Shadow on the Sun

by Richard Matheson

  Unless one counted that single, bizarre experience. Dodge shuddered. Would he never be able to shake it from his mind? Well, that was not surprising. He was, as a matter of fact, astounded at himself for not having left the territory immediately after it had taken place.

  Except, of course, that it had taken no more than a month for logic to refute the apparent evidence of his senses. Really, it couldn’t have happened as he recalled. Something in the drink the shaman had given him. For protection, the old man had cautioned. Perhaps something in the fire smoke he’d been compelled to inhale throughout the ceremony. Even—it was not inconceivable—that the shaman had placed him into some involuntary state of mental control.

  But certainly—certainly—he could not have actually seen what he thought he saw.

  If only I had a pick, a shovel, Finley had kept thinking.

  What he’d been compelled to do was torturous and ghastly. He’d seen victims of Indian raids in the past, seen a village of Apaches slaughtered by the cavalry.

  He’d never seen anything remotely like this.

  He didn’t want to dispose of the pieces but knew he had no choice. If anyone from Picture City—or God forbid from Fort Apache—saw what had happened here, there would be no doubt whatever in their minds that Braided Feather’s tribe had violated the treaty with a massacre.

  He might not have even known it was Al Corcoran if it hadn’t been for the head lying yards distant from the mangled body parts, as though it had been hurled aside in some maniacal rage.

  The look on Al Corcoran’s blood-streaked face was virtually a duplicate of the one on Little Owl’s face—an expression of total, unutterable horror.

  Finley had kept his eyes averted as he’d reached down until he felt Al Corcoran’s hair. Then gingerly, grimacing, sickened as he did it, he’d picked up the ripped-off head and carried it back to where the dismembered body lay.

  He’d hoped, for several minutes, that the rain had been severe enough to soften the earth so that he could dig a shallow trench with his knife and hands. But scant inches below the muddy surface, the earth was, as always, brick hard, making that impossible.

  He’d been forced to gather together the shredded, torn remains and cover them as best he could with large stones and small boulders. Throughout, he’d tried to look at something else, anything else but the hideously butchered leavings of what an hour earlier had been a man.

  It was not always possible. Jarring sights kept stinging at his eyes and brain. Corcoran’s left hand and wrist dangling purplish veins and arteries. His right arm, the hand clutched into a rigid, white fist. His left leg almost pulled loose. The trunk of his body, chest and belly, ripped apart as though by the claws of a raging bear; his internal organs strewn across the blood-soaked ground.

  He tried not to think about what might have done this to Corcoran. He knew only that it wasn’t any of Braided Feather’s people.

  But what it had been was something he could not address at the moment. It was enough to cover over Al Corcoran’s torn and mutilated form.

  He could not allow himself to visualize what sort of being was capable of such horrible savagery.

  As Dodge rode into Picture City, a bitterly ironic memory struck his mind. Him ranting to the Fairfax Board of Governors that archaeology was supposed to be a living science, not some musty, dry-as-bones collection of facts dredged up in classrooms.

  “Oh, yes,” he muttered sourly. Well, he’d be happy to return to musty fact collections just as soon as stagecoach and train could get him back to civilization.

  He looked down at himself as the horse clopped slowly toward the hotel. Never had he looked more pitiful. By God, he’d have these damn clothes burned before he left town. But first a bath, sleep, and then a decent meal with copious whiskey as a side dish.

  Then—hallelujah—to the stagecoach office to reserve a seat on the morning coach to White River and all parts east. Back to genteel, sensible surroundings.

  “Amen,” he muttered.

  He left the horse at the livery stable. Thank God he’d only rented the use of it. Selling it could take forever.

  “Looks like you took a tumble,” the man at the stable said with a grin.

  Dodge only grunted and turned away, feeling a slight sense of pleasure that he’d never bothered to learn the man’s name.

