Shadow on the Sun by Richard Matheson Read Free Book Online Page A

and stepped over to it.
    â€œYes?” he said.
    â€œBoutelle,” said the voice.
    Oh,
great
, thought Finley. This was exactly what he needed right now. Exhaling wearily, he opened the door.
    â€œCome in,” he said.
    Boutelle’s eyebrows raised slightly when he saw the brooding Corcoran standing there. “Good evening,” he said, nodding once. Corcoran grunted.
    â€œIf you’ll excuse us for a second, Mr. Boutelle,” Finley said, “I’ll be with you directly.”
    â€œOf course,” Boutelle said crisply. He walked over to the desk, glancing briefly at Finley’s unshod feet.
    â€œNow, 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—”
    â€œWhy 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.
    â€œWe’ll forget you said that, Al,” he said.
    â€œYou don’t have to—”
    â€œAl.”
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.
    â€œBraided 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.
    â€œJust a small misunderstanding,” he said.
    â€œRegarding what, Mr. Finley?”
    Finley didn’t answer.
    â€œI would appreciate your telling me,” Boutelle said stiffly. “Anything concerning the Apaches—”
    â€œThis does
not
concern the Apaches,” said Finley.
    â€œApparently, the gentleman who just left thinks otherwise,” said Boutelle.
    â€œHe’s wrong.”
    â€œPlease 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.
    â€œAnd they haven’t been found yet,” said Boutelle. It was not a question.
    â€œLet’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.
    â€œWhy are you so positive the Apaches had nothing to do with it?” he asked.
    Finley clenched his teeth.
    â€œI’m positive,” was all he said.
    â€œYou talk, Mr. Finley,” said Boutelle, “as if no white man has ever been robbed and murdered by an Apache before.”
    â€œNo white man ever
has
been by Braided Feather’s people,” snapped Finley.
    â€œI suppose—”
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œI 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