Shadow on the Sun

by Richard Matheson

  Boutelle drew in a quick, angry breath.

  “Quite periodically, Mr. Finley,” he said.

  Finley looked darkly at the younger man. Already, he could see Senator Boutelle standing erect and gesturing in the halls of Congress, booming out his splendidly phrased maledictions against the Western Savage. His cheeks puffed out momentarily as he blew out jaded breath. It was useless to get furious with such pomposity.

  “Let’s just wait before we make up our minds, shall we?” he suggested.

  Boutelle’s smile was the thin, supercilious one of a man who is convinced of his own opinion.

  “For your sake, Mr. Finley,” he said, “I hope you’re right.”

  Finley nodded. “Now, can I help you?” he asked.

  “I had meant to consult you about my report to Washington,” said Boutelle. “However, under the revised circumstances—”

  The younger man stopped talking as there was a faint tapping on the door. Finley turned his head and looked in that direction. “We are really popular tonight,” he muttered to himself as he padded over to the door and opened it.

  A short, squat Indian woman was standing there. At the sight of her, Finley’s annoyed expression softened a little.

  “What is it?” he asked in Apache. “Is something wrong with your husband?”

  “He has not come back tonight,” she answered. “I thought you would know where he is.”

  Finley looked unhappily exasperated. “I sent him to you,” he said. “Hours ago I sent him to you.”

  There was a flickering in the woman’s eyes. Finley rightly identified it as fear.

  “He’s still in town then,” he reassured her. “Look for him in the Sidewinder or at the Silver Hall.”

  Already, he thought he knew the answer. The old Apache had taken the money given him and gone to the Silver Hall Saloon instead of going to his wickiup as Finley had told him. It would not be the first time.

  “And if I do not find him?” the Indian woman was asking.

  Finley smiled. “You will find him,” he said.

  The Apache woman nodded. “I thank you, Finley,” she said.

  Finley patted her shoulder as she turned away. Closing the door, the Indian agent turned back to Boutelle.

  “Was that to do with those two missing men?” the younger man asked.

  “No, no.” Finley shook his head. “That was Little Owl’s wife. She’s looking for him.”

  “Little Owl? Was that the Indian you gave drink money to before?”

  “Yes.”

  Boutelle smiled scornfully. “He’s probably lying somewhere in a drunken stupor,” he said.

  The Indian agent grunted.

  “Probably,” he said.

  Boutelle looked contemptuous. “Indians,” he said.

  “No, Mr. Boutelle.” Finley shook his head, and his voice had an acid edge to it. “Civilization.”

  Little Owl’s wife shuffled through the misty rain, her dark eyes searching.

  Something had happened to her husband, something evil. Of that she was certain. As certain as she was of the blood running in her veins, of the heart pulsing heavily behind her breast. Last night, as she lay awake listening to the bubbly snores of Little Owl and the children, outside, high in the cottonwoods, an owl had hooted. The sound of it had turned her flesh to ice.

  This morning she had told Little Owl about it. We must leave, she had said; the hooting of an owl is a bad omen. We must go to another place.

  But Little Owl had only shaken his head and refused to speak of it. He had been too long among the white men. The instincts of his fathers had died in him, and he no longer believed in signs and omens. It was at that moment, as he turned away from her in silence, that she knew something would happen. Little Owl’s failure to believe would cause it.

  She did not enter the alley for a long time. First, at Finley’s word, she had gone to the Sidewinder Saloon and peered inside, holding one of the swinging doors ajar. But Little Owl was not in there. Nor was he in the Silver Hall Saloon, sitting, as he usually did, at a corner table with a stein of beer in front of him.

  And he was not anywhere along the boardwalks. Often, when he had drunk so much that he could not get back to the wickiup, he would curl up on a bench along the walk. She would find him there and help him onto the back of their pony. The horse she would not let him take from the wickiup because she knew that he would only sell it for drink money.