  The journey along the plank walk to the hotel made him wince. His stockings were still damp inside his boots, and his mud-stiffened trousers rubbed against the skin on his legs; the long coat, still wet, weighed him down oppressively.

  “So there you are, Perfessor,” Harry Vance said as Dodge entered the lobby. “You been out all night?”

  “Obviously,” Dodge answered curtly. “My key, please.”

  Harry slid the key from its slot and handed it over. “Lots of excitement here this morning,” he said.

  “Oh?” Dodge turned for the staircase.

  “Yes, sir. Ol’ Braided Feather and a passel of his braves come riding in.”

  Dodge stopped and looked around. “Why?” he asked.

  “Seems they come to see this man,” Harry answered.

  “They came in to see a man?” Dodge sounded dubious.

  “Some man though,” Harry said. “Matter o’ fact, he come in here last night lookin’ for you.”

  Dodge felt a slight chill waver through his body. “Me?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Asked for you by name. Weird-lookin’ duck he was.”

  Dodge swallowed; his throat felt suddenly dry. “Why, what did he look like?” he asked. He felt as though somebody else had asked the question.

  “Well, he was powerful tall,” Harry said. “I mean powerful tall, mayhaps six foot five inches.”

  “Yes?” Dodge asked, barely audible.

  “He looked sort of like an Injun, but I don’t think he was,” Harry said. “Had a”—he gestured vaguely at his neck—“big . . . thick . . .scar around his neck, all around it. Awful-lookin’ sight.”

  No, thought Dodge. He thought he heard a faint voice speak the word aloud in his ears. No, it wasn’t possible.

  “Told him you wasn’t here,” Harry said, wondering about the blank stare on Professor Dodge’s face. “He went upstairs anyway. That was peculiar, too. He had mud on his boots and tracked it on the carpet in the upstairs hall. But the tracks, they stopped by the window at the end of the hall. The window was open and the man was gone. We thought maybe he’d gone in your room so we took a look, ’scuse that. He wasn’t there though. So he must have jumped from the window. From the second floor though?”

  Dodge felt as if he were about to faint. His head felt very light and there was a buzzing in his ears. No, this is wrong, he thought. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

  “Where—” He coughed weakly. “Where is he now?” he asked. He was appalled at how weak and strained his voice had become.

  “Ain’t seen him since this morning when the Apaches rode in to see him,” Harry said. “You know who he is?”

  His voice trailed off on the last two words of his question because Professor Dodge had turned away and moved abruptly toward the stairs. Doesn’t look too steady, Harry thought. He watched the professor start up the steps, holding tightly to the bannister. Was it his imagination or had the blood drained from Dodge’s face? He certainly looked disturbed enough. Who was that weird duck anyway? He’d have to tell Ethel about this right off.

  Dodge heard the thump of his boots on the steps but could barely feel his feet. He seemed to have gone numb all over. He kept shaking his head with tiny, jerking movements. There had to be another explanation for this. It could not possibly be what it seemed.

  He twitched in shock as a sob broke in his throat. “No,” he whispered.

  He half-ran, half-walked down the hallway, unlocked the door to his room and pushed inside. Closing the door quickly, he relocked it, his hand so palsied by fear that he could barely manage it.

  Then he stumbled to the bed and dropped down on it
heavily. He felt completely drained of strength. He had not felt such a sense of dread since that night in the shaman’s wickiup when . . .

  “No!” He drove a fist down weakly on the bed. It couldn’t be! It was impossible!

  Impossible.

  When Finley got back to town, he left his horse at the livery stable and started toward the hotel. He wanted more than anything to strip away his clothes and take a hot bath, he felt so befouled by what he’d had to do. He could still smell the sickening odor of Al Corcoran’s mutilated flesh.

  It was when he was taking his key from Harry that he asked offhandedly if Professor Dodge had come back yet.

  “Yes, he has,” Harry told him. “Just got back about”—he checked the wall clock—“oh, fifteen, twenty minutes ago.”

