Shadow on the Sun (6 page)

“Al, there are a hundred places in this area they could be,” said Finley. “You can't expect to find them on a night like this. I've been out looking for them, too, and I couldn't see a thing. So—”

“So
nothin'
,” Corcoran interrupted. “You gonna do anything or not?”

“Al, I've done all there
is
to do tonight,” Finley told him. “In the morning, we'll—”

“In the morning be damned!” flared Corcoran. “For all I know they're lyin' out there somewhere with—!”

He stopped abruptly, breathing hard, as someone knocked on the door. Finley gritted his teeth and stepped over to it.

“Yes?” he said.

“Boutelle,” said the voice.

Oh,
great
, thought Finley. This was exactly what he needed right now. Exhaling wearily, he opened the door.

“Come in,” he said.

Boutelle's eyebrows raised slightly when he saw the brooding Corcoran standing there. “Good evening,” he said, nodding once. Corcoran grunted.

“If you'll excuse us for a second, Mr. Boutelle,” Finley said, “I'll be with you directly.”

“Of course,” Boutelle said crisply. He walked over to the desk, glancing briefly at Finley's unshod feet.

“Now, listen, Al,” Finley said quietly, hoping Boutelle wouldn't hear. “So help me God, Braided Feather had nothing to do with this. You'll be making a terrible mistake if you think he did. It's something else. You have to believe that. At least until—”

“Why should I believe an Injun lover?” said Corcoran through his teeth.

It was only the slightest tensing of skin across Finley's cheekbones, the least flinting of his gray-green eyes, but Corcoran went rigid as if preparing for a fight.

Finley forced away the angry tension.

“We'll forget you said that, Al,” he said.

“You don't have to—”

“Al.”
Finley's fingers tightened on the heavy man's arm. “Take my word on this until morning. That's all I'm asking you to do. As soon as it's light, we'll go out and find them.”

He paused a moment. “All right?”

Corcoran stared at him for a few seconds. Then, jerking his arm free, he turned on his heel and walked over to the door. It slammed loudly behind him.

Finley closed his eyes and blew out a heavy breath. Then, bracing himself for the inevitable, he turned.

“Braided Feather had nothing to do with what?” asked Boutelle.

Finley felt a heavy sinking in his stomach. Dear God, now he was in for it.

“Just a small misunderstanding,” he said.

“Regarding what, Mr. Finley?”

Finley didn't answer.

“I would appreciate your telling me,” Boutelle said stiffly. “Anything concerning the Apaches—”

“This does
not
concern the Apaches,” said Finley.

“Apparently, the gentleman who just left thinks otherwise,” said Boutelle.

“He's wrong.”

“Please let me be the judge of that,” said Boutelle. “What
does
he believe, Mr. Finley?”

Finley sighed. Well, what was the purpose in trying to keep it a secret from Boutelle? It would only make him more suspicious. Casually, as if relating something of little consequence, Finley told the younger man about Tom and Jim Corcoran's disappearance that afternoon. He did not emphasize Al Corcoran's idea about it.

“And they haven't been found yet,” said Boutelle. It was not a question.

“Let's say they haven't shown up yet,” said Finley. He forced a smile to his lips. “Now, can I be of service to you, Mr. Boutelle?”

Boutelle ignored this.

“Why are you so positive the Apaches had nothing to do with it?” he asked.

Finley clenched his teeth.

“I'm positive,” was all he said.

“You talk, Mr. Finley,” said Boutelle, “as if no white man has ever been robbed and murdered by an Apache before.”

“No white man ever
has
been by Braided Feather's people,” snapped Finley.

“I suppose—”

“That was
war
, Mr. Boutelle,” Finley interrupted, anticipating what the younger man was going to say. “I, myself, killed eight men during the war with the Confederate states, but I don't think of myself as a murderer.”

“I suggest, Mr. Finley,” said Boutelle, “that you are, with some deliberation, blinding yourself to a condition only too prevalent. I realize fully that the idea of your hard-won treaty being already broken is not a—”

“You're
wrong
, Mr. Boutelle.” Finley shuddered. How long could he hold his temper? He was close to the edge now.

“It has been well established,” said Boutelle, “that any number of Indians—Apaches included—periodically desert their reservations—after first collecting their government-issued supplies, of course—and rob and murder white men!”

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.