Shadow on the Sun

by Richard Matheson

  The old Apache stood waveringly at the back of the barroom, looking for Finley. A sinking of disappointment pressed at his stomach. The Indian agent was gone. Little Owl sighed. He should go back to his wickiup. He should bring some meat to his children. Yes, that was what he’d do.

  Appleface Kelly turned at the slight tug on his sleeve.

  “You scroungin’ again, you mangy old bastard?” he asked, then snickered. “No more,” he said in Apache. “Get out of here.”

  Little Owl grunted and stood there, staring at Kelly with blank, obsidian eyes. Kelly turned his back on him, and after a moment, the Apache shifted his feet and headed slowly for the doors.

  Before he reached them, Finley entered.

  The Indian agent’s slicker glistened from the rain and his hat was soaked through. Little Owl waited while Finley took them off and hung them on a wall hook.

  Finley managed a smile as he turned. “Still here?” he said in Apache.

  The old Indian still waited. Finley looked at him soberly a moment, then, sighing, reached into his pocket.

  “Now listen,” he told the Apache. “Take this money and buy food for your children. You understand?”

  Little Owl stared at him a moment, then, with a grunt, he nodded once. Taking the money, he walked past Finley and pushed through the swinging doors. Finley watched him go. Poor lost soul, he was thinking. None of the dignity of his race left. Completely off the red road. Just a part-time cowboy who spent the major part of the year cadging for drinks and sitting in silent drunkenness, looking into a past in which he was a man and not just a “damn scrounging Injun.”

  Appleface Kelly looked over as Finley leaned against the bar beside him and ordered whiskey.

  “You find ’em?” asked Kelly.

  Finley shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.

  It was not raining as hard as before. It came down now in straight, almost soundless curtains. The air was colder though. It made Little Owl shiver as he padded along the plank walk toward the south edge of town. He should have brought his blanket with him, he thought before remembering that, months before, he’d given the blanket in exchange for half a bottle of whiskey. Or had it been years before?

  At first, he didn’t notice the man on horseback riding in the same direction. When he was young, he would have sensed the man’s presence instantly, long before his eyes had seen him. Now, when the muffled sound of the hoofbeats reached his ears, Little Owl started and glanced over his shoulder dizzily.

  It did not come at first. Little Owl saw only the outline of a man on horseback. He turned his gaze back to the front and kept on walking.

  It was only after half a minute had passed that he realized the man was following him.

  The old Apache squinted back across his shoulder again, trying to see more clearly. Who was the man? Did he know him? Little Owl grunted to himself, sensing the first twinge of nervousness. He walked a little faster, trying not to show it. He’d been through this sort of thing before. There were always white men who took pleasure in trying to frighten any Indian they came across.

  Only when the man rode past him and reined his horse in up ahead did the small Indian stop. He was standing at the head of an alley which ran between the post office and the bank. He stood motionless, watching the man dismount and tie the horse to a hitching post.

  Then the man began to walk toward Little Owl.

  The old Indian shuddered. He squinted hard, trying to make the man out, but his eyes were not good anymore and all he could see was the tall, broad silhouette coming at him. Only his hearing, still acute, picked out every detail of the man’s approach—the sucking of his boots in the thick mud, the creak of the planking as the man raised his weight to it, the slow, thudding fall of the man’s footsteps on the walk.

  Then it began.

  It was not a conscious reaction in the old Apache’s mind. It was something deeper, a stirring in some long dormant center of awareness. Little Owl stood woodenly, staring at the man. Unwilled, a sound of disbelief rose suddenly in his throat. He sucked in fitfully at the cold, wet air and felt his heartbeat stagger.

  The man kept walking toward him. Little Owl could see his eyes now. They seemed to glitter even though there were no lights around to be reflected. Help me, Little Owl thought; help me. He tried to cry the words aloud, but his tongue was like lead in his mouth. And even as he tried, he knew that there was no one who could help him, no one who could stop the approach of this tall, silent figure.