  And what an endless anguish it was in her woman’s heart to have her husband, mute and without fire, allow her to forbid him anything. In his younger days, when they had lived among their own people, he would have beaten her if she dared to withhold anything from him. He would have flung her to the ground and shouted at her in a fury, I am the head of our family and no squaw will tell me what to do or not to do!

  It was the measure of his fall that he no longer offered to beat or strike her, no longer contested her words at any time. He only grunted and shook or nodded his head and shambled toward Picture City for drink. Yes, it was an evilly distorted world they lived in now.

  She did not see Little Owl at first when she entered the alley. She did not believe that she would find him there, but she knew that she must look in every place before she dared return to Finley and ask for his help. What if he asked her—Did you look in such a place?—and she had to answer, in truth—No, I did not. No, she must try all the places before she—

  Then she saw her husband lying in the mud.

  It was two things at once to her; first, an icy constriction in her bowels and stomach, a thumping pressure at her temples. Yet, at the same time, almost a relief because the sight of him there was proof that the omen had been true and that some values in their life, at least, remained as they should.

  It was not until she bent over him, however, that she knew his death and the hideousness of it.

  A sound of animal pain tore the lips drawn back from her teeth, and with a sharp intake of breath, she scuttled backward. In her haste, she slipped and fell. Scrambling to her feet again, she started running, all the black horrors in her world pursuing her.

  By the time she reached Finley’s office, she could hardly breathe. Wheezing, she fell against the door, clubbing weakly at the glass.

  Finley had to catch her when he opened the door.

  “What?” he asked her in Apache.

  She could not speak. Only sobbing gasps escaped her lips as she pointed down the street.

  Hastily, Finley ran over to the stove and pulled his boots on. Then, grabbing his jacket off the clothes tree, he hurried outside, feeling the clutch of the woman’s hand on his sleeve as they started along the walk. Behind them, he heard the fall of Boutelle’s following boots.

  She would not go up the alley again. She stood pressed against the side of the bank, shivering impotently as Finley and Boutelle walked in to where the body lay. Finley squatted down and turned Little Owl onto his back, his hand sliding underneath the Apache’s buckskin shirt.

  “Dead,” he murmured.

  “Is it one of those two men?” asked Boutelle.

  Finley didn’t answer. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out his match case. Opening it, he struck a match and lit the wick of the tiny candle inserted in the case. Then, roofing the flame with his palm, he held it close to Little Owl’s face.

  “Good God.” Boutelle’s voice was faint.

  If ever a look of heart-wrenched terror had been imprinted on a man’s face, it was on Little Owl’s. The dark features were stiff with it; the mud-caked lips drawn back frozenly in a hideous grin of fright, the dark eyes open wide and staring. It took an effort for Finley to force down the lids of those horror-stricken eyes.

  “What in God’s name happened to him?” a sickened Boutelle asked.

  Again, Finley didn’t answer. He ran the candle flame along the length of the Apache’s body, looking for a wound. As he did, the tight pain in his eyes began changing.

  “There’s not a mark on him,” he
said quietly. The very quietness of his voice seemed to underline the words.

  “His heart then,” said Boutelle. It sounded less like a statement than an uneasy question.

  “I don’t know,” said Finley.

  Letting the rain douse the candle, he shut the cover of the match case and slid it back into his shirt pocket. Then, raising Little Owl to a limp, sitting position, he lifted the dead Indian across his shoulder.

  It was remarkable how light he was, Finley could not help thinking. It was as if once the weight of self-respect had gone from Little Owl, his body had complied with the loss, grown fragile and honeycombed with the weightlessness of defeat. Some men, in loss, grow heavy, thought Finley. Some merely wasted away like Little Owl.

  He didn’t notice where the eyes of Little Owl’s wife were looking as he passed her. If he had noticed and thought about it, he would have guessed that her gaze was averted because she was afraid to look upon death until the actual moment of bodily preparation.

  He was unaware of the fact that she had seen the tall, broad form standing in the shadows across the street from them. He was unaware that the stricture around her heart was so close to that stricture which had killed her husband that she, herself, almost lost the power to breathe and stand and almost went pitching forward into the mud.

