Free Shadow on the Sun by Richard Matheson

what else he could have done,” she said.
    â€œThat scar, did you see that scar on his neck?” added Harry Vance.
    Finley nodded, feeling as if he were involved in some ridiculous dream and not actually standing in the hotel lobby talking to the Vances.
    â€œTell me,” he said, “did he happen to mention
why
he wanted to see Professor Dodge?”
    â€œNo, he didn’t,” Harry said. “Just went upstairs and . . .” He shrugged weakly.
    Finley shook his head and grinned wryly. “Sure makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?”
    â€œIt makes no sense at all,” said Mrs. Vance, as if he were speaking seriously.
    â€œYou say you don’t know when Professor Dodge is coming back?” Finley asked Harry.
    â€œNo, he didn’t say,” said Harry. “Never does.”
    â€œI see. Well, when he does come in, will you tell him I want to see him right away? Before that . . . other fellow gets to him.”
    â€œYes, sir, I’ll do that,” Harry said.
    â€œGood.”
    Except that things were far from good, Finley thought as he went up to his room to shave. He kept trying to put the bizarre details into some kind of pattern, but they wouldn’t fit together. How could you connect such shapeless pieces as a stranger who might or might not be an Indian; a stranger who wanted to see an outlawed medicine man and a professor of archaeology; a stranger with a jagged scar around his neck (“
Someone cut my head off once
”) whose presence gave one a sense of sickened dread; a story about this man jumping from a second-story window without injury; and Braided Feather, a fearless Apache chief, riding in to see the man, then fleeingas if devils pursued him? These things made no overall sense—or, if they did, the sense was lost to Finley.
    He was just relocking his door when it occurred to him that there might be two more details to be added, details which would make the pattern, should it emerge, even darker.
    The death of Little Owl. And the disappearance of Tom and Jim Corcoran.

7
    A t eight o’clock that morning, Al Corcoran rode into Picture City with the corpses of his brothers.
    He did not look to either side of the street, did not note the shocked faces of the people who came out from their stores and houses as he passed. He did not notice the man sitting on the porch of the general store. He rode on woodenly, eyes staring and glassy, mouth set into an ugly, lipless gash, gloved hands curled tightly round the rein ends of his mount.
    Following behind on a lead walked the horse that had belonged to his brother Tom. The two bodies lay across its back, covered by a frayed blanket. They had been put there, faces down, their arms and legs hanging loosely, the wrists and ankles tied together. One of the men was barefoot, the feet pale white and gnarled with dark blue veins. Across the wrists of the other was a darkened spiderweb of dry blood. The two bodies stirred with the motion of the horse as if they were trying to move.
    Corcoran rode directly to the Indian agent’s office before reiningup. Slowly dismounting, he wrapped the reins of his horse around the hitching post and, ignoring the stares of the people around him, strode to the plank walk, stepped up onto it, and went to the office door. He did not go in. Turning the knob, he shoved the door open as hard as he could.
    Inside, Finley and Boutelle looked up in shock as the door crashed against the wall.
    â€œ
Al . . .
” Finley’s voice was startled.
    Corcoran did not reply. He stared in at the agent, gloved hands fisted at his sides. Finley pushed up from his desk and hurried to the door. Corcoran didn’t move, blocking his way. Finley stopped in front of him and looked over the heavy man’s shoulder. There was a tightening on his cheeks as he saw the bodies.
    â€œWhere were they?” he asked.
    â€œOut where the Injuns were,”