  “And he’s in his room?” Finley asked.

  “Far as I know,” Harry answered. “Leastwise, haven’t seen him leave.”

  “What’s the number of his room?” Finley asked.

  “Twenny-nine.”

  “Thanks,” Finley said, turning away.

  The bath would have to wait, he thought. Dodge was the only one who might be able to shed some light on this unnerving situation. He couldn’t imagine why that grisly-looking man would want to see Dodge, but at least it was a start—and all he had to go on at the moment.

  Reaching the second floor, he walked to the end of the hall and knocked on the door to Room Twenty-nine. He twitched his head a little to the left, thinking he heard a gasp inside the room. Then there was dead silence. He waited for Dodge to open the door.

  When nothing happened, he knocked again, a little more loudly.

  There was no response. Could Harry have been wrong? he thought. Had Dodge gone out again?

  He knocked once more and said, “Professor Dodge?”

  There was no answer. “Are you in there?” he asked loudly.

  Silence. He grunted in frustration and started to turn away.

  “Who is it?” he heard Dodge ask from inside the room, his voice tight and barely audible.

  “Billjohn Finley,” he answered.

  “Who?” The question sounded faintly.

  “Finley.” He grimaced with irritation. “The Indian agent.”

  Silence again. Now what? Finley wondered. Was the man going to let him in or not?

  “What do you want?” Dodge asked. There was no mistaking it now; what he heard was the voice of a frightened man.

  “I’d like to talk with you,” Finley said, trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice.

  “What about?” Dodge demanded.

  For Christ’s sake, Finley thought. What the hell is wrong with the man?

  Then he thought of everything that had happened since yesterday. If Dodge was part of it, it was not surprising that he’d sound disturbed.

  “I want to talk to you about that man,” Finley said, somehow knowing that Dodge would know exactly what he meant.

  Silence. What was Dodge doing? he wondered. And was he actually going to open the door?

  “Are you alone?” Dodge’s thin voice drifted through the door.

  “Yes,” Finley answered.

  Another few seconds passed. Then Finley heard the door being unlocked. It didn’t open. “Come in,” Dodge said.

  Finley opened the door and stopped short.

  Dodge was pointing a derringer at his chest.

  Finley’s hands flew up, palms spread. “For God’s sake,” he said.

  The professor lowered the derringer. “Come in, come in,” he said. As Finley did, Dodge shut the door quickly and relocked it. That lock wouldn’t do much good if that man chose to break the door open, Finley thought.

  Then he was looking at Dodge’s face, knowing in an instant that the professor was very much a part of the strange events which had taken place. The small man’s expression, while not as exaggerated by shock, very much reminded him of the look on Little Owl’s face. The look on Al Corcoran’s face.

  The look of a man confronted by total, overpowering terror.

  9

  Finley glanced toward the bed. Dodge had thrown two suitcases across the mattress and begun to pack them—if flinging articles of clothing into them with clumsy haste could be defined as packing. More evidence, he thought. Not that he needed it now. Dodge’s appearance and manner made it more than apparent that he was getting ready to flee.

  “Leaving?” he asked.

  The professor’s Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I think you know what I want,” Finley told him.

  “I have no idea—”

  “I want to know who that man is,” Finley broke in. “I want to know why he wants to see you. Why he asked about the Night Doctor. I want to know why Braided Feather and his braves rode all the way in from Pinal Spring to see him. I want you to tell me what’s going on, Professor.”

  “I have no idea—” Dodge started again.

  “I think you do,” Finley interrupted angrily. “The man asked for you in the Sidewinder Saloon. Then he came here and asked for you. He—”

  “I don’t know who he is!” Dodge cried. He turned away abruptly. “Now if you’ll please go, I have packing to do.”

  “I don’t think you can run away from him,” Finley told him quietly. “Four men are dead already and—”

  He broke off at the look of stunned dismay on Dodge’s face. “What?” the professor murmured.