  Darkness wavered behind the woman’s eyes. Horror sucked at her breath, licked across her brain with a cold, rasping tongue. Only the greatest exertion of will kept her on her feet. With a drawn-in gasp of air, she pushed away from the bank and followed Boutelle closely. She must not look at the tall, dark figure, she knew. He must not realize that she knew of his presence. If she died now, then all was lost.

  Back inside the office, Finley lowered the body to the bench beside the door and covered it with his slicker. The expression on Little Owl’s face, as it was hidden away, fused itself into Finley’s consciousness like a brand seared into flesh.

  “I’ll take him to your—” he began to say in Apache before he realized that Little Owl’s wife was not there.

  He looked over at Boutelle. “Where did she go?” he asked.

  “I didn’t see,” the younger man answered. He couldn’t take his eyes off the covered figure on the bench.

  “Wasn’t she with us?”

  Boutelle swallowed. “I thought so.”

  Finley went over to the door and opened it. Stepping out onto the walk, he looked toward the south end of town but saw nothing. Grunting, he went back inside and closed the door. He walked across the office and entered the small hallway that led to the back door. He found the door slightly ajar. She had gone this way then. But why? She should have stayed and gone with the body when Finley took it to her wickiup for burial preparation.

  Shaking his head, Finley closed the back door firmly and turned. And this had started out, in the words of Appleface Kelly, as a “gala day.” Well, it had, very early, turned into something far different.

  “Why did she leave?” asked Boutelle.

  “Apache dread of death,” said Finley, not wanting Boutelle to know any more than he did.

  “What do you suppose happened to him?” Boutelle asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Finley.

  He would, most certainly, not answer that question. Boutelle had shown no desire to understand the Indians’ point of view. It would do little good for him to tell Boutelle that, as far as he could see, Little Owl had been frightened to death.

  She had run, hobbling, all the way to the tethered horse, then walked the horse far out of Picture City. Only there, breathless, a stitch knifing at her side, had she dared to mount and gallop to the wickiup.

  She stayed there only long enough to wake her eldest girl and tell her to watch over the other children until her mother returned. She did not tell the girl that Little Owl was dead. There would be time enough for that in the morning.

  Right now there was a ride to be made.

  Quitting the wickiup hastily, the Apache woman mounted the pony and kicked at its bony sides. The old animal surged forward underneath her, its thin legs driving at the muddy earth. Little Owl’s wife set her teeth and braced herself for the ride.

  It was a long way to the camp of Braided Feather.

  THURSDAY

  6

  The two of them were in Corcoran’s Gunsmith Shop. Al Corcoran was pulling down a rifle from the wall rack. No, Al, pleaded Finley, you’re wrong. Al Corcoran didn’t say a word. He began to load the rifle. Finley knew that he was going to go after Braided Feather and shoot him. Don’t be a fool! he said. If you do that, you’ll start the whole thing over again! The treaty won’t be worth the paper it’s written on. Corcoran said nothing. Al! cried Finley. He jerked the rifle out of Corcoran’s hands and threw it on the floor.

  Corcoran went over to the wall rack and took down another rifle. For God’s sake, Al! said Finley. He tore the rifle out of Corcoran’s grip and flung it on the floor. Corcoran drew the pistol from his holster. Al, don’t, said Finley. Corcoran squeezed the trigger, and Finley felt a bullet club him on the chest. He fell back against the workbench. Corcoran was walking toward the door, the smoking pistol in his hand. The next one is for Braided Feather, he said. No, it isn’t, Finley said vengefully. He drew his pistol out and tried to fire it, but the trigger stuck. When he jerked it desperately, it broke off against his finger like brittle glass. Oh, God! moaned Finley. He lunged for one of the rifles on the floor.

  Before Corcoran could get out the door, Finley fired three bullets into his back. Al flung forward onto his face, and Finley staggered to his feet. You won’t break my treaty now, he said. I won’t let you. He fired another bullet into Corcoran’s body.

