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

hard-won treaty being already broken is not a—”
    â€œYou’re
wrong
, Mr. Boutelle.” Finley shuddered. How long could he hold his temper? He was close to the edge now.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œQuite 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.
    â€œLet’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.
    â€œFor your sake, Mr. Finley,” he said, “I hope you’re right.”
    Finley nodded. “Now, can I help you?” he asked.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked in Apache. “Is something wrong with your husband?”
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œHe’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.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œWas that to do with those two missing men?” the younger man asked.
    â€œNo, no.” Finley shook his head. “That was Little Owl’s wife. She’s looking for him.”
    â€œLittle Owl? Was that the Indian you gave drink money to before?”
    â€œYes.”
    Boutelle smiled scornfully. “He’s probably lying somewhere in a drunken stupor,” he said.
    The Indian agent grunted.
    â€œProbably,” he said.
    Boutelle looked contemptuous. “Indians,” he said.
    â€œNo, Mr. Boutelle.” Finley shook his head, and his voice had an acid edge to it. “Civilization.”
    Â 
    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