Shadow on the Sun (7 page)

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.

T
he
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.

“Wait!” Finley shouted to the chief. But if Braided Feather heard, he gave no sign of it. Face a carven mask, eyes held straight ahead, he drove his horse toward the edge of town. In a minute, every Apache was gone.

Finley stood for a few moments, staring in the direction they had gone. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted to the man.

“What in the name of heaven is going on?” demanded an angry, confused Boutelle.

Finley shook his head, looking at the man.

“Are those the Apaches we met with yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Are they trying to—”

“Hey, what in hell's going on around here?”

The two of them turned as Appleface Kelly came stomping up, wearing a long, gray overcoat over his nightshirt. His eyes were puffy with sleep, and there was a growth of dark stubble on his cheeks. In his hands he carried a rifle.

“I thought there was a treaty with them bastards,” he said.

“There is,” said Finley. “This has nothing to do with the treaty. They rode in to see him.” He gestured toward the man across the street.

Appleface squinted at the man. “Him again,” he said.

“You've seen him before?” asked Finley.

Appleface told him what had happened at the Sidewinder Saloon the night before.

“He asked for Dodge?” said Finley. This thing was getting beyond him.

“That's what Eddie Harkness figgered he wanted,” said Appleface. He glanced across the street. “Wonder who in hell he is anyway,” he said.

“Maybe we'd better find out,” said Finley.

“I would like to—” Boutelle began, then stopped as the Indian agent stepped away.

“Watch y'self,” Kelly muttered after him.

Finley nodded once as he started across the muddy street toward the man, who, apparently oblivious to the agent's approach, had gone back to the chair and was looking toward the hotel again.

Finley stepped up onto the walk.

“Good morning,” he said.

He was not prepared for the sudden tightening that took place in his stomach muscles when the man's eyes turned to his. It took an effort of will to keep his voice from faltering.

“My name is Finley,” he said, trying to sound casually affable. “I'm the Indian agent for this territory.”

The man looked at him without answering.

“You—speak English?” asked Finley. Kelly had said that he did, but there seemed to be no reception in the man's face. He eyed Finley without blinking, his face as still as a rock.

“If I can help you in any way . . .” Finley went on, talking more from instinct than design. “I know the Indians who just spoke to you and—”

There was a sudden glittering in the man's eyes which made him stop.

“You know the Night Doctor?” asked the man.

Finley felt a chill lace through the muscles of his back. The way the man had asked it, almost hungrily.

“I know of him,” said Finley.

“
Where is he
?” asked the man.

Finley realized in that instant that he would not have told the man where the Night Doctor was even if he knew. He had no reason for this except a feeling in his gut.

“I don't know that,” he said.

The man turned away, no longer interested in Finley. Why does he want to see the Night Doctor? the agent wondered.

He was about to say something about knowing Professor Dodge when the man raised his head a little to see who it was that was riding into town down beyond the hotel. And Finley saw the scar.

He couldn't take his eyes off it. They were still fixed to the discolored line of tissue when the man turned and looked at him.

Finley drew in a quick breath and forced his eyes up.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Looking into the man's eyes was like staring into two black pits.

“That must have been . . . quite a cut,” Finley heard himself saying.

The man's brutally appraising look altered. Abruptly, almost terribly, he was smiling, but it was not a smile that bore warmth for Finley or for anyone.

“Someone cut my head off once,” he said.

Finley shuddered. “Really?” he said, but the bantering tone he tried to put in his voice failed completely.

He stood looking into the man's black eyes for another moment. Then, without another word, he turned and stepped down off the walk. He knew he had learned nothing, that if anything he had been made a fool of. Yet he also knew that he'd had to get away from the man, that he couldn't have stood there by him for another second.

Reaching Boutelle and Kelly, he turned right and started back for the hotel. The two men fell into step beside him.