prayed for me…”
Artie had no idea where the conversation headed, so he couldn’t help her. He just waited.
She looked directly at him. “When you pray, you speak, well, in an ordinary fashion.”
Artie tried to understand her but could only repeat her last words. “Ordinary fashion?”
She nodded, fidgeting with the scarf tied around the waist of her dress. “When I go to church, Pastor doesn’t pray like you do. If he were to pray for provision, he might say, ‘I pray Thee, God Almighty, grant provision for us this day.’ I think though, that if I were to hear you pray for provision, you might say something along the lines of, ‘Please grant us provision, Lord.’”
Artie couldn’t help a slight smile. “I understand what you’re saying. I’m not sure what your question is, though.”
Dorothy still picked at the scarf. “I had never heard anyone pray without using the speech that Pastor uses. Even in my Bible, that’s how the Lord Jesus speaks. Is it…Is it not disrespectful to use the ordinary tongue?”
“I can honestly say that I have never considered that.” Artie picked up his hat, then dropped it back into the dust. “I don’t think that it is, though. Most Christians these days pray with ordinary speech. Very few, that I know, pray in the old English, except on Sundays.”
She frowned. “Why is that?”
“I don’t actually know.” Artie watched the birds circling overhead, beginning to realize how many had flocked together. “I think it’s their way of making the Sabbath special for the Lord. While I agree that we need to use respect in our prayers and be careful of the language we use, I do think it is perfectly acceptable to use the common tongue to speak to the Almighty. I think we can speak to Him as earnestly in our everyday American English, as we can using the older English.” He smiled. “I assume that you use the latter.”
She nodded. “I always have. I don’t think I could change it.”
“I don’t think you need to.” He turned on his rock. “See here, I really don’t think it matters the version of English we use any more than it matters what language we use, so long as we pray with humility, honor, and reverence. As long as we model our prayers after Jesus’ example, we’re doing as the Lord would have us.”
“I suppose…I suppose that makes a lot of sense.” She grew quiet, obviously thoughtful.
Artie watched her a bit, until he realized that he had been for probably rather too long. Then he turned his head intentionally toward the mountains. The birds continued circling, some diving toward the ground. “What are the buzzards after?”
“I don’t know.” He glanced back to see her shaking her head. “They’ve been there for days. I’ve rarely seen so many together at the same time though.”
Artie tried to see what they could be after, but they were too far away. “I saw them on Friday.”
“They should have finished whatever carcass they had on Friday by now, I reckon.” She looked up at him when he stood. “I’ve been wondering what they’re doing.”
Artie picked up his hat. “Perhaps we ought to investigate.”
The vultures had seemed closer than they actually were while standing beside the shack. Whatever attracted them appeared to be up at the very base of the Superstition Mountains.
Artie and Dorothy grew quiet the closer they drew to the birds. Something ominous filled the air. A cloud covered the sun, managing to increase the atmosphere.
The vultures flew and hopped away as the humans approached, cawing their disapproval. Artie didn’t want to understand the level of apprehension he felt.
“Whatever they’re after seems to be under that canvas.” Dorothy grimaced, stepping back from a particularly unhappy vulture. She coughed. “They’ve pecked and pulled, but they haven’t succeeded at getting too much by the looks of it.”
Artie stared at the old tent canvas, held down and covered by rocks and random pieces of brush. His heart slammed wildly.
“A-are you all right?”
Artie heard her but couldn’t quite reach the point of answering her. “I need to see what’s under the canvas.”
His hands shook as he pulled off rocks and remnants of mesquite trees and tumbleweeds. Dorothy helped him, but he waved her back before lifting the cover.
“I don’t think you want to see what’s under this.”
She nodded, stepping back several paces.
Burying his nose into his sleeve, Artie pulled up the canvas. Only for a second, but that second proved long enough.
Dropping the canvas in a rush, he stumbled several feet before he couldn’t stay upright and fell to his knees. Focusing on breathing, he tried to quell the overwhelming nausea that swept over him while his mind screamed in response.
He felt a tentative hand on his shoulder and wondered if Dorothy had spoken to him without his notice. He couldn’t raise his eyes to look at her, nor could he make himself speak. He had to breathe, while he waited for the illness to pass.
How long they remained there, Artie never did know. At last, with some effort, he raised his head. “It…” Another wave of nausea came over him. “The body is human.”
For a long moment, Dorothy said nothing. She only stood there, her hand still on his shoulder. When she did speak, her voice came gentle and very soft.
“Did you recognize it?”
An intense wave of grief intrinsically intermingled with the revolting illness that washed over him again as he remembered what lay beneath that canvas. “Yes.”
Dorothy seemed to know without his continuing, but he said it anyhow.
“It’s…It’s my father.”