  “Four men have been killed,” Finley said. “One of them was frightened to death. The other three were torn apart by God knows what. Now, I know—”

  He broke off a second time as Dodge began to shake, making faint whimpering sounds in his throat as he stared at Finley.

  The agent felt a burst of pity for the little man. “For God’s sake, Professor,” he said. “What is going on?”

  He couldn’t tell at first what Dodge was saying, his voice was so weak and trembling. Then he heard the words, repeated and repeated. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

  “Why?” Finley stared at him, feeling as though he were involved in some bewildering nightmare.

  He drew back a little involuntarily as Dodge moved toward him. He felt the small man’s shaking hand clutch at his arm. “Please,” Dodge said. “Please. Take me into custody.”

  “What?”

  “Arrest me. Lock me in the jail,” Dodge begged.

  “Professor, I’m the local Indian agent, I’m not the—”

  “Take me to Fort Apache then,” Dodge interrupted. His eyes were brimming tears now. “Hand me over to the cavalry.”

  “Professor, you are going to have to tell me what is going on.”

  “I can’t!” Dodge cried in agony. “There isn’t time! I have to be protected or—”

  He stopped abruptly.

  “Or?” Finley said.

  “Please take me with you,” Dodge said. “When I’m safe, I’ll tell you what it is, I promise you.”

  “It would help if you told me now, Profess—”

  “No! It wouldn’t! There isn’t time!” The little man was weeping now. Finley felt the sense of dark alarm within him growing. Who in God’s name was that man that he could cause such blind terror in everyone he encountered?

  As he led the professor out through the front door of the hotel, he started in surprise as Dodge jerked back with a hiss, pulling his arm free and shrinking back into the doorway.

  “What is it?” Finley asked.

  Dodge couldn’t speak. He made a faint noise of dread as he stared out at the street. Finley looked in that direction and winced.

  Across the street, the man was just dismounting from one of the Corcoran horses. But they had galloped off, Finley thought in confusion. How did the man . . . ?

  “What are we going to do?” Dodge whispered, terrified.

  Finley drew in a deep, restoring breath. He wasn’t going to let this thing completely spook him, he resolved. He simply wasn’t.

  “We are going to wa
lk to my office, Professor,” he said as calmly as he could. “Then we are going to the stable, get two horses, and ride out of town to Fort Apache.”

  He wondered if Dodge had heard a single word he’d said. The little man could not remove his stricken gaze from the man across the street. Finley looked in that direction. The man was just sitting down in the chair again to watch the hotel.

  “Come on,” Finley said, taking hold of Dodge’s arm.

  “No.” The little man hitched back in blind alarm.

  Finley grimaced with anger. “Professor, I’m going down to my office now. Come with me or stay here alone.”

  Dodge looked at him in a sudden panic. “Don’t leave me,” he begged.

  “Then come with me,” Finley said. “I’m not going to stay.”

  He stepped off, glancing back. Dodge hadn’t budged. He was still gaping at the man across the street. Again, Finley looked in that direction. An icy shiver ran up his back.

  The man was looking toward the hotel doorway. Could he see Dodge? Finley wondered.

  He looked back at Dodge, who still stood frozen just inside the hotel doorway.

  “Professor,” he said, “the street is filled with people. The man isn’t going to go after you with all these people around.”

  He glanced around. There weren’t that many, he saw. He wasn’t going to tell Dodge that, however. “Come on,” he said, “I’m going now.”

  “Wait,” Dodge pleaded pathetically.

  He came out slowly, pretending that he didn’t know the man was across the street. Finley glanced aside, stiffening as he saw the man rise suddenly. Jesus, was he going to approach Dodge anyway?

  He grabbed the professor’s arm and started leading him toward the office.

  “Just walk smoothly,” he said. He had to force himself not to glance across the street. Not that he’d know what to do if the man was crossing toward them. Confront him? Run?

  “Is he coming for us?” Dodge asked in a faint voice.