  Little Owl began edging to the side, wordless mumblings in his throat. His lungs kept laboring for breath that would not come. It seemed as though he suffocated in some cold, dark emptiness. And the man kept coming at him with unhurried strides. No, thought Little Owl, it could not be.

  It could not be.

  Suddenly, the Apache whirled and lunged into the alley, moccasins slapping at the mud. He glanced over his shoulder with terrified eyes and saw that the man still came. A sob exploded in his throat. He tried to run faster, but he couldn’t. Something was dragging at his legs. His feet were stone. Gasping for breath, he ran along the alley in a daze until he reached the fence that blocked his way. There he spun around, a dry, convulsive rattling in his throat.

  The man stopped, close. He was very big, broad-shouldered, a massive statue of a man. Little Owl pressed against the cold, wet fence, looking at him. He could not speak or breathe or think. All he could do was stare with frozen eyes, unable to comprehend the horror that stood before him.

  The man spoke in Apache.

  “You will help me,” he said.

  Little Owl jerked back against the fence, a dull cry pulling at his lips. The man took a step closer. Little Owl tried to scream, but only a witless bubbling came from his mouth.

  “You will help me,” said the man.

  Abruptly, the eyes rolled back in Little Owl’s head and, with a gagging whine, he crumpled to the ground, landing face down in the mud.

  The man came over slowly and stood beside the body. He looked down at it with unmoving eyes, eyes without emotion. Then he turned and walked back out of the alley.

  ______

  Finley set his glass down. “I’m off again,” he said.

  “Where to now?” asked Appleface.

  “Well, they’re not in town,” said Finley, “I’m sure of that. I guess I’ll have to help Al look around outside of town.”

  “Is that where he is?”

  Finley nodded. “He rode out about an hour ago.”

  The Indian agent laid a coin beside his empty glass. “See you later,” he said, then smiled wryly. “Seems like I already said that,” he added.

  “What are you knockin’ your brains out for?” Appleface asked him. “The Corcoran boys ain’t your worry.”

  “Al thinks the Apaches are involved,” said Finley. “That is my worry.”

  He punched Kelly lightly on the arm. “And I don’t like to worry,” he said.

  “Don’t get wet now,” Appleface told him.

  Finley chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  He walked across the room and put his hat and slicker on, then pushed out through the doors and started north toward the livery stable. Finley didn’t see the tall figure coming up the walk from the opposite direction.

  Inside the saloon, Kelly picked his drink up and carried it across the room to where the Dailey brothers, Lon and Earl, were playing blackjack.

  “Get in the next hand, boys?” he asked.

  “Sure,” said Lon. “Sit down.”

  Kelly had barely settled in his chair when the man came in.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” muttered Appleface.

  The Dailey brothers glanced at him, then, as Kelly tipped his head toward the doorway, they looked in that direction.

  Lon Dailey whistled under his breath.

  The man was big. So big that the clothes he wore, though made for a large frame, clung to him tightly, the sleeve ends high on his thick wrists, the pants cuffs riding far u
p on his mud-spattered boots.

  “Who the hell is he?” Earl Dailey murmured.

  “I never seen him before,” said Appleface.

  By now they were not the only ones in the saloon looking with covert curiosity at the man. He did not seem to notice it, however, or, if he did, he gave it no attention. Standing immobile in the doorway, the rain-dripping hat too high on his skull, his gaze moved slowly, searchingly, around the room.

  “What in hell’s he lookin’ for?” Lon Dailey whispered through his teeth.

  “Who in hell’s he lookin’ for?” Kelly whispered back, masking the movement of his lips with a squeezing tug at his nose.

  “I’m glad it ain’t me,” whispered Earl Dailey.

  Appleface squinted at the man suddenly.

  “Is he an Injun?” he wondered aloud.

  The three of them looked carefully at the man. Strangely enough, they couldn’t tell if he was an Indian or not. If swarthiness were the only test, there would have been little doubt. But they had all seen white men burned by the sun to a similar pigmentation. It was the features themselves that weren’t right. The arrangement of them did not place a definite stamp of Indian on the man. Nor was he clearly a white man either. The harsh angularities of his face seemed, in fact, to go beyond the limits of either possibility. Somehow, it seemed closer to being an animal than a human face.