  Then, outside, there was a thundering of hooves. Braided Feather and his men came galloping toward the front of the shop. Finley ran out to tell them that the treaty was safe, but as they galloped up, they threw two torn and bleeding bodies at him. Suddenly, Finley knew he had been wrong. No! he cried. No! I can’t be wrong!

  Finley jolted in his bed. He sat up, gasping.

  Outside and down the street there was a rising thunder of hoofbeats. For a second, Finley sat dazed, staring at the window with sleep-drugged eyes. Then, with a brusque motion, he flung aside the covers and dropped his legs to the floor. He stood and raced across the carpet to the window and jerked up its shade.

  It was barely light. Main Street stood empty in the gray of morning. But the thunder was coming closer, and Finley turned his head to the left. Instantly, his mouth dropped open in dumb astonishment.

  Galloping into town were approximately three dozen Apache braves.

  Finley gaped down at the street with eyes that could not believe what they saw. He looked for the leader of the party and saw, with added shock, that it was Braided Feather. He stared down blankly as the Apache chief went rushing by, the hooves of his horse casting up gouts of mud.

  Then, whirling abruptly, he raced to the bed and jerked his nightshirt off. He was dressed in twenty seconds, his arms and legs a blur of agitated motion. Jerking on his boots, he jumped up and sprinted to the door, snatching his hat from the bureau as he passed it. The door went crashing against the wall as he flung it open and sped into the hallway.

  He met Boutelle as he half-skidded across the second-floor landing, his hand squeaking on the bannister. The younger man, a long coat thrown over his nightshirt, feet thrust bare into his boots, looked at Finley angrily.

  “So much for your treaty!” he snapped.

  Finley didn’t take the time to answer. Darting past Boutelle, he descended the stairs in a series of step-engulfing leaps. Boutelle followed hurriedly.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Finley?”

  Finley shot a glance to one side as he raced across the dim lobby. He saw Mrs. Vance in her nightgown standing in the doorway to her and Mr. Vance’s apartment.

  “Don’t know, ma’am!” Finley answered breathlessly. He jolted to a halt before the door and jerked it open, the bell tinkling sharply.

  �
��Is it an attack?” cried Mrs. Vance.

  “No!” he shouted over his shoulder as he plunged into the chilly morning air. Turning right, he began to run again along the plank walk. Down the street, the Apaches had drawn their ponies up in front of the general store. At first, Finley didn’t see what they were looking at.

  Then he caught sight of the man sitting there on the general store’s porch.

  Within earshot now, Finley skidded to a halt in time to hear Braided Feather address the man in Apache. The agent stopped so abruptly that Boutelle, running close behind, almost rammed into him.

  Across the street, the man remained seated, his eyes on Braided Feather as the chief spoke.

  “What did the Indian say?” Boutelle whispered, not recognizing Braided Feather.

  “He asked the man what he wants,” Finley translated hastily, his gaze fixed on the seated man. Who was he? Finley wondered. Why had Braided Feather ridden all the way to Picture City just to see him?

  As Finley wondered, the man stood slowly and moved to the edge of the walk. The agent noticed how the Apaches seemed to cringe at his approach, how the ponies nickered in restless alarm and tried to back off.

  The man answered Braided Feather.

  “What did he say?” whispered Boutelle.

  Finley’s face had grown suddenly taut. He did not seem to have heard the question.

  “What did he say?” Boutelle repeated angrily.

  “He wants to know where the Night Doctor is.”

  “Who?”

  The Indian agent waved him off and leaned forward, listening intently as Braided Feather spoke again. He heard a sound in the chief’s voice he had never heard before—the sound of fear. It made him shudder.

  “We do not know,” Braided Feather was telling the man, edging his horse back slowly as he spoke. “We do not know.”

  The man smiled coldly.

  “It does not matter,” he said. “I will find him.”

  Suddenly, Braided Feather jerked his horse around and drove heels to its flanks. In an instant, the other Apaches followed his lead and the street was shaking with the impact of driving hooves.