  As the man started toward the counter, the collar of his coat slipped down.

  Only the general noise in the room kept Appleface’s voice from being heard as he said, “Holy jumpin’ Christ!”

  Around the entire circumference of the man’s neck was a red, uneven scar, thick and crudely stitched.

  The three men sat staring at the stranger as he halted before the counter. They saw Eddie come walking over, saw him glance involuntarily at the scar, then with a quick, nervous swallow, force a smile to his lips and ask the man what his pleasure was.

  They couldn’t hear what the man was saying; only the deep rumble of his voice was audible. They saw Eddie pour a drink hastily, but the man didn’t touch it. He spoke again and Eddie answered. Even from where they sat, they could see how the young bartender seemed to shrink back from the man.

  Abruptly, the stranger turned and headed for the doorway.

  “Say—” Eddie called after him.

  The man stopped and looked over his shoulder, his dark eyes boring into the bartender’s.

  “W-what about your drink?” asked Eddie, trying to look affable.

  The three men couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face, but they noticed how a muscle twitched in Eddie’s cheek.

  “M-my money, I mean.” Eddie seemed to be speaking more from instinct than desire. His voice was not strong, but it had grown so quiet in the saloon now that everyone could hear it.

  The man didn’t seem to understand.

  “Money?” asked Eddie. He swallowed. “For the drink?”

  He held up the glass, obviously regretting that he’d spoken at all. Then, putting down the glass, he dug a coin out of his vest pocket and held it up.

  The stranger looked down at his clothes. Awkwardly, he slid his big right hand into the pants pocket and drew it out, coins clutched between the thick fingers. Stepping to the counter, he dropped them, and two of the coins rolled toward the back edge of the counter. Eddie lunged for them.

  “Hey, that’s too much,” he said.

  But the man was already halfway to the doors. Eddie called after him once again, then said no more. Blank-faced, he watched the big stranger push out through the batwing doors and disappear. One of the men at the table nearest the doorway got up and peeked across the top of the doors. After a moment, he turned back and shrugged exaggeratedly to his friends.

  Appleface got up and walked over to the bar, where he talked with Eddie. In a minute, he was back.

  “What’d he want?” Lon Dailey asked.

  “Eddie said he asked after a small man in a black suit,” he said. “A man with a little beard. A man of learning.”

  “He asked in English?” asked Earl.

  Kelly nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What’d Eddie tell ’im?” asked Lon.

  “Eddie said he thought the stranger must’ve meant Perfessor Dodge,” said Appleface.

  “Dodge?” Earl grimaced. “What in hell would he want the perfessor for?”

  Kelly shook his head. “I dunno,” he said.

  “Eddie tell him where t’find the perfessor?”

  “I guess he did,” said Kelly.

  The three men looked at each other for a moment. Then Earl Dailey cleared his throat.

  “What the hell,” he said, reaching for his cards. “Whose play?”

  4

  Harry Vance sat mumbling behind the desk of the lobby of the White River Hotel. He was mad, good and mad. Ethel had made him come out and sit there. You never knew on a night like this, she’d said. All sorts of people might be coming in for rooms. You never knew.

  Well, Harry knew. Good and well, he knew. Ethel didn’t think for a damn second that there’d be any extra guests that night. She was just mad about last night and this was her little way of getting even with him. She couldn’t get honest mad with him, couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell him what was really on her mind. Oh, no, never in a million centuries! She was a woman, wasn’t she? Did a woman ever tell a man what was really on her mind? Ever in the whole history of mankind?

  Hell, no! She waited till the next night and then got even with him by asking him to do something she knew full well there wasn’t the least bit of need to do. Like sit here in the cold, empty lobby waiting for a guest who’d never show up. Sure, that was a woman. All tricks and deceits and never an honest-to-God explanation. Never.

  Christ Almighty, you’d think they were a hundred years old apiece! The way she got so mad every time he tried anything with her. A hundred damn darn years old apiece. Christ!

  He was glaring down the black well of his thoughts when the bell over the door tinkled and a stream of cold air rushed across the lobby floor.

  Focusing his eyes, Harry Vance saw the tall man entering. Then, hastily willed, a smile of calculated hospitality creased his round face, and he leaned forward as if preparing himself to leap over the waist-high counter and embrace the man in cordial welcome.

  “Evenin’, sir, evenin’,” he said genially. Well, by Christ, they could sure use an extra guest or two. Things were darn slow this month. Darn slow.

  The tall man moved across the rug slowly, his boots leaving wet, mud-streaked imprints on the carpeting. Oh, God, he hadn’t wiped his feet off! thought Harry, an agony of prescience straining behind his smile. Ethel would be furious.

  Well, the hell with Ethel! he decided suddenly, eyes steeling. They could have locked the place up, but no, she had to send him out to sit in the lobby and wait for a guest. Well, here was a guest, by Christ, and he was tracking up the floor. So, the hell with her. Let her clean up the damn spots!

  The man stopped before him.

  “Yes, sir,” Harry said, swiveling the book around and plucking the pen from its holder. “Just stayin’ for the night, are ya?”

  The man didn’t even glance at the pen which Harry held out for him.

  “Dodge,” he said, his voice deep, guttural.

  “Sir?” Harry Vance’s smile faltered a little.

  “Dodge,” the man repeated.

  “Dodge City?” Harry asked. He thought he understood. The man couldn’t write and was too embarrassed to admit it. He was telling Harry he was from Dodge City. Well, that was all right so long as he had coin. Harry would—

  “Pro-fessor Dodge,” the man said carefully.

  The smile was gone. Harry’s expression was removed, impersonal. This was no paying guest.

  “He ain’t here,” he said.

  “What—room?” asked the man. He spoke as if speaking was an ability laboriously learned, a skill not altogether mastered.

  “Twenny-nine,” Harry said automatical
ly. He tightened. “But he ain’t here,” he said. “I told ya. He’s on one of them field trips. He’s a—”

  He broke off as the man turned and headed for the staircase.

  “I said he wasn’t in,” he called impatiently.

  The man began walking up the steps, boots thudding measuredly on the worn carpeting.

  “Hey!” Harry squinted after the man. “I said he wasn’t in!” By Christ, he was getting mad now. He’d—

  “Harry.”

  Vance almost vacated his skin as the voice snapped behind him. He grunted in pain as, lurching spasmodically against the counter edge, he hurt his stomach. He whirled, indignant.

  “What’re ya creepin’ up behind me for?” he asked.

  “Who is that man?” asked Ethel Vance, pointing toward the stairs.

  Harry swallowed his indignation and added it to the indigestable mass already in his frustration-bound stomach.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “He just come in and asked for Perfessor Dodge.”

  “He’s not in,” said Ethel.

  “I know he’s not in,” whined Harry. “I told him so.”

  “Then what’s he going up for?” demanded Ethel.

  “He’s going up because—”

  Harry broke off. “I don’t know why he’s goin’ up!” he said, exasperated. “I didn’t tell ’im to. He just went.”

  “Then you just march up there after him, Harry Vance,” she ordered. “I won’t have strangers walking around in my hotel.”

  There it was God Almighty. Her hotel! As if he hadn’t worked like a damn horse to make it a going proposition. Just because her old man left it to her in his will. Her hotel. Christ.

  “Well?” asked Ethel.

  “Well?” Harry echoed faintly. “What?”

  “Are you going up there?” she challenged. “Or are you just going to stand here and let him break into our rooms.”

  “Oh, for—” Harry twisted irritably. “He ain’t no robber.”

  “How do you know?”

  By Christ—the thought drove an icy needle into his heart—how did he know? Suddenly, he saw that man again, standing across the desk from him; tall, swarthy, with those dark, implacable eyes. Good Christ, he might even have been an Indian! And the way he spoke, almost mechanically. Harry shuddered. And he’d yelled after